Those teeth ejected another hiss. The sound was not answered. The Hindu crept toward the companionway.

Satisfied that the man on the deck had gone, Harry made a lunge from his hiding place. It was a silent surge; but the Hindu sensed it. He spun about, rapid as a dervish, made a wide fling away from Harry's clutch. A sleek arm slipped from Harry's fingers.

Given a larger s.p.a.ce, the coily Hindu would have easily nullified Harry's attack; but the cabin was too small for the snakish tactics to succeed.

Pouncing sideways, Harry trapped the wiry man beside a bunk; he jabbed the gun muzzle against the Hindu's thin-skinned ribs.

It seemed a sure capture, until Harry heard a padded thud behind him. It was his turn to wheel; too late.

A second Hindu, almost the twin of the first, had sprung from the steps.

He was the one who had produced the outside signal; he had not departed, as Harry supposed. He was making a long spring, his scrawny arms above his head forming an oval frame for his grinning monkeyish face. Between his hands he held the ends of a slender cord.

The Hindu by the bunk made a grab for Harry's gun hand. Before The Shadow's agent could fire, the man from the deck finished his swoop. The thin cord looped around Harry's neck; he felt the same effects that had been Jack Sarmon's, only the night before.

There was a gurgle deep in Harry's throat. His hands numbed; the gun went from his grip. A crackle roared through his ears; his bulging eyes seemed to view those murderous attackers as brown-faced demons. With all that, a hideous thought beat through Harry's brain.

He knew what these murderers were. They were dacoits - fanatics who strangled victims without mercy. Each was a follower of Hindu thuggee, of that evil caste who consider murder by the cord to be a deed of virtue!

Harry's head went backward. His eyes were fixed upon that short companionway that led down from the deck. Like Jack Sarmon, last night's victim, Harry experienced a surge of blackness, that swept upon his vision like a blotting being of life.

It was the forerunner of death, that blackness; but doom was not for Harry Vincent. As Harry's tortured eyelids went shut, he heard snarls in the dizzy whirls about him. He slumped; but the pressure from his throat was gone. His fingers could feel his flesh; the cord was no longer there!

Lashing bodies struck Harry's shoulder. He rolled sidewards, toward a bunk; opened his eyes, in the direction of the forecastle. There, he saw the dacoits struggling viciously with a black-cloaked fighter who was swinging them about like puppets. Harry remembered that downward surge of blackness.

That had been a living attack, directed against the murderers who held Harry in their clutch. It had marked the advent of a rescuer.

The Shadow!

CHAPTER IV.

BATTLE FROM WITHOUT.

In those first quick minutes, Harry had no strength to aid his chief against the dacoits. Even the stuffy air of the cabin was sweet to Harry's lungs. He needed long drafts of it, to revive sufficiently for battle.

Dimly, Harry groped for his gun; he found it while The Shadow whipped back and forth, flinging the wiry dacoits from side to side. They were tenacious fighters, those Hindus, even against The Shadow's power.

For some reason, The Shadow did not fire. He preferred silent conflict, as he swung a gun from one gloved fist, while his free hand plucked at wriggling foemen. The dacoits, in their turn, wanted escape; and all the while, they were dodging sudden swings from The Shadow's gun.

At last, one Hindu flayed at The Shadow's arms, while the other dived to make an attack from The Shadow's back. On his feet, Harry wobbled in to give aid. It proved unnecessary.

The Shadow's gun hand came downward from the grip of brownish fingers.

The weight of an automatic glanced from the dacoit's skull, sent the murderer slumping., With a quick twist, The Shadow whipped clear of a cord that was flicking about his neck. He caught his second opponent with a downward grab; straightening, he pitched the fellow backward over his shoulders.

Harry had seen that whip-snap move before. With it, The Shadow could send a two-hundred-pound man on a long, hard plunge. The dacoit, with only half that poundage, traveled like a thing of straw.

Arms flinging wide, he sailed through the door to the forecastle; crashed headfirst against the stacked boxes. The containers tumbled; they buried the dacoit in a deluge.

That crash made The Shadow forget the dacoits. In quick-rasped whisper, he gave a command to Harry; then headed for the companionway, with his agent close behind. There were pounding noises on the deck; flashlights shone, as The Shadow reached the c.o.c.kpit.

Men from the little boat - that Harry had heard sc.r.a.ping while on the dock - had listened to the finish of the battle in the cabin of the Wanderer. They had boarded the cruiser to aid the beaten dacoits.

They were battlers of a different sort, this crew, as their oaths told.

They were mobbies from the Manhattan waterfront; and, like The Shadow, they wanted silent battle when they recognized their foe.

Knives flashed in the glow; went out of sight as flashlights were extinguished. Those blades were slashing for The Shadow.

Attackers thought they had a sure victim. They had not reckoned with the speed of The Shadow's upward surge. As knives went wide, he was out of the c.o.c.kpit. On the deck, he was slugging into the midst of sc.u.mmy battlers, dropping them right and left.

Sounds told the result to Harry, when he reached the c.o.c.kpit. He knew that it would be useless, perhaps suicidal, to enter that fray. The Shadow had an advantage; for every man was his foeman. Crooks, meanwhile, were at loss withtheir knives, fearing that they might down their own clan-members, instead of The Shadow.

Harry's chance was to cut off reserves. He sprang for the dock; landed upon a crouching enemy and gave the hoodlum a blow that sent him sprawling from the dock. There were splashes, too, from the other side of the cruiser, as The Shadow sent men reeling overboard.

A minute more, the battle would have ended, when a flashlight suddenly flickered on the dock. The beam showed a pair of sweatered rowdies; they sprang for the person with the light. Harry heard a gasp as the glowing torch went upward. In the light's focus, Harry saw a face.

The newcomer was a girl. Harry recognized Lucille Mayland!

HARRY did not stop to wonder why Lucille had arrived here. Nor did he reason that the mobsters had no need to harm the girl, once they had deprived her of the flashlight. He gave a warning yell, as he took a long bound forward.

Both enemies flung Lucille across the dock, then turned to deal with Harry. In the last flick from the flashlight, they saw Harry's gun. They yanked revolvers of their own.

An automatic tongued from the Wanderer's deck. It was The Shadow's gun; picking his aim in the last instant of light, he winged the first of Harry's attackers. As Harry grappled with the other water rat, The Shadow followed to the dock.

Slashing hard with his own gun, Harry felt the stroke go wide. Down came the crook's revolver; blinding stars cluttered around Harry. Above him, he heard a report: The Shadow's gun again. This time, it was a bullet for the killer who had downed Harry and was about to riddle him with slugs.

Guns crackled from the deck of the Wanderer. With gunfire started, the remnants of the boarding crew cared no more for silence. They were out to get The Shadow; but finding him in that blanket of darkness was too much for them.

The Shadow shoved Harry against the side of the Wanderer, to keep him away from bullets. With a weird, lowtoned laugh, The Shadow voiced an answer to the wild barrage; though the mirth taunted their ears, the attackers could not guess the direction from which it had come.

Their first knowledge of The Shadow's actual location came when his big guns spoke. He was a dozen yards along the dock, well away from their misguided aim. But his enemies were cl.u.s.tered where the whiteness of the deck made a background.

There were howls, groans, as crooks spilled under The Shadow's withering fire. The rest hurtled to the far side of the Wanderer, where their low-lying boat - a rakish power boat - had pulled alongside. That craft roared away, keeping the hull of the cabin cruiser as barrier, through which The Shadow could not fire.

Changing direction, The Shadow arrived beside Harry. He looked through the portholes of the Wanderer. The lantern showed the forecastle; The Shadow used a flashlight to view the cabin. Both were empty.

The bounding dacoits had recovered from the hard treatment that The Shadow had given them. They had wormed out through the tiny portholes, to drop aboard the power boat. They were away with the survivors of the waterfront crew. HARRY VINCENT was too groggy to realize all that followed. Those events were handled entirely by The Shadow. A boat came sweeping up to hail the pier; a loud voice shouted "Ahoy!" as someone suddenly switched on a searchlight.

The flooding glow showed Harry, as it swept along the side of the Wanderer; but the gleam never reached The Shadow. He had recognized the raucous tone of the shout; he knew, too, that the boat's arrival was a ruse.

If that crew had come along to help matters, they would have followed the fleeing power boat. This was a cover-up outfit, acting with the crowd that had fled. The Shadow spoiled their game by a single shot squarely for the searchlight's glowing orb.

The light was extinguished by that bullet. Loud-ripped oaths accompanied the clatter of gla.s.s. The Shadow's laugh responded; his guns spurted for the darkness, lower than the spot where the light had gleamed.

The second boat whipped away, while its crew fired useless bullets against the sides of the Wanderer and into the rotted planking of the dock.

There were new shouts, from other sources. Calls from the yacht moored in the Sound; cries from along the sh.o.r.e. Lights bobbed from the mist, where Cardona and others on the water had heard the burst of battle.

The Shadow readied Harry for a quick departure. As Harry rallied, The Shadow's keen eyes noted the other side of the dock. There, a white-clad witness to the fray was coming from shelter. Lucille Mayland had found a spot of safety, to remain there throughout that last battle.

The girl groped for her flashlight. Finding it, she played it on the very spot where she had seen Harry, close beside the Wanderer. Harry was gone.

Lucille turned the light sh.o.r.eward; she flickered it there, too late.

There was no one at the land end of the pier. Guided by The Shadow, Harry had left the scene.

Calmly, Lucille swung the light toward the dock itself, then to the deck of the cabin cruiser. She saw sprawled figures there; heard savage snarls as wounded men tried to rise. Then footsteps pounded the planking of the dock.

People from the sh.o.r.e had arrived to learn the cause of trouble.

SHORTLY afterward, Lucille Mayland was star witness when Joe Cardona arrived to learn what had happened. Her story was convincing and direct.

She had come ash.o.r.e from the yacht, she said, and had been pa.s.sing by the dock when she heard a scuffle there. She had started out to investigate the trouble, and had walked into the thick of gunfire.

"You were lucky, Miss Mayland," declared Cardona, in a tone that showed admiration for the girl's nerve. "It looks like a couple of mobs were on the job. What they were after, is something I've got to find out."

Cardona boarded the Wanderer with a pair of detectives, to gather up the wounded prisoners. Lucille, on sh.o.r.e, received the congratulations of the group from the yacht. They agreed with Cardona, that her escape had been fortunate.

Lucille accepted those congratulations with her usual calmness. Of all those present, she alone was not excited. Coolly, the girl surveyed the group, noting all persons present. Her lips showed the slightest of smiles when she noted that Harry Vincent was not among her friends.

As they waited on the sh.o.r.e, Lucille Mayland drew an object from her pocket, held it concealed between her fondling fingers. She retained her smile, unnoticed in the darkness.

The object that Lucille held was that tiny, three-headed image with the jeweled eyes and many arms.

That curious golden figure linked with the battle that Lucille had witnessed. The fact that the girl owned such an image, was to tell much to The Shadow.

CHAPTER V

HARRY MAKES PLANS.

IN his check-up of matters along the sh.o.r.e front, Joe Cardona learned that a speed boat had docked shortly before trouble began aboard the Wanderer.

Cardona decided to learn more regarding that unknown craft; he headed for the pier where it lay.

To his surprise, Cardona found Lamont Cranston aboard; with the millionaire was Harry Vincent.

Cranston, it seemed, had made the trip across the Sound. He had heard the firing that took place along the dock beside the Wanderer; but he had lacked opportunity to reach the cabin cruiser.

Cranston was a hawk-faced individual, whose features were almost masklike.

His manner, like his appearance, was impa.s.sive. Sometimes he had a way of implying statements, without making them. That was true on this occasion. He let Cardona believe that Harry Vincent had arrived at the speed boat immediately after it docked.

Cardona asked no questions on that score. It was apparent that he did not suspect Harry's part in the battle on the Wanderer. That, in turn, gave The Shadow cause for some keen speculation.

The Shadow knew that Cardona had already talked to Lucille Mayland. The girl had seen Harry during the fight. Possibly, she had not recognized him. It was more likely that she had recognized him, but had chosen not to mention the fact.

The latter situation, if it existed, could prove of value to The Shadow; particularly as he had received a complete report from Harry, before Cardona arrived.

They walked along the sh.o.r.e with Cardona. Harry showed no ill effects from the recent skirmish, although his head was aching badly. He felt steadier when they joined the group beside the Wanderer; he smiled, as he nodded to Lucille.

The girl's dark eyes fixed upon Harry. That glance was observed by Cranston. The Shadow knew instantly that Lucille was keeping silence. In Cranston's quiet tone, he mentioned that to Harry as soon as they had stepped aside. With that information, The Shadow gave brief instructions to his agent.

Most of the wounded mobsters had been removed; but there were two, less scathed than the others, who had been kept here at Cardona's order. The inspector quizzed them, while Cranston stood by. The story that they gave fitted with Cardona's theory regarding rival mobs.

THEY had been told, so they said, to pick up a cargo from a boat at this old dock. What was in the cargo, they didn't know; but Cardona suspected that the pair belonged to a crew of opium runners, though they wouldn't admit it.

They testified that they had run into unexpected trouble; and held to the opinion that they had been brought here by a hoax.

As they put it, there was always rivalry along the waterfront, with one outfit holding a grudge against another. Since Cardona knew that to be a fact the statement satisfied him; particularly after he completed a thorough inspection of the Wanderer.

Although some of the tumbled boxes were empty, none had been removed. In the midst of a hurried flight, no one would have wasted time unloading dope in parcels.

Though Cardona had a marked ability for playing hunches, he did not show it on this occasion. He apparently regarded Welk's death and the subsequenttrouble on the Wanderer as coincidences. Working from the facts, that opinion was a logical one. From the size of the empty boxes in the forecastle, Cardona never guessed that one could have housed a murderer.

Moreover, boats were coming in from the Sound when Cardona completed his inspection. Grapplers had reclaimed the body of Rodney Welk, enmeshed in the anchor rope. They placed the corpse upon the pier, where a physician went through the formality of p.r.o.nouncing the death a drowning case.

Only Lamont Cranston saw evidence of another cause, as he viewed the body in glare of electric lanterns.

Across Welk's bloated throat was a hair-line that carried a ruddy tinge.

It was the fading trace of the mark made by a dacoit's strangle cord.

Members of the yachting party had left for Manhattan. Only two remained.

One was Lucille Mayland, closest witness to the battle on the dock. The other was Harry Vincent, who had stayed because of Cranston's presence.

Occasionally, when glancing at Lucille, Harry had a feeling that the girl had something to say to him alone. Cranston had observed the same; it was he who paved the way to that opportunity.

He remarked that the police commissioner was coming to Long Island; that he would like to wait for him. So he offered Harry and Lucille use of his large limousine, parked near the landing place.

The two went aboard the big car. As soon as it pulled away, Cranston made a telephone call for a taxicab. A low laugh whispered from his lips, as he followed the same route into Manhattan. That repressed mirth was the tone of The Shadow.

IN the smooth-running limousine, Harry and Lucille were discussing the very topic that The Shadow expected. It was Lucille who opened the subject.

"I owe you thanks, Mr. Vincent," she expressed, in a musical tone. "Your arrival on the pier was most fortunate."

"The thanks should be mine," returned Harry, politely. "I didn't want to be mixed with that brawl. You helped me out of a lot of bother by avoiding mention of my part."