Wearily, he plodded to his car. The porter conducted him to a lower berth. Rightwood tumbled in upon the mattress and managed to draw off his shoes. Raising his hand, he fumbled with the berth light and extinguished it.

Channing Rightwood's head plopped upon the pillow. His energy exhausted, the man breathed heavily as he fell asleep.

Channing Rightwood was bound back to Chicago. The Shadow had taken the place of the man from the West!

CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S CIRCLE.

IN Room 2016 at the Hotel Metrolite, Channing Rightwood was removing articles from his suitcase. At least, the person who was performing this action appeared to be Channing Rightwood. The Shadow, in the new guise which he had taken, was a perfect double for the man whom he had sent back to Chicago.

Even here alone, The Shadow was copying the gestures which he had noticed as part of Rightwood's personality. When The Shadow dealt in impersonation, his clever skill could not be detected.

The clothes which the false Rightwood wore were not identical with those in which the man from Chicago had been garbed. That, however, was not a necessary part of the imposition. Rightwood might well have been wearing any suit.

In Rightwood's bag, The Shadow discovered a telegram. It was to Channing Rightwood from Bigelow Zorman. It stated the importance of Rightwood's option and advised the recipient that Zorman would communicate with him when he reached New York.

It was not at all singular that Channing Rightwood had heard no news of the deaths of Maurice Bewkel and Bigelow Zorman. Those deaths had been local items in New York newspapers; they had been copied by smaller cities but had evidently not taken much s.p.a.ce in Chicago journals.

There was no trace of any option in Rightwood's bag. The Shadow a.s.sumed that Rightwood must have a safe-deposit box in a New York bank. Two pa.s.s books on Manhattan trust companies indicated this possibility.

Half an hour had pa.s.sed since Channing Rightwood's odd departure when The Shadow folded black cloak and hat. With these garments beneath his arm, he peered out into the corridor; then followed the hallway to Room 2020.

A bag lay open on a chair in the room that Henry Arnaud had taken. It contained various articles and apiece of folded wrapping paper. The Shadow removed the last from the bag. He pressed the slouch hat flat and wrapped it, with cloak and gloves, within the paper.

A few minutes later, Channing Rightwood appeared in the corridor, carrying a neat package under his arm. He went to the elevators, rang for a car and descended.

The dispatcher stared a moment as he saw the face of Channing Rightwood. He had not seen the man return. He decided that Rightwood must have come in and was now going out again. Fresh air must certainly have had a reviving effect upon him, for the stooped shoulders were steady and the gait was not uncertain.

OUTSIDE the Metrolite Hotel, the false Channing Rightwood hailed a cab. He gave a destination. In the taxi, he unwrapped the package which he carried. As the cab sped along a side street, the folds of the cloak opened. The garment slipped over shoulders. The black hat pressed upon The Shadow's head.

The cab stopped near a corner. A bill fluttered from the front window into the driver's hand. The taximan started to make change, watching for his pa.s.senger to alight. There was no motion in the rear of the cab.

The driver stepped to the street and yanked open the door. To his amazement, the cab was empty.

The Shadow had stepped forth in his mysterious and invisible fashion. The driver's eyes stared as his ears heard a vague, creepy sound. It was like a fading laugh; yet look where he might, the cabby could see no one who might be the author of that mirth.

Pocketing the bill, the driver leaped back into his cab and drove away. He did not see the flitting streak of black that was moving along the sidewalk, nor did he observe the phantom shape beside it.

The Shadow merged with darkness.

Some time elapsed before his presence was again manifest. A click within the walls of his sanctum was the token that The Shadow had returned to the mysterious abode where his plans were formulated.

Clippings fell upon the table. The girasol sparkled as The Shadow moved them with his hands. These news notes concerned the mysterious death of an unknown man found in a taxicab near Times Square.

They were items like the one which Channing Rightwood had noticed in the New York newspaper.

The Shadow studied these reports. Puzzling though they were to the police, they meant much to The Shadow. He knew the ident.i.ty of that slain man: Wilton Byres, secretary to Felix Tressler. To The Shadow, the death of Byres was another key to the complicated case upon which he was working.

Ear phones clicked. A tiny bulb showed against the wall. A quiet voice announced: "Burbank speaking."

"Report."

"Reports from Burke and Marsland. Identical. No one has come to Tressler's. No one has left."

"Single shifts," ordered The Shadow, in a hissing whisper. "Outside the Hotel Delavan until tomorrow at six o'clock. Then resume double duty."

"Instructions received," replied Burbank.

After his call to his contact man, The Shadow opened an envelope from Rutledge Mann. It contained only a coded note from Harry Vincent - a summary of that agent's work in South Sh.o.r.eview andChicago. The writing faded. The Shadow's agents, like their master, used vanishing ink in their communications.

Paper crinkled. The map of Manhattan unfolded upon The Shadow's table. White pins and black; this time there were four. Each white pin marked the location from which a doomed man had begun his journey in the zone of danger; each black pin pointed out the spot where death had struck.

NOW came other pins. These had green heads; and The Shadow inserted them at carefully-calculated spots. A soft laugh rippled through the sanctum as The Shadow worked. These pins were the result of his observations within the district where hidden death ruled.

The Shadow's hand marked lines to trace the course taken by Wilton Byres. This, added to those of Dustin Cruett, Maurice Bewkel and Bigelow Zorman, produced a series of interwoven channels along the streets that were shown on the map.

Long, careful study followed. At times, The Shadow shifted positions of certain pins. At last, a triumphant laugh resounded. The Shadow had completed his calculations.

A dripping pen appeared in The Shadow's hand. Its long quill was crimson. The ink upon its point was of the same b.l.o.o.d.y hue. The left hand lifted certain pins. The right, with a steady, well-guided stroke, drew a perfect circle upon the map of Manhattan.

Back went the pins. The Shadow viewed his handiwork. A circle of blood-red color! Well did it define the deeds that had transpired within that area of doom! One spot remained conspicuously blank. It was the very center of the circle.

Again, The Shadow laughed. His left hand appeared, bringing a pin larger than the others. This pin had a large head, of the same crimson that characterized the ink. The Shadow thrust it squarely in the center of the blood-colored circle.

Again the laugh. This time, its ominous tone was explained. With one stroke, The Shadow had automatically added the final touch to his discoveries. That lay in the position where the red-topped pin projected.

On the map, that pin located the Hotel Delavan - the building upon which Felix Tressler dwelt in the security of his protected penthouse. The Shadow's own map was a small-sized edition of the huge chart that hung from Tressler's wall - a map which The Shadow, as yet, had never seen.

Keen eyes studied the map with its crimson ring. The light clicked out as strident mirth broke forth with prophetic mockery. Within the black walls of his sanctum, The Shadow had marked his circle.

The Shadow's circle was identical with the terror zone of Manhattan - Felix Tressler's circle of death!

That was the area where battle soon would come - where The Shadow, master of vengeance, would fare forth to balk the fiend who ruled the circle of death!

CHAPTER XIX. THE CONFERENCE.

LOGAN MUNGREN was seated behind his mahogany desk. The portly, bald-headed stock promoter was expecting a visitor. He showed signs of nervous impatience. The ring of the telephone brought an ugly leer to his lips.

"h.e.l.lo..." Mungren's grin persisted. "I see... Mr. Rightwood is here... Yes, send him in at once."

Mungren was standing by his desk when a tall, stoop-shouldered visitor appeared. Logan Mungren wasquick to recognize the face of Channing Rightwood. He advanced with outstretched hand.

"Sit down," suggested Mungren, as he turned back to the desk. "I have been waiting for you, Mr.

Rightwood."

The eyes that watched Logan Mungren were not the eyes of Channing Rightwood. They were the eyes of The Shadow. Blazing, they studied the portly president of the Acme Securities Company. The moment that Mungren turned, however, those eyes that peered from Rightwood's visage seemed to lose their light.

Mungren, when he looked at Rightwood, saw no more than a mild-mannered man with large nose and chin, whose upper lip was adorned with a pointed, reddish mustache.

"About my option, Mr. Mungren." The voice of Channing Rightwood seemed slightly worried. "I am here to exercise it. I feel that Electro Oceanic is a good investment."

"You do?" Mungren smiled sourly. "I am sorry, Mr. Rightwood, to admit that I cannot agree with you. I must say that Electro Oceanic did look like a good investment when you purchased your first shares. At present, however, it would be a waste of money to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in new shares."

"I believe otherwise." Rightwood's voice became firm. "I have what I consider to be proof that Electro Oceanic should make an excellent purchase."

"You spoke that way last night," a.s.serted Mungren. "I should like to see the proof, Mr. Rightwood."

"Here it is."

RIGHTWOOD'S hand came from his pocket. A telegram dropped on the desk. It was the message that Bigelow Zorman had wired to Chicago. A sudden gleam of pleasure came to Mungren's face. Then the stock promoter resumed his suave composure.

"Interesting," he remarked, "but not specific. Bigelow Zorman would naturally have advised you to exercise your option. His job as the president of Electro Oceanic depended upon new funds.

"However, the man who has taken his place is not so optimistic. Perry Harton, formerly general manager of the Electro Oceanic plant, is now the president of the corporation. He is here in New York. I expect to confer with him. Therefore, Mr. Rightwood, I should advise you to let your option drop."

"I do not intend to do so," a.s.serted the visitor. "I am here to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the new stock issue. Tomorrow, I shall arrive in this office with the option and a certified check for the required amount. Is that clear?"

Mungren bowed. There was no further use of opposition. He listened while an added statement came.

"The option," was Rightwood's announcement, "is in a safe-deposit vault. At nine o'clock tomorrow morning I am going to obtain it and also to draw the required funds. I shall come here immediately afterward. I shall expect to receive the newly-issued shares of Electro Oceanic stock."

Logan Mungren spread his hands. His demeanor had changed. He showed no inclination to reason as he had with Maurice Bewkel. Instead, he began to agree with his visitor's opinion.

"Your purchase," he a.s.serted, "will be profitable to me, for I shall receive my commission. Perry Harton, though he honestly admits that Electro Oceanic is on the rocks, will be glad that you have made yourdecision to buy. You will be in New York, tonight?"

"Yes."

"Could you come to see me at my apartment?"

"I should be glad to visit you."

"Let me see - you are stopping at the -"

"The Hotel Metrolite."

Logan Mungren considered reflectively. At last he nodded, as though he had placed the exact location of the hotel.

"My apartment is not far from your hotel," he observed. "In fact, it is just a short walk. I should advise you not to bother with a taxi. Between one way streets and the theatrical traffic, you can make better time on foot."

"I agree with you."

"Start eastward from your hotel," suggested Mungren. "Four blocks across and a few blocks north will bring you to the Park Avenue apartment house where I live."

"I could walk up Seventh Avenue and -"

Mungren raised his hands as he heard Rightwood's suggestion. He laughed shortly.

"Times Square is worse that the Chicago Loop," the stock promoter declared. "By following my directions, you will get away from the crowded avenue. I am very anxious that you should visit me, Mr.

Rightwood. I expect that Mr. Harton will be there."

"I shall not be open to argument," protested the visitor. "I have told you that I intend to purchase this new stock."

"Quite so," agreed Mungren. "Perry Harton, who is a man of integrity, may be honest enough to tell you not to use your option. But, after all, Harton has something to gain through further investments in Electro Oceanic. He will not be persuasive. I shall inform him of your decision. The topic will be taboo."

"Under those circ.u.mstances" - Rightwood's voice denoted rea.s.surance - "I shall be glad to visit you this evening and meet Mr. Harton. What time would you suggest that I arrive?"

"Unfortunately," mused Mungren, "I shall not be at home early in the evening. Harton is coming at nine o'clock. Suppose you arrive about that hour?"

"Very well." The false Rightwood thrust out his hand to Logan Mungren. He received the promoter's clasp. "I shall be there not long after nine."

Mungren saw Rightwood reaching for the telegram. With an easy gesture, the promoter lifted it from the desk.

"Would you mind," he questioned, "if I took this with me? I should like to show it to Harton - just to get his private opinion before you arrive. It would be to your interest -"

Mungren repressed a smile as he saw Rightwood nod. The stoop-shouldered visitor turned and left theoffice, leaving the telegram in Logan Mungren's possession.

The stock promoter followed to the door of his office. When he was satisfied that Rightwood had left the suite, he hurried back and dialed a number. The voice of Felix Tressler came across the wire.

"Rightwood was here..." Mungren's tone was eager. "Yes. He intends to exercise his option... The telegram?... He had it with him... Yes. I kept it... That's the only evidence to prove he heard from Zorman...

"He's coming to my apartment. From his hotel, the Metrolite. Yes. I gave him directions. Coming at nine to see me and Harton...

"No one can know where he was going when they find him. That's right... Yes, that's all... I'll be in to see you at nine o'clock, along with Harton..."

Logan Mungren uttered a malicious chuckle as he hung up the receiver. He was evidently pleased at the result of his interview with Channing Rightwood.

Singularly, the face of Channing Rightwood also wore a smile as its temporary owner was riding westward from the office building where The Shadow, as Rightwood, had visited Logan Mungren.

The reason for the double pleasure was identical. It was caused by the directions which Logan Mungren had given to the visitor whom he had accepted as Channing Rightwood.

The route which Channing Rightwood was supposed to follow when he walked to Logan Mungren's apartment house would lead directly through the circle of death!