There was no sign of life on the road, on the lake, or on the s.h.a.ggy island.

Presently, Turk jammed on the brakes.

A rowboat was anch.o.r.ed about ten feet from the muddy edge of the water.

There were no oars in the boat. It looked like a leaky old craft abandoned by some camper at the end of the summer season.

Sam Baron barked quick orders.

"Squint, you stick close to Mason. Turk, get out and drag the outboard motor from the back. Pete - wake up!" Marsland had been thinking desperately how to protect The Shadow without ruining his role of spy. His closed eyes opened.

"Wade out to that rowboat, Pete," Baron growled. "Maybe the cold water will help to wake you up!"

Marsland stepped to the road. He watched Turk walk around the car toward the closed compartment where The Shadow was hidden. Gently, his hand slid toward the gun in his hip pocket. He waited, ready to kill Turk the moment he yelled his discovery.

But Turk uttered no loud cry of alarm. He merely leaned forward and dragged the heavy outboard motor to the road. There was no sign of The Shadow!

THERE was cold sweat on Cliff Marsland's forehead. With a quiver of relief, he realized that The Shadow must have left the car while it had slowly descended the hill that led to the lake.

A command from Baron snapped Marsland out of his daze.

"Get out to that rowboat and pull it closer!"

Marsland obeyed. The slop of the cold water chilled his legs, but he didn't mind that. The Shadow was safe! And so was Marsland's dangerous role of spy. The Shadow had taken care of both.

Quickly, the outboard motor was attached to the rowboat. Rodney Mason wasforced aboard. Turk jerked the starting cord on the motor. It sputtered and broke into a noisy clamor. Then the rowboat chugged across the blue lake.

Baron steered for the island. He headed the boat toward a wooded tip of land that thrust outward like a green finger. Behind it was a deep inlet.

The crooks splashed ash.o.r.e, dragging Mason with them. There was no sign of a path among the labyrinth of evergreens. But Baron seemed to know the way.

Presently, a clearing appeared among the trees. In the center of the clearing was a log cabin.

"Take Mason inside," Baron ordered.

There was no door on the cabin. Only rusted hinges showed where a door had once been. The gla.s.s was broken in all the windows. Nothing was visible inside but the log walls, and a floor that was deep in drifted leaves.

Baron kicked away the leaves from a spot in the center of the stone floor.

Then he bent and jerked strongly at what looked like a metal ring. A square section of stone rose on oiled hinges and a dark opening was disclosed. When Baron snapped on his electric torch, its yellow beam showed a flight of stone steps leading to a cellar underneath the cabin.

Rodney Mason was dragged down the steps. The thugs stared about them with grunts of satisfaction. Baron grinned at their approval.

There was an oil stove in one corner. Shelves were filled with canned goods and groceries. There were two bunks alongside the wall. When a kerosene lamp was lit, the underground room looked like a comfortable club house. There was even a stack of magazines on a table.

But Baron's eyes were savage as he stared at the prisoner. He removed his gag, chuckling at Mason's feeble oaths.

He dragged a chair to the middle of the room. Over his head, imbedded in the stone ceiling, was a stout metal hook. He tested that hook, then stepped down.

BARON began to pile canned goods on the floor beneath the hook in the ceiling. He built up three or four tiers of the cans, making a shaky top layer of only one or two of the tin containers.

"Lift Mason's arms above his head," he ordered. "I want a stout cord tied tight around both his thumbs. Get me? Just his thumbs!"

Mason's face paled.

"You're a fool," the chemist told Baron, huskily. "You're making the biggest mistake you ever made in your life!"

"Yeah? How do you figure that?"

"None of your d.a.m.ned business, you stupid idiot!"

Squint and Turk leaped at him. Mason tried desperately to battle his captors. It was a futile hope. A pistol b.u.t.t struck him on the temple.

Before he could recover, his thumbs were looped tightly together. He was forced to mount the shaky pile of canned goods. It was Baron who tied his thumbs to the overhead hook.

"Suit yourself," Baron chuckled. "If you try to escape, you're going to upset a couple of those cans under your feet. That will be kinda tough on your thumbs!"

He turned to Squint.

"Get the boat ready. I got to make a phone call to Manhattan before I go to work on this bird. Let him hang here till I get back."

Rodney Mason's suspended body reeled. One of the cans shifted beneath his feet and he only managed to hold his balance by a grim effort. Agony gleamed in his staring eyes. For a moment, he seemed about to shout something at Baron; then, he clamped his lips tight. "You and Pete stay here," Baron told Turk.

He ascended the cellar stairs, Squint with him. Their footsteps were audible overhead for a moment. Then there was silence. Marsland chuckled.

"Boy, what a break for me!" he said, With a wide yawn, he walked to one of the bunks and sprawled lengthwise in it. "Oh, boy! Comfort!"

"You lazy b.u.m," Turk scowled.

But he followed Marsland's example. He lay back, watching the lengthened figure of Rodney Mason. The chemist stood on tiptoe, afraid to move for fear of upsetting his dizzy perch. His thumbs, tied to the hook in the ceiling, were white and bloodless.

Behind closed eyes, Cliff Marsland's brain was working fiercely. He had hoped that Baron would leave him behind to help guard the prisoner. Already, he had formulated a plan to help Mason escape.

It was a plan that would also protect Marsland's real ident.i.ty. He wanted to continue in his role of the sleepy Pete. By throwing the blame of Mason's escape on a mythical enemy, he hoped to be able to do both of these things successfully.

MEANWHILE, Baron and Squint were crossing the lake. They grounded at the same spot where they had left the car. There was no one in sight along the lonely sh.o.r.e road.

Baron had taken no chances of anyone noticing the empty sedan. He had backed the car into a near-by thicket.

Pushing aside a tangled nest of branches, Baron squirmed inward to where the car waited in its dim covert.

He opened the door. As he did so, a black figure rose from the floor of the sedan. Gloved hands darted at the throat of the startled crook.

Baron recoiled with an attempted cry of terror. But his yell was never uttered. The sinewy hands of The Shadow choked the cry into nothingness.

Squint was still at the sh.o.r.e of the lake, busily unshipping the outboard motor from the rowboat. He crossed the road presently, carrying the heavy motor in both arms.

He was easy prey for The Shadow. His gagged-and-bound figure was shoved into the rear seat of the sedan alongside Sam Baron.

The black-clad figure of The Shadow emerged from the thicket. He carried with him the heavy outboard motor. Once more, the rowboat chugged away from the sh.o.r.e. It headed for the island.

But The Shadow did not steer for the same inlet where the crooks had landed. He bore around to the other side of the island, where the wind blew steadily and strongly from the sh.o.r.e. It carried away with it the sound of the motor.

The Shadow allowed the boat to drift silently insh.o.r.e.

CHAPTER X.

GUN BAIT.

CLIFF MARSLAND, in his sleepy guise of Pete, lay full-length in one of the bunks of the cellar hide-out. He replied drowsily to Turk's attempts at conversation. After a while, Turk relapsed into sullen silence. This suited Cliff. It was essential to his scheme that there be absolute silence in the cellar. His plan was simple. It was based entirely on psychology. All he had to do was to work on Turk's nerves.

Suddenly, Cliff's eyes flew wide open. He sprang from the bed.

"What's that?" he gasped.

Turk's gun flashed into his hand.

"What's the matter, dope? You crazy?"

"Didn't you hear it? Somebody's upstairs! I heard a twig snap under someone's foot."

Turk listened. The silence was profound.

"You dreamed it! G'wan back to sleep."

Marsland pretended to obey. But five minutes later, he again leaped from his bunk, listening rigidly.

"There! Did you hear that?" he exclaimed.

This time, Turk didn't even draw his gun.

"You going yellow, you punk?"

Marsland was trembling. He pointed toward the trapdoor.

"I tell you I heard it! Back me up. I'm gonna make sure."

He began to creep silently up the steps. Turk shot a quick glance toward the hanging Mason. Then he followed Pete.

The trapdoor lifted slowly. The leaf-littered floor of the cabin was empty. The only sound was the rustle of trees in the tug of the strong wind.

"Watch that guy downstairs," Marsland whispered. "I'm gonna sneak outside and have a look."

Before Turk could object, he moved cautiously through the open doorway.

He disappeared through the thick lacing of pine branches.

Behind him, he could hear contemptuous laughter. He selected a tree trunk that concealed him, yet gave him a clear view of the cabin. The trapdoor was still open. But Turk had descended to the cellar.

Instantly, Cliff Marsland hurried under the spreading trees, searching anxiously for the spot he needed. He found it twenty yards away - a declivity in the ground that was soft and muddy.

Marsland circled the spot, stepping on dry gra.s.s so as to leave no footprints. When he reached the opposite side, he advanced part way through the mud, making a line of smudged prints. He whirled suddenly, leaving a pattern exactly like that of a man who had turned with desperate speed, and raced back through the soft mud, making a second line of footprints.

He hurried across dry gra.s.s to the tree where he had originally stood.

Stepping backward, he fired at the tree. The shot made a roaring echo. The bullet cut a shallow gouge across the bark.

Marsland gave a fake yell of terror. He flung the exploded cartridge away with all his strength. His aim was true. The sh.e.l.l landed in the muddy declivity where Marsland had made the two sets of footprints.

Then he flung himself flat on his face.

MARSLAND was barely in time. The next instant, he heard the racing feet of Turk. Marsland's warning yell made Turk fling himself flat to the gra.s.s beside him.

"Watch out!" Marsland gasped. "There's a gunman somewhere among those trees! He nearly croaked me!"

Turk listened to a quick, breathless story. He eyed the bullet-creased trunk of the tree. His mouth hardened murderously. At his whisper, Marsland nodded. The two began to wriggle forward on their bellies toward the spot where Marsland had pointed.

The footprints in the mud told a convincing story. A man had sneakedtreacherously forward to ambush Pete. He had fired one shot, had whirled and fled backward to the safety of dense underbrush.

Turk picked up the empty sh.e.l.l. He peered rigidly through the interlaced bushes. But there was no sound except the rustle and murmur of the pine branches.

"If we split and each of us covers half the island, we can nail the louse," Marsland breathed. "The island is small. If the guy swims or tries to row away in a boat, we can riddle him from the sh.o.r.e."

Turk hesitated. His glance moved back toward the unguarded cabin, with its trapdoor still open. Marsland's heart stopped beating for a second. If Turk refused He didn't. With gleaming eyes, he nodded. After a moment's whispered consultation, the two separated, going in opposite directions.

But Marsland didn't go very far. He waited until he could no longer hear the faint rustling of bushes from Turk's cautious progress. Then he glided noiselessly back to the cabin. In an instant, he was squirming through the open trapdoor.

Rodney Mason was still hung in agonized helplessness atop the tottering pile of canned goods. His arms were no longer curved at the elbows to take the strain off whitened thumbs. Mason's strength was almost gone.

Swiftly, Marsland had seized a chair and was freeing the tortured man. A quick slash from a knife blade released the cord from the hook. Mason's body pitched sideways.

Marsland caught Mason before he fell to the floor. Lowering him gently, he laid the exhausted prisoner on the floor of the cellar.

The chemist tried to gasp out words. But Marsland laid a quick palm across the quivering lips.

"Quiet!" he breathed in Mason's ear. "You're safe, if we work fast and don't make any sound. I kidded Turk into searching the north end of the island.

You can escape from the south end. Can you swim? Are you strong enough?"

Mason nodded. His thickened voice became clearer. "Who - who are you?

What mob are you with?"