Vic Marquette nodded to himself. He was glad that he had not met Bryland.

A better plan had come to Vic's mind.

Seeing Bryland with Nina Valencita and having knowledge she had acted as a spy for the Spanish royalists, Vic decided Bryland's knowing her was reason enough to make a search of his home for the NEC.

But first, Vic looked up Congressman Leeth's home telephone number. There was one thing Marquette wanted to find out; that was who had won the argument, Bryland or Martha. Vic's bet was that Bryland had talked the girl into going to the theater.

He hoped so, anyway; for he wanted Bryland to be placed for the next few hours.

Marquette had his fingers crossed when he called the number.

No one answered the telephone. Evidently all were absent from the Leeth homestead. That explained why Martha might have listened to Bryland's protests.

The prospect of an evening alone at home could easily have won the girl over.

Marquette dialed again to make sure. There was no response; so Vic put in calls to members of his squad.

WITHIN fifteen minutes, Vic and two carloads of operatives were ready for a speedy trip to Fairfax. Marquette had decided to make the first search at Bryland's Virginia mansion.

One man was standing on the curb. Marquette gave him special instructions about guarding Bryland's Washington home: "Stay outside of Bryland's apartment house, Chandley. Don't stop him if he goes in; you might get the wrong man by mistake. Grab anybody, though, that comes out - anybody that you think might be Bryland.

"It's a cinch he didn't have the NEC on him when he left the Apollo Club.

If he has it, it's one of two places; his home or his apartment. We won't give him a chance to take it away from either."

The cars headed for the Arlington Memorial Bridge. As they neared the Potomac, Vic Marquette settled back in a rear seat, fully satisfied with the course that he had chosen. He was glad that he had not trailed Bryland. That trail, in Vic's opinion, would have been a mistake.

Vic did not know what opportunity he had missed. Actually, success was slipping from his grasp. The trail that the secret service man ignored would have opened remarkable paths. It would have taken Vic to a certain emba.s.sy in Washington; to a hidden lair within that emba.s.sy, where a master-spy dwelt in security.

More important, it would have carried Vic Marquette to the spot where The Shadow lay a prisoner, doped into helplessness, awaiting the doom that Hugo Creeland was ready to decree.

Vic Marquette was carrying a search order, on which his signature was scarcely dry. Without knowing it, Vic had signed another warrant, as plainly as if he had affixed his name to it.

That was the unwritten order for The Shadow's death. Vic Marquette, alone, could have provided The Shadow with outside aid. The Shadow would never receive the help that he desired.

CHAPTER VII.

THROUGH THE GLa.s.s.

FREDERICK BRYLAND'S dinner hour had been planned as a pleasant one; but had resulted in a spat. The Shadow's dinner time was planned as a tragic jest.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Jarruth wheeled in the tea wagon, bringing a bowl of soup and a plate of more substantial food. He rolled it up to where The Shadow was seated, staring listlessly.

Hugo Creelon had heard from Nina Valencita. Frederick Bryland would arrive this very evening. Creelon had given the order for The Shadow's dinner.Afterward would come a dose more powerful than hashish.

Death by poison would be The Shadow's fate, as soon as Creelon commenced negotiations with Bryland.

Laboriously, The Shadow inserted spoon in soup, while Jarruth looked on jeeringly. Every spoonful was an effort, and Jarruth enjoyed it for a while.

Then the sight tired him. The prisoner was more lethargic than at lunch time.

Jarruth went out to prepare the dessert. He hoped that it would be a gla.s.s of poison.

When Jarruth was gone, a change took place. Perceptibly, The Shadow came to life. His motion was not swift - it still showed painful slowness. But his speed was much closer to normal.

The second dose of hashish had been less effective than the first. The Shadow, however, had not shown it. Once awake, he had pretended further sleep, during a period that seemed interminable. Every time his eyes had begun to open he had closed them, awaiting dusk. Jarruth had not reported the prisoner as awake until after six o'clock. Jarruth was wrong. The Shadow had aroused two hours before.

Swallowing a few more mouthfuls of the beneficial soup, The Shadow managed to push the tea wagon away. He tried to rise; he failed, but tried again. He succeeded. Wearily, his steps almost as slow as Jarruth's had appeared to be, The Shadow faltered forward.

Once he reeled; felt himself falling slowly. He caught a table and regained his balance. Resting, The Shadow realized that he possessed only one capability that could bring swift motion. That was the ease with which he could fall.

A sprawl might seem slow; but it would be as rapid as any drop that another man could produce. It was easy to topple off balance. It was upon that factor that The Shadow depended. The warmth of the soup was giving him a false sense of speeded motion; but he was wise enough not to rely upon it as real!

The Shadow reached the panel where the folding bed was hidden beyond.

Gripping a solid wall, he leaned against the panel. It began a slow revolution.

The Shadow tightened his grip on the wall; he shifted as the panel came around.

He seemed shackled.

Though the panel's swing was prolonged, The Shadow could not guarantee that he would clear its path. Yet he persisted; and with success. When the bed swung completely into place, The Shadow stood beyond it.

The Shadow raised his hand up to the catch that held the bed suspended.

He lowered his hand; through sheer weight alone, it drew the catch. The bed was balanced. The Shadow edged his shoulder past it. He felt a pressure; he resisted with all his strength. Braced against one edge of the bed, The Shadow was holding it in place. For a man in his weakened condition, it was a Herculean task.

The Shadow watched the door of the room; held on for a long, tiring period. The door began to open - deliberately, but not so slowly as it had opened earlier in the day. Jarruth appeared; closed the door behind him. In his hand, the servant was carrying a gla.s.s of amber-tinted liquid.

Jarruth's ugly leer told that he had received the order that he wanted.

The executioner was arriving with The Shadow's poison.

LOOKING toward the easy-chair, Jarruth showed a surprised scowl when he saw that the prisoner had left it. Wheeling so rapidly that the motion seemed fairly fast to The Shadow, Jarruth saw the tall figure by the folding bed. TheShadow, still guised as Cranston, was on the far side.

Jarruth did exactly as The Shadow had hoped. The servant's actions came like clockwork. Putting a hand to his hip, Jarruth pulled a revolver and started menacingly toward the wearied prisoner.

The Shadow relaxed. His yield was instant. The weight of the big metal bed brushed him aside, sent him toppling to the floor. Though the fall seemed slow motion to The Shadow, he was actually hurtled from the path that the hinged bed followed.

Jarruth, starting for the prisoner, saw the metal Juggernaut arching down upon him. Once released, uncontrolled by a lowering hand, that ma.s.s of metal had weight combined with power. Jarruth ducked away to avoid it. The Shadow, going to the floor in a painful, slow-motion drive, witnessed the result.

The bed seemed to lower itself like a reluctant drawbridge while Jarruth did a curiously delayed turnabout. Slowly, the metal footboard of the bed opened out, reached Jarruth's head and tapped it a gentle blow. The sound, though, was sharp to The Shadow's ears.

To Jarruth, the bed's fall was sudden; swift. A surge of down-swinging metal; a crash that he could not escape. That was the last that The Shadow's jailer knew. The Shadow, alone, watched the finish.

He saw Jarruth's lazy sprawl, watched the revolver float from the man's grasp and do a rubbery bounce upon the floor. He saw the gla.s.s of amber fluid tilt; spill its contents as it settled gently and cracked from the feathery thud.

The bed had reached the floor. Its frame gave a jar above Jarruth's body.

Only the bed quivered. Jarruth was motionless. Steadying himself against the lowered bed, The Shadow made his way back to the chair. Sinking there, he swallowed the last of the soup. Gripping bread, he stuffed it to his mouth; devoured it with all the swiftness that he could command.

Rising, The Shadow moved with crablike gait along the floor, to preserve his balance. Half crouched, he pa.s.sed Jarruth's senseless form. He managed to stoop and pick up the revolver. Steadied, helped by the food that he had eaten, The Shadow reached the door. He paused beside a half-turned chair; on it he saw objects that were like old friends: his folded cloak, with the slouch hat upon it.

Slowly, The Shadow put on the black garments. Standing by the door, he took a look at Jarruth. It would be a while before the servant recovered; how long, The Shadow could not estimate. He was convinced, however, that he would have time to leave these premises before Jarruth awakened.

Escape was The Shadow's only policy. He was shaking the spell of the hashish; each slowly pa.s.sing minute brought him an increase of strength.

Nevertheless, he was in no condition for battle, nor would he be for an hour or more to come.

Tightening, The Shadow showed a flash of his old-time stealth as he opened the door and peered into the hallway. He saw the narrow corridor with its blank wall on the far side. The hall was deserted. Doorways to the left; another straight ahead - The Shadow picked the most distant barrier as the probable outlet.

KEEPING to the nearer door, The Shadow began a slow progress. He reached the first door; there he paused. Ahead, The Shadow saw a sudden signal, flickering above the end door. He knew that it might token some arrival. There was a chance that the door would open. The light was sufficient to show The Shadow, even in his attire of black.

He needed a spot with which to blend. The doorway at the left provided it.

Shifting his weight, The Shadow edged from sight. He nearly lost his balance; to regain it, he gripped the k.n.o.b of the closed door. His hand seemed to skid as the k.n.o.b turned in his grasp.

A moment later, the door swung inward, its latch loosened by The Shadow's chance turn of the k.n.o.b. Losing his hold, The Shadow took a sprawl into a s.p.a.ce that seemed to be a closet. His mental faculties were somewhat regained; this spill did not have the long, delayed motion of the others, although it gave some impression of slowness.

Striving to halt the fall, The Shadow stumbled inward. The folds of a heavy curtain enveloped him. He sank to the floor.

His sprawl had been noiseless. Even Jarruth's revolver had made no thud, for it struck the curtain when it slipped from The Shadow's grasp. Looking back, The Shadow saw the light of the hall. Stretching, he reached for the door and pushed it shut, stopping its final close with his fingers.

Easing his hand away, The Shadow let the door go into place. The latch did not click; but the door was far enough shut to pa.s.s outside inspection.

Regaining the revolver in the blackness, The Shadow gripped the curtain and drew himself to his feet. He felt steps beneath him; realized that they had helped to break his tumble. Pressing the curtain aside, he crawled up the steps, guiding by a glow that came from above. Reaching the top, The Shadow saw the sheet of gla.s.s that formed the Argus mirror.

There was a ledge beneath it. Drawing himself to his feet, The Shadow steadied and looked through the gla.s.s, into the reception room. He recognized at once that his was a hidden observation post, for The Shadow had used these Argus mirrors before.

The reception room was empty. Its ornate furnishings, the heavy curtains, even the crackling fire on the hearth, reminded The Shadow of the house on H Street where he had first met Hugo Creelon. Once again, The Shadow was looking into the master-spy's lair; this time from Creelon's own observatory.

LUCK was at last with The Shadow. On this occasion, Creelon had failed to come to his lookout post to watch a visitor's arrival. The reason for the spy's absence became immediately apparent. The door from the hall opened; the bespectacled secretary bowed Frederick Bryland into the reception room.

As the ex-major seated himself, curtains spread on the far side of the room. Hugo Creelon appeared; against the blue of the curtains, the spy's pale face showed an expression of annoyance. Creelon had been elsewhere when Bryland's arrival had been signaled. He had not been able to reach the lookout post in time to take a preview of his visitor.

Bryland saw Creelon. The Shadow watched the thief arise to meet the spy.

Low-toned words came to The Shadow's ears, in voices that he recognized: Bryland's smooth tone; Creelon's choppy mode of speech.

The lookout post was fitted with a loud-speaker, tuned down almost to a whisper. Creelon had equipped the spot for his own use and had ignored no detail. All that was said in the reception room could be heard by The Shadow.

There was no drawl to the voices. The only lingering hallucination that still afflicted The Shadow was a false sensation of a pause after each man spoke. That illusion told The Shadow that he must continue to make allowance for the effect of the hashish. His senses could gauge motion and sound almost normally, but his brain became dreamy during intervals between.

Whether or not he would be capable of swift action on his own wa.s.something that The Shadow would not know until occasion forced it. For the present, The Shadow preferred to postpone such a test. There would be a time for it later, when a real crisis arrived. Then - no matter what the risk - The Shadow would attempt action.

That time would come when Frederick Bryland delivered the National Emergency Code to Hugo Creelon. When the NEC changed hands, The Shadow would have his last opportunity to save the vital doc.u.ment.

CHAPTER VIII.

CROOKS MAKE TERMS.

NINA VALENCITA had performed her mission capably during her short interview with Frederick Bryland. From the moment that he met Hugo Creelon, Bryland showed no doubt regarding the character of the superspy.

Bryland's smile showed admiration; it was the tribute of one rogue to another. He spoke freely, easily, as he opened negotiations with Creelon.

"I had hoped that a worker of your caliber might be in Washington,"

declared Bryland. "I counted on it when I took the NEC. I needed some one to whom I could sell it; keen enough, also, to learn that I possessed it."

Creelon accepted the compliments with a bow. As the two sat down, Bryland's expression sobered.

"There is something important that I must ask you," he said to Creelon.

"I.

left no loophole through which the government agents could suspect me. How did you learn that I had the code?"

"Through Follingsby's cane," replied Creelon. "Or rather, Darson's cane, that Follingsby was carrying by mistake."

Bryland nodded approvingly; then winced.

"That was a weak point," he admitted. "Therefore, it worries me. Perhaps some one else has guessed it -"

"Another did," inserted Creelon. "He was the man whom you failed to kill.

He gave me my information."

"You mean Cranston! Was he one of your agents?"

"No. Cranston was the person whom you suspected him to be. He was The Shadow!"

Bryland gripped the arms of his chair; exclaimed, in startled fashion: "If Cranston is The Shadow -"

"I said that Cranston was The Shadow," reminded Creelon, coldly. "He will trouble us no longer, Bryland. I kept him alive only until I knew that you had arrived here."

"The Shadow became your prisoner!"