The Shadow remembered the second b.u.t.ton that Creelon had pressed. He moved to the door of the reception room, opened it slowly inward, listening as he did.

Silence lay within. The Shadow entered.

The room was deserted; the firelight threw long, flickering streaks that showed The Shadow as a weird shape of blackness. The Argus mirror's silvery surface reflected the motion of the cloaked form that slowly crossed the room.

The Shadow had rallied enough to move in steady fashion, even though he could not exert himself to real swiftness. He stopped at the fireplace, rested a moment, then pressed the b.u.t.ton. There was no responding tingle; the bell was probably some distance from this room. There was another sound, however, that The Shadow heard.

Footsteps were coming from another room. Creelon was returning. Departure was essential. The Shadow's straining ears caught the footsteps when they were still quite distant. They showed no hurry; hence there was time for The Shadow to reach the hall.

INSTEAD of heading straight for the hallway door, The Shadow followed the wall. His policy was a wise one; he was able to travel at nearly double his former speed. The swift effort made him stumble; the wall was close enough for him to regain his balance.

The Shadow reached the door, had it open before there was a stir from the purple curtains at the inner end of the reception room.

Stepping through the doorway, The Shadow faced about as he closed the barrier. His revolver was ready as the door inched shut. Creelon stepped into view; fortunately for his own welfare, the spy did not come farther; nor did he see the slow, final closing of the door. Creelon was stopping by the fireplace, attracted by its warmth.

The Shadow caught a last glimpse of the spy's triangular face, its forehead furrowed. Creelon was evidently giving further thought to Bryland's terms.

The Shadow turned toward the end door, where he expected the secretary to appear. It would be his move to intimidate the man from the emba.s.sy, the moment that the fellow arrived. Chances were that the secretary would appear before Creelon decided to come out into the hall.

There was another factor, however, that The Shadow had discounted. His first knowledge of it came when he stepped into the clear center of the hallway. The Shadow heard a creep behind him. He swung painfully about to see a husky figure taking a long leap in his direction.

The attacker was Jarruth. The servant had recuperated. Groggily, he had come from the prison room; he was on his way to report to Creelon when he saw The Shadow. Jarruth's surge was inspired by two motives. One was hope for revenge; the other was his recollection of The Shadow's weakness.

Jarruth discounted his own grogginess; otherwise, he would not have made the rush. The Shadow was turned about, aiming with the revolver. His finger faltered on the trigger. Jarruth took that as evidence that The Shadow was a.s.slow as before. He never realized that The Shadow wanted to avoid gunfire at this vital moment.

The Shadow went backward as Jarruth hit him. The servant drove him toward the far wall, with the power of a charging bull; The Shadow yielding ground as if he had been a figure of straw. He managed to keep his gun wrist from Jarruth's grasp; he tightened a bit as they neared the end door.

That was all; but it was enough. It swung Jarruth toward a corner, where he did not block the door.

The Shadow's gun hand was high. Jarruth clutched for the throat beneath the black cloak collar. The Shadow's shoulders went to the wall, they steadied there, as Jarruth tried to bounce the hatted head against the edge of the doorway. The Shadow's head bobbed sidewise, escaping the shock. His gun hand came downward.

Starting that blow, The Shadow relied on its sheer momentum. The stroke sledged to its destination. Jarruth took the bash on the side of his head. His face took on a grimace that it had shown when the folding bed floored him.

Heavily, the husky slumped from The Shadow's grip.

AS Jarruth sprawled, The Shadow gave him a knee jolt that spilled him away from the end door. A moment later, there was a sound of a clicking latch.

Before The Shadow could turn, the door opened in the other direction. A man stepped across the threshold.

It was the secretary, coming to answer a summons that he thought Creelon had given. The fellow stopped with a look of surprise as he saw Jarruth; then swung suddenly to face The Shadow. The shout that he gave was a harsh one; a far louder sound than the thump of Jarruth's body.

It was a warning that would be heard, that cry; and with it, the shouter showed his willingness for battle. The Shadow was still slower than he supposed; Jarruth had blundered clumsily in the fight, enough to give The Shadow the illusion that he had regained speed. The secretary came upon The Shadow with speed that seemed equal to a whippet's.

Caught in a quick grasp, The Shadow tried to shake off his new opponent.

The fellow was wiry; he had more advantage than he expected. He felt The Shadow slipping beneath his clutch; but he did not know the full reason why.

The Shadow was risking everything to keep the door from closing. That portal would be his only outlet in the emergency that was to come.

The Shadow held the door; and in his effort in that one direction, he gained another advantage. His wiry opponent, becoming over-confident, forgot The Shadow's gun hand. It was up again, almost hanging in the air. The grip on The Shadow's wrist relaxed as his adversary sought a better hold.

Down came The Shadow's fist. The secretary dodged too late. The gun glanced his skull; toppled him against the door. There was no risk of a closing barrier; the fellow's slumped form blocked it.

The Shadow managed a swing back toward the hall. This time his trigger finger started to work, as he saw Creelon and a trio of powerful followers spring from the reception room.

The Shadow's shots were quicker, though actually unaimed. The spy and two of his men popped out of sight. The Shadow clipped the third as the husky tried to aim. The secretary heard the shots; tried to crawl for steps beyond the door.

The Shadow saw the barrier swinging shut; he shouldered it open and went through.

Stumbling upon the crawling man, The Shadow rolled downward through darkness. He heard the door snap shut above. He reached a landing;disentangled himself from the jolted secretary. He saw another flight of steps and started downward.

A door opened at the bottom. A man in uniform stood there, looking upward.

The Shadow gave a forward lunge, landed upon the emba.s.sy attendant and pitched him to the floor. He saw a short pa.s.sage to his right; came to his feet and stumbled in that direction, as shouts came from above.

The Shadow had reached a side door. Struggling with the bolt, he used his last cartridges to send shots back along the little pa.s.sage: a warning for the uniformed man to stay where he was. Footsteps were pounding the stairs.

Creelon had sent his horde to reclaim The Shadow before the self-released prisoner could escape.

The bolt slid open. One more tug; the door was wide. The Shadow shoved out into the cold night air, pulling the door shut behind him. Hazily, he kept his footing, found a stone pa.s.sageway past the emba.s.sy building and took it.

THE SHADOW came to a lighted street. He saw parked taxicabs along the curb. Hearing nothing behind him, he paused; then managed a slow glide across the sidewalk. He stepped aboard the first cab. The driver heard him enter. The Shadow gave the taxi man a destination.

As the cab pulled away, The Shadow looked back through the rear window.

He saw the huge emba.s.sy building, silent but with many lighted windows. He recognized that emba.s.sy; knew why Creelon and his crew had not dared continue the chase outside its walls.

No one at that legation would care to have it known that the place housed the most celebrated of international spies.

Riding away, The Shadow was safe. Fresh air revived him; made him realize how much he had been slowed by the after effects of his long stupor. Because of that sluggishness, flight had been The Shadow's only possible game.

Thereby, The Shadow had won his latest conflict with Hugo Creelon. In the clear, he was on his way to deal with another adversary, Frederick Bryland.

The Shadow was confident that further recovery would make him fit to deal with his next foe.

CHAPTER X.

THE FINISHED SEARCH.

AT the very time of The Shadow's departure from the emba.s.sy, Frederick Bryland arrived at a modest apartment house in another part of Washington.

Bryland was riding in a cab; from the window, he watched the long line of trees that stood between curb and sidewalk.

Bryland saw what he partly expected: a man who edged from sight when the cab pulled up. The ex-major had spotted Chandley, the watcher posted by Vic Marquette.

The crook guessed that the man was a government agent. Nevertheless, he alighted coolly from the cab; took his time about paying the driver. If the watcher chose to accost him, Bryland had a pa.s.sport ready, in the shape of the letters that Creelon had given him.

Still, Bryland was not anxious to flash those faked love notes too soon.

He preferred to keep the secret service guessing. Hence, he was careful, as heapproached the apartment house, to glance away from Chandley. The watcher failed to gain a good glimpse of Bryland's face.

When he reached his second-floor apartment, Bryland carefully lowered the window shades in darkness. He turned on a small corner light. Its glow showed the apartment to be a small one, simply furnished.

There was a desk in the corner of the living room another wall showed a large bookcase built in three sections, from the floor up to the low ceiling.

There was also a door to a bedroom. Bryland did not open it, for he wanted to keep the light from the other room.

From his pocket, Bryland brought the notes that Nina had written. He studied the brief message that she had sent him at the Apollo Club; he shook his head and replaced it in his pocket. Opening a desk drawer, he took out an oblong security box, unlocked it and stowed the letters among some other papers. He locked the box; put it away again.

Bryland started to light a cigarette; changing his mind, he shook out the match flame and tossed the bit of wood into an otherwise empty wastebasket.

Bryland was calculating further, picturing events that had taken place while he was visiting Creelon.

Picking up the telephone, Bryland called the Leeth home. There was no response to his dialed call.

Item by item, the crook sized the situation. He had been spotted while talking to Nina. The secret service was on the job, suspecting him as the possessor of the stolen NEC. He was believed to be at the theater with Martha, since the girl was answering no telephone calls.

It was not quite time for the show to be over. Therefore, secret service operatives were making the most of the interval. One was here; he had been watching for Bryland. Why only one?

Bryland chuckled as he gained the answer. A search was in progress at his house in Virginia. Another search would follow, here at his city apartment. It would probably come soon.

Bryland had already thought along this line when he put the letters in the security box. Satisfied that all was arranged, he looked about the apartment to see that it showed no signs of recent occupancy. As a matter of fact, the crook had not stayed here during the past week.

Bryland turned off the corner light; raised the dark window shades. Down on the tree-lined street, he saw an automobile nose to the curb with lights off. Men stepped from the car. They were the visitors whom Bryland expected.

The crook was ready for his final move.

DOWNSTAIRS, Vic Marquette entered, followed by a group of operatives.

Seeing no sign of Chandley, Vic started to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, he found the watcher. Chandley gave whispered report.

"There was a fellow came in here," he told Vic. "I don't know whether it was Bryland, or somebody who has another apartment. You said to let Bryland through; but not to pa.s.s him out."

Marquette nodded. He remembered his instructions.

"That's why I came up here," continued Chandley. "There's Bryland's door"

- he thumbed along the hall - "and he may be in there; but I'm not sure. I didn't want to sneak too close. This is near enough to spot him if he comes out."

Marquette spoke to another operative, ordered the man to summon the janitor and see if the latter had a pa.s.skey. Emphatically, Marquette undertoned: "If Bryland is in there, his alibi is knocked! He shouldn't be back from the theater yet." "How about the place in Virginia?" queried Chandley. "Anything down there?"

"Not a thing," replied Vic. "Only a couple of old servants who looked like they'd belonged to the family for a hundred years. They showed us all over the place, from wine cellar to garret. We saw a lot of Bryland's papers, scattered everywhere. The rest of the squad is going through them in detail. Looking over his workshop, too; but chances are they'll find nothing."

The janitor arrived with the pa.s.s-key. Marquette advanced to Bryland's apartment, carefully unlocked the door, then entered with flashlight in hand.

He found the light switch, turned it on.

Bryland's living room was empty. It showed no signs of recent occupancy.

Bryland's policy of not lighting a cigarette had prevented the odor of tobacco, which would have been a give-away.

Looking about, Marquette saw the closed door of the bedroom. He pointed a pair of operatives in that direction.

A complete search of the small apartment showed no trace of Bryland. The windows were latched on the inside. The crook could not have used one for an exit. Therefore, Marquette was convinced that Chandley had seen some one other than Bryland.

"We'll give a look for the code," decided Vic, briskly. "Go after those books, men, while I inspect the desk."

THE agents brought out books in cl.u.s.ters, until the bookcase was bare.

They knew that only a faked volume could hold so bulky a doc.u.ment as the National Emergency Code; so their search was a rapid one.

Marquette, meanwhile, had ransacked the desk, ending his search with the finding of the metal security box.

"This could hold something," decided Marquette, tapping the box. "Before we crack it, though, let's make sure that everything else is jake. What about that bookcase? Is it solid?"

Operatives were tapping the framework of the bookshelves. All were thin; concealed compartments were impossible. Marquette was about to tell them to tap the back boards of the bookcase, when he saw that there were none. The shelves were merely slabs of wood, behind them, the papered wall of the living room.

Marquette reached between the shelves and rapped the wall. His knuckles struck solid plaster. He repeated the action with each section of the open bookcase, pa.s.sing the upright wall supports between the three divisions.

Everything was solid. Vic told the operatives to replace the books.

Examining the security box, Marquette saw that it had a good lock. He did not care to break it open if he could avoid it; for he had taken pains not to injure any of Bryland's belongings. Marquette remembered some odd keys that had been in one of the desk drawers. Perhaps Bryland had inadvertently left a duplicate key to the metal box.

Trying the keys, Marquette found one that fitted.

The lid of the box came open. Vic brought out batches of papers. The NEC was not among them; but the operatives noted a sudden expression of discovery that came upon Vic's face. They cl.u.s.tered close; Vic waved them aside while he began to read the letters that Nina had addressed to Bryland.

Slowly, Marquette's face soured; then, reluctantly, Vic grinned. He hurried to his fellow operatives.

"The joke's on me, boys," declared Marquette. "Here's the reason why that Valencita gal was anxious to get hold of Bryland. She had a crush on the guy, about a year ago. The dates on these letters show when it was.

"There's plenty of chili con carne in these letters. Those Spanish damescan handle a wicked pen when they get started. No wonder Nina was anxious to talk to Bryland! If these letters ever got to her fiance Marthess, the engagement would be off!"

Marquette glanced through the letters again; folded them and replaced them in the box.

"Bryland isn't a shake-down artist," he decided. "He wouldn't have left a loose key around, if he figured those letters were valuable. Souvenirs is all he kept them for. He has some notes from other girls along with them, including a few from Martha Leeth.

"They're dishwater, though, compared to what Nina can write! Well, from what I heard said at the Apollo Club, it appears that Bryland will be big-hearted and give the senorita's letters back to her. Whether he does or not isn't our business. We hit the wrong trail; that's all -"

PICKING up Bryland's telephone, Marquette called Fairfax. He talked with operatives there; learned that the search of Bryland's mansion had been finished, with no discovery of the missing code. That was the news that Marquette expected. He ordered his men to return to Washington.

Five minutes later, Marquette and his men were gone from Bryland's apartment. The letters, so wisely supplied by Creelon, had fixed matters right for Bryland. But the thief had shown smart headwork in his placement of those letters. Wisely, Bryland had kept out the message that Nina had sent him at the Apollo Club.