The rescued men understood.
Cliff stepped from the porch, and stood upon the lawn, staring up toward the old gray castle. The other men were with him, surveying those walls that had held them prisoners. The huge masonry of Glamartin was silent now — silent, where guns had thundered. The last surging wave of mobsters had entered while Cliff was guarding the corridor. The Shadow had arrived in time to meet them.
Off in the shrubbery, scattered by the walls, in other spots of temporary safety lay wounded men and dying — those remnants who had staggered away before The Shadow's last attack. Glade Tremont, Gerald Savette, Ivan Orlinov, and Biff Towley. All four were dead. No man who had claimed leadership of any portion of the gangster crew remained alive now. Cliff could claim a share in the victorious struggle for right; but it was The Shadow's mastery that had dominated the battle. A distant shot rang across the lawn, and echoed from the cold gray walls of the castle-like building. The rescued men looked at one another. Only Cliff knew what it meant.
The Shadow had met the henchman at the gate. The last of the mob of evildoers had met his match. Swallowed in the mountain night, The Shadow had finished the only enemy who remained to menace the safety of the freed prisoners.
Cliff fancied that he could hear the faint tones of a far-away laugh — a long, gibing peal of weird mirth that blended into nothingness.
The Shadow's triumph was complete!
Dead men were living now!