The menace of the startling eyes was gone; but it brought no comfort to Cleve Branch. Green Eyes, too, had departed. Turning his head, Cleve saw the heavy door descend.
The final thud of that barrier was like a knell of doom. The last hope faded from Cleve’s closing eyes.
Two men remained. Foy, The Slayer; and Foo Chow, the witness.
This was to be the room of death! A traitor to the Wu-Fan was to die!
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HAND OF FOY
FOY was gloating fiendishly as he stooped above the prostrate form of Cleve Branch. The sight of a helpless victim was one that this insidious monster relished.
Foo Chow, cold and observant, was a menace also. In neither of those glaring faces could Cleve see a sign of mercy.
Foy’s right hand came from his robe. It held a wicked-looking knife, sharp-pointed and long of blade.
Speaking in his native tongue, the Chinese slayer addressed Foo Chow. He passed the knife to Foo Chow, and the actor examined it. He returned the knife to Foy.
The slayer seemed in no hurry to do his work. Usually silent, he was loquacious now. His quaintly intonated voice was explaining to Foo Chow that the art of the death thrust was as well known in America as in China — by those who had studied it so cunningly as had Foy.
Cleve could not understand the meaning of the words; but there was something in their inflection that made him realize their malice. Foo Chow listened, unmoved.
Foy crouched low. He placed his hand above Cleve’s heart, and seemed to be choosing the exact place for this thrust — a perfect thrust that Foo Chow would long remember. This, Foy had said, was to be a model stroke — one which Foo Chow would be proud to witness.
The pointed blade poised motionless, a foot above Cleve’s breast. Cleve could not see it, but he sensed its presence.
He had divined, from Foy’s attitude, that the slayer intended to perform a quick, effective murder. That, at least, would be better than a death by torture.
One lone, wild thought came into Cleve’s maddened brain. That thought was of The Shadow — the strange man from the dark, who twice had saved him from death.
Seeking to forget the knife above, Cleve rolled his head and stared in each direction.
There were no shadows in this room. The queer, flickering illumination came from some hidden source. All the floor was the same dull hue. The walls were straight and barren. Only the door offered hope.
Cleve stared toward it, hopelessly. If that barrier could only move upward to admit the only man who could make a rescue here!
But the door did not move. Low, sinister whispers made Cleve stare upward. He saw the gloating face of Foy, with its cruel lips uttering words to the witness. Foo Chow stooped and looked at Cleve’s body, to note the exact spot where Foy said the deadly knife would go.
Up came the hand of Foy. The blade glimmered its message of death. The hand lowered and swung upward again.
Cleve’s bulging eyes were amazed as they saw the knife fly backward from Foy’s hand, as the slayer’s arm was at the top of its swing.
With a swift, incredible leap, Foy flung himself across Cleve’s body. The hands of the slayer seized the throat of Foo Chow and hurled the actor writhing on the floor.
Cleve could not understand. Foo Chow had not spoken; yet Foy was attacking him!
The struggle was swiftly ended. Foo Chow was motionless. Foy crouched above the body of this victim, whom he had taken before he chose to deal with Cleve.
What was the purpose of this odd attack?
Had Foy gone mad? Had he chosen to be alone when he dealt the death thrust that would end Cleve’s life?
The sinister slayer was picking up his knife; he was coming back to Cleve. The helpless man closed his eyes in agony. He could not bear to see that glittering blade rise again.
There was pressure at his feet. Cleve felt his body being rolled over. He moved his feet, and found that the thongs were gone from his ankles — although their cutting pressure still could be felt.
Now the knife slashed the thongs that bound his wrists. Another cut; the gag was loose. Firm arms were helping Cleve to his feet.
Bewildered, he tottered, scarcely able to stand, and he stared at the face of Foy. The man was no longer crouching. His figure had enlarged. Tall, slender, and erect, he was Foy no longer. Only his face appeared to be the face of Foy!
The Shadow!
LIKE a flash, the explanation came to Cleve. It all went back to that night at Darley’s.
He remembered the certain shot that had felled Foy — a shot fired by The Shadow. Why had Cleve doubted the marksmanship of that firm hand that had aimed so often and so perfectly at the Sun Kew!
The single shot at Darley’s had killed Foy. The evil Chinaman had not escaped. His dead body had been removed — by The Shadow!
Last night at Ling Soo’s! That shadow on the floor. A shadow, long and weird, with no one there but Ling Soo and Foy.
That shadow had belonged to Foy — not to Foy himself, but to the man posing as Foy!
Incredible though it seemed, this was the truth. The Shadow had played the part of Foy so perfectly that he had even deceived Ling Soo.
Harbored in the very haunt of Ling Soo, The Shadow, as Foy, had been admitted to the inner circle of the Wu-Fan!
Perhaps he had learned the secrets of the order; perhaps he knew the insidious schemes that brewed tonight; perhaps he knew the identity of Green Eyes!
But The Shadow did not speak. Dwindling, he again became the sinister, crouching Foy, so real in his pose that Cleve could not believe his eyes.
With grimaces, this stooping man signaled Cleve toward the door. Faltering, Cleve went in that direction.
The false Foy stood by the wall. The barrier moved upward. Cleve was in the passage, with the form of Foy behind him; and the barrier had closed.
Cleve moved toward the door that led to the exit through the box in the theater. His companion stopped him.
Cleve looked down at the crouching form. On the floor he saw its shadow — long and amazing. This, alone, was the only proof that the man beside him was not Foy.
The crouching man drew Cleve through an opening that had appeared in the wall. There, in a dim, narrow passage, Cleve heard whispered instructions.
“Through the passage — up the steps — then to the right — through the curtained door — into the hallway outside of Ling Soo’s inner room—”
The rest was plain. Cleve saw the way to safety. A firm hand thrust him forward.
From the end of the passage, Cleve turned to glance behind him. He caught one last glimpse of Foy through the closing door.
There were barriers ahead, but Cleve could pass them. A simple movement of The Shadow’s hand had shown Cleve the way to find the secret catches.
Cleve reached the head of the stairs. He was in total darkness. He felt a barrier ahead, but an opening to the right.
Knowing his location, he was sure that the hidden door before him led into the inner room where Ling Soo might be. To the right, the passage would lead to that door behind the curtain — the very door against which Cleve had huddled, the night that he had spied on Ling Soo and Joseph Darley.
This was his way to the hallway; then the anteroom; and finally the elevator. This roundabout exit from the secret den could not be watched.
The Shadow might be following; or he might have left by the theater. Perhaps he had assumed his garb of black!
These were problems upon which it was useless to ponder. For Cleve could only remember his instructions and another whispered phrase which had been The Shadow’s final utterance:
“Pung-Shoon — tonight!”
The words meant worlds to Cleve. They were the one inkling to what the Wu-Fan might be doing.