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These objects went into the briefcase. Closing the grip, Cranston strolled to the telephone. In his quiet tones, he called the desk.

“I am checking out,” he informed. “Charge me for a single night… Yes, this is Mr. Cranston speaking. Send a porter for my luggage… The room will be open…”

The call completed, The Shadow held the hook depressed. Then he called a number; when a response occurred, he spoke again, still in the quiet tones of Cranston.

“Airport?” he questioned. “This is Lamont Cranston speaking… Yes, I am back in Washington… Yes, I am ready to use the plane I left here… All ready? Good. I shall be there within a half hour…”

The porter had not arrived when The Shadow’s call was finished. Picking up his briefcase, the tall stranger walked from the room in the leisurely fashion that was characteristic of Lamont Cranston. Reaching the lobby, he approached the desk and passed a railroad ticket to the clerk.

“Send my luggage to the Union Depot,” he ordered. “Check it through to the Pennsylvania Station in New York. Mail the stubs to my New Jersey address.”

“Very well, Mr. Cranston.”

After laying his bill at the cashier’s cage, the departing guest strolled from the lobby. Briefcase in hand, he entered a taxi outside the hotel. He gave a quiet order to the driver. The taximan nodded and started the cab.

Headed toward a bridge across the Potomac, the taxi started on a swift journey to the airport — the destination given. Street lamps showed a faint smile upon the lips of the passenger who held the briefcase. Then, like an echoed whisper, a soft tone of subdued mockery came from the unmoving mouth.

The laugh of The Shadow! Audible only to the personage who uttered it, the repressed tone carried a presaging note. It was a prediction of strange events that lay ahead; a weird token of coming adventure.

A message to The Shadow! It had been received before to-night. The Shadow had discovered it a few days back; and he had acted in preparation. Absent from New York — the logical city for the appointment — The Shadow had ordered trusted agents to do preliminary work. The word from Rutledge Mann had told him that their investigations were completed. Acquainted with certain important facts, The Shadow had communicated directly with Room 850 at the Paragon Hotel, New York.

HALF an hour after Lamont Cranston’s departure from the Washington hotel, a broad-winged monoplane took off from the airport across the Potomac.

Rising high above the glow of the nation’s capital, it zoomed northward along the airway to New York.

The Shadow, mysterious master of the night, was heading toward Manhattan. He was on his way to perform an unprecedented task. From the darkness that enshrouded him, The Shadow would soon emerge to meet the bold man who had summoned him to conference in New York.

Whether he was to meet friend or foe, The Shadow was prepared to answer the challenge of this unaccountable meeting. Before midnight, he would know the reason for the strange request that had been issued to him.

CHAPTER II

THE SHADOW’S FORAY

THE Paragon Hotel was a decrepit structure that rose gloomily from a side street in Manhattan. Decadent for several years, it had become a place of poor repute. Its rooms were sparsely occupied; little account was kept of the guests. Although the neighborhood was fairly respectable, the Paragon was a hotel that no longer catered to the elect.

Two hours after The Shadow had begun his air trip from Washington, a young man appeared in the dismal lobby of the Paragon Hotel. He entered the elevator in inconspicuous fashion and rode up to the eighth floor. Leaving the elevator, he moved to a gloomy corridor, cast a wary look and headed for a room halfway along the hall. The door, which bore the number 847, was unlocked. The young man entered a darkened room and closed the door behind him.

“Harry?” came a whispered question.

“Right,” was the young man’s response. “What’s new, Cliff?”

“Both in the room,” answered the first speaker. “The tough looking fellow is Pug Halfin, all right; but I don’t know the smooth chap that’s with him.”

“All right, Cliff. Slide out. I’ll keep watch.”

The man who had been in the room made for the door. His square-shouldered form showed as he opened the barrier. Then the door closed and the later arrival remained alone. The watch had been changed.

These two men were agents of The Shadow. Harry Vincent, an experienced operative, had just replaced Cliff Marsland. Harry had been longer in The Shadow’s service than had Cliff; the latter, however, had the advantage of being in close contact with the affairs of the underworld.

HARRY VINCENT, posted here to watch Room 850, had been the first to spy the occupants across the hall — one, a hard-faced fellow who had taken Room 850 under the name of Bates; the other, a suave individual who was not registered. It was Cliff Marsland, however, who had peered through the transom to identify “Bates” as “Pug” Halfin, a one-time mobleader well known in the badlands of New York.

These facts had been submitted in reports to Rutledge Mann. While awaiting The Shadow’s orders, Cliff and Harry had continued their relayed vigil. Both had worked from under cover; neither had been observed by either Pug Halfin or his unknown companion.

Seating himself in the corner of the darkened room, Harry put in a telephone call. This was to Burbank, The Shadow’s contact man. Harry was terse and non-committal in his statements. He was merely reporting that he was on duty; and doing it in a fashion that indicated nothing more than a call to a friend. It was Cliff, now outside the hotel, who would give Burbank a more detailed report.

The situation, however, presented nothing new. Harry and Cliff had been on watch for three nights; since Cliff’s early identification of Pug Halfin, nothing new had developed.

While Harry Vincent was engaged in his call to Burbank, a peculiar phenomenon took place. Without Harry noticing it, the door of the room opened inward. No light came from the corridor, for a blackened shape filled the opened portion of the doorway. It was not until he arose from his chair that Harry Vincent realized he was not alone. The token of another presence came in a whispered tone.

The Shadow!

Harry was startled by the unexpected arrival of his chief. He could see no one in the darkness. That, however, was not unusual. Enshrouded by gloom, The Shadow had a marked ability for rendering himself invisible.

“Remain on duty,” came the whispered order. “Timed report. Zero.”

Nodding in the darkness, Harry drew a watch from his pocket. He pressed the stem and held it in readiness, awaiting the next word.

“Set,” came The Shadow’s whisper.

A slight click from Harry’s hand was answered by a similar sound from the spot where The Shadow stood. Two stop-watches, set at the same beginning, were ticking off identical seconds.

Something swished softly in the darkness. Harry saw the door move inward. He noted blocking blackness; then the door was closed. The Shadow had started forth. Harry drew a chair to the door and stood upon it, keeping watch through the transom. There was no sign of The Shadow. Already, the master sleuth had passed along the corridor, beyond the door of Room 850.

THE corridor terminated in an exit to a fire escape. This was the course that The Shadow had taken. Room 850 was the last door on the left. Room 852 was one door inward; and it was catercornered to 847, from which Harry Vincent was spying.

The Shadow had passed both doors. A shrouded figure in the darkness of the fire exit, he was looking along the brick wall to the left. His keen eyes spied what he required — a cornice jotting from the bricks.