Ten minutes — fifteen — twenty. All was silence where The Shadow lay. Occasionally, the rumble of a passing car sounded from the street outside; at other intervals, clicking footsteps of pedestrians came from the sidewalk.
Then came a different noise from without. A cab had pulled up in front of the door through which The Shadow had entered. A serious-faced young man alighted. He paid the driver; the cab rolled away.
The man turned to the door in the building. He pressed a key in the lock. He was surprised as the door yielded. He entered and stopped short to keep from stumbling over the form that lay on the floor.
This arrival had found The Shadow. Stooping in the gloom, he bent over the black-garbed figure. A surprised gasp came from his lips as his hand felt the bloody wrinkles of the cloak.
The Shadow had escaped The Crime Master’s trap; yet his flight had left him on the verge of death. Upon one man, whose timely return had now occurred, rested the fate of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIV
THE NEW CAMPAIGN
ONE week had passed. A light was burning in the ground-floor room where The Shadow’s flight had ended. Revealed by the illumination, the place showed as a small waiting room. Beyond it was the open door of a doctor’s office.
A sober-faced young man was seated at a desk. He was making a telephone call. His voice was quiet and unmistakably professional in tone.
“Yes,” he was saying. “I shall be here to receive the delivery. At once — that is right… Be sure of the name and address… Yes… The name is Doctor Rupert Sayre…”
His call finished, the young physician arose. He crossed the office and opened a rear door. He stepped into the hallway of a small apartment that connected with the office.
A door was ajar near the end of hall. Sayre went in that direction. He stepped into a dimly lighted room where a tall form lay propped in a bed. Doctor Sayre stood looking at the pale face which showed upon the pillow.
The visage was a remarkable one. Its present color was almost the whiteness of marble. This was appropriate; for the countenance looked like a chiseled face of stone. Firm, steady features were predominated by an aquiline nose that gave the face a hawklike appearance.
In repose, the countenance seemed weary. This impression changed as the eyes opened. From the sides of the hawkish nose blazed orbs that seemed to sparkle fire. They were eyes that bespoke unquenchable power and determination.
The dominating gaze exerted a command. Doctor Sayre drew up a chair and seated himself beside the bed. He detected an inquiring look in the burning eyes. Quietly, the physician spoke in answer.
“Your strength is returning,” asserted Sayre. “All delirium has passed. Conversation will not exhaust you.”
A thin smile appeared upon the lips which had hitherto been straight beneath the hawklike nose. The expression, like the gaze, seemed questioning.
“Perhaps,” suggested Sayre, as he viewed the smile, “it would be wise for me to talk at first. Would you like me to review my impression after your arrival here?”
A nod from the head upon the pillows.
“Very well,” resumed Sayre. “One week ago tonight, I happened to return home a bit earlier than usual. That, I may remark, was a most fortunate occurrence. When I opened the door of my office, I found a body upon the floor. It was that of a man wearing a black cloak and a slouch hat. He was alive — but his heartbeat was feeble.
“Imagine my amazement when I discovered who this personage was. Beneath the slouch hat, I found the features of Lamont Cranston, a prominent New Yorker who has long been a friend of mine. Cranston” — Sayre’s tone was impersonal, although he gazed directly at his patient — “was in a most serious condition. He had three bullet wounds; he had evidently suffered gashes by falling through glass; between loss of blood and heavy bruises, it was a miracle that he had managed to reach my office under his own locomotion.”
The smile still showed upon the thin lips. The head upon the pillows delivered another nod.
“What surprised me most,” declared Doctor Sayre, “was the garb which Cranston had been wearing. Your cloak and hat, my friend, are hanging in this closet. It was because of them that I kept you here, instead of sending you to a hospital. It occurred to me that you might wish to preserve your condition a secret.”
So speaking, Rupert Sayre approached the closet and opened the door. Eyes from the bed surveyed the battered hat and the blood-clotted cloak.
“ONCE — not so very long ago” — Sayre paused reminiscently as he, too, studied the hat and cloak — “my life was saved by the timely efforts of a being who wore this very garb. Since then, I have had occasional contact with the mysterious personage called The Shadow.
“I may say that I have two powerful friends. One is a multimillionaire — a famous globe-trotter named Lamont Cranston. The other is a miraculous being known as The Shadow. Sometimes, I have wondered. I have identified the two. I have thought that Lamont Cranston might be the person who poses as The Shadow. On further deliberation, I have decided that it is The Shadow who sometimes chooses to play the part of Lamont Cranston.
“This belief” — Sayre swung toward the bed as he spoke — “has been mentioned to no one. I am a man who believes in loyalty. I shall always show that trait to its fullest whenever I have dealings with either friend: Lamont Cranston or The Shadow.”
There was a table by The Shadow’s bedside. Sayre opened a deep drawer and made a gesture.
“Here,” he declared, “are weapons which I take it are your property.” The Shadow viewed the automatics that lay in view. “This telephone” — Sayre raised the instrument from the floor and rested it on the table — “is for your sole use. As your physician, I recommend only that you do not attempt to leave your bed for at least another week.”
Turning toward the door, Sayre stopped just before he left the room. He viewed the appreciative smile that showed on the thin lips of Lamont Cranston; then added a statement.
“I can obtain copies of newspapers,” said the physician, “dating from Tuesday last. Would they interest you?”
“Yes.” The reply came in a quiet tone — the voice that characterized Lamont Cranston. “How soon can you bring them?”
“Within an hour,” promised Sayre. “I am waiting for the delivery of some medicine; after that, I have an outside call. I shall bring the newspapers when I return.”
The door closed, marking Sayre’s departure. Lamont Cranston’s face seemed to lose some of its pallor. The bed spread moved — a long, pajama-garbed arm came into view. This was the left arm; the right, heavily bandaged, lay across Cranston’s chest.
The stretching hand picked up the French telephone and carried it toward the bed. Cranston’s quiet tones gave a number. A pause; then came a solemn response across the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.” The voice was Cranston’s no longer. It was the weird whisper of The Shadow.
For a moment, there was no reply. Evidently Burbank had been startled by the return of his missing chief. Then came the contact man’s words:
“Report from Marsland.”
The Shadow listened. As Burbank’s voice continued, the blazing eyes seemed to sparkle with new splendor. When the contact man’s statements had ended, The Shadow’s whisper again sounded in the room:
“Instructions to all agents. Ready for constant duty. Send frequent reports…”
The Shadow’s voice continued. Heartened by Burbank’s opening report, the recovered fighter was starting his new campaign. Even though helpless, so far as his own individual action was concerned, The Shadow was determined to fight The Crime Master’s schemes.