there as he struck a match hastily and held the yellow flame to the end of his cigarette. He didn't attempt to cup the flame. He held it so that the light shone full into the face of the pedestrian, who was now scowling at him with a look of frowning suspicion.
The man was Spud Wilson. No doubt of it at all. Narrow, pinched eyes, thin
slash of a mouth, a pale, bumpy forehead. His words as well as his appearance proved The Shadow's deduction.
He said in a low, menacing whisper: "What's the idea of staring at me, mister? You're not a city dick or I'd know you. What are you - a government man?"
"Not at all. I'm merely a private citizen borrowing a match. If you'll excuse me, I'll be moving along. Thank you for the accommodation."
Wilson's hand reached out, caught Cranston by the wrist. "Wait a minute, pal! You ain't kidding me! What's the idea of trailing me?"
His hand jerked from under his coat. The Shadow saw the dull gleam of an automatic. He hadn't expected so savage a move from a confidence man.
No flame spat from the muzzle of the pistol, but as Wilson pivoted on his toes, the barrel of his weapon whizzed like a glittering club and struck The Shadow a glancing blow on the temple that sent his hat flying and made him stagger off balance.
The next instant The Shadow's own gun was in his hand. But the strangely unexpected assault of Spud Wilson was followed by a terrified and equally strange flight. He whirled away, ran straight for his car at the curb.
He was behind the wheel, his foot fumbling toward the starter pedal, before The Shadow could gather his muscles and sprint across the sidewalk.
The brief delay in pursuit was all that saved The Shadow's life. He saw the sinuous length of wire attached to the starter pedal. He saw the wire jerk as Wilson's foot jammed down hard.
The Shadow threw himself face downward on the sidewalk. As he did so the car, the curb - the very street itself - erupted into a pillar of flame. The thunderous roar of an explosion filled the air like the vicious boom of a field
gun.
Blinded, his ears buzzing from the enormous wind-pressure of the blast, The Shadow groaned. He could feel a white-hot pain in his side and knew dully that a flying chunk of metal from the dynamited automobile had ripped past his body just below the curve of his ribs. He could feel the warm gush of blood, as
he rolled dazedly to his knees and staggered to his feet.
A smoking heap of wreckage lay scattered along the blackened pavement. A few bloody tatters of clothing were all that was left of the unfortunate Spud Wilson. Some one had planned for that desperate crook to die! Some one who had deliberately planted dynamite in the parked car and wired the starter to a detonating cap!
THE SHADOW divined all this as he fell weakly to the pavement and again clawed himself to his feet. He heard the screams of women, the hoarse shouts of
terrified men.
"There he goes! That's one of them now!"
The yell restored The Shadow's ebbing strength. He had no desire to he halted and questioned. Around the corner was his own car, with a suitcase inside that contained the complete disguise of The Shadow - that would change him from Lamont Cranston to his original identity. To be caught now would be to
have his secret betrayed, his mysterious identity forever ruined.
He raced desperately around the corner. Before the wildly excited neighborhood knew clearly what was happening, a sleek coupe was vanishing in a droning whine of high power.
A voice screamed thinly far behind him: "A Jersey car! Get the license number!"
The Shadow laughed.
His hand reached toward the dash and jerked at a small knob that looked like a choke. It wasn't. Apparently nothing happened. But The Shadow was leaving nothing to chance. By his quick gesture he had changed the license number on the rear of the car. The plate was no longer the same. It was now yellow and black. A New York license!
The Shadow's jerk at the knob in the dash had allowed the fake plate to slip downward from beneath a patent-leather covering just above where the real license had been suspended.
The Shadow was no longer Lamont Cranston. A black slouch hat covered his forehead and shaded the piercing eyes. Black gloves covered his lean hands. In spite of the throbbing agony of his wound, he had slipped into his disguise with sure dexterity. His safety now depended on speed and cleverness. He knew he had to reach a safe haven before he collapsed.
He slackened speed. Biting his lips to keep from fainting, he drove as fast as he dared to the spot he had in mind from the very moment he knew he was
hurt.
His goal was a dark doorway on a quiet and sedate street in residential Manhattan. He shut off his motor and locked the car, taking the key with him.
Staggering he managed to climb a short flight of steps and press a bell button.
Over the bell was a small bronze plate that read: "RUPERT SAYRE, M.D."
The Shadow felt unconsciousness flooding over him. But he had will enough to turn with a last effort and satisfy himself that no one had observed him leave the car at the curb and climb the stoop to the doctor's private office.
It was his final coherent thought. His body crumpled in a limp heap.
THE SHADOW was lying thus when the door opened. A keen-faced man peered, saw the unconscious figure and uttered a quick exclamation.
"Good heavens! It's - it's he!"
He turned and shouted a tense order to some one inside the door. "Quick!
Give me a hand! Get this man inside in a hurry!"
A man in the white jacket of an intern appeared hastily. He said no word at all. He was too well-trained for that.
Together he and Doctor Rupert Sayre lifted The Shadow and carried him inside the quiet house. The door shut with a discreet click. For a few moments,
there was silence outside. Then again the door opened. This time, the intern in
the white coat appeared alone. He carried a basin of warm water, a sponge and soap.
There were bloody smears on the stone where The Shadow had fallen. They disappeared without delay.
Rupert Sayre was more than an alert young surgeon. He was a man with a grim hatred for crime and criminals. The Shadow trusted him as one of his most competent agents.
In the gifted hands of Doctor Rupert Sayre the bleeding body of The Shadow
would be given competent treatment under conditions of absolute secrecy.
CHAPTER II
TROUBLE AT SHADELAWN
NO one had noticed the arrival of The Shadow at the modest brownstone office of Doctor Rupert Sayre. But if some one had - and had waited on the sidewalk for two full days in order to witness the manner of The Shadow's departure - that observer would have been a very puzzled man.
For The Shadow never did leave Sayre's office!
The gentleman who departed under cover of darkness on a cold, windy evening had the features of Lamont Cranston. In his hand he carried a light leather bag. Inside it was a black robe, a broad-brimmed slouch hat, gloves and
certain other articles that formed an indispensable part of The Shadow's necessary equipment.
The Shadow walked quietly to a near-by garage, unlocked the coupe in which
he had escaped from the scene of the blast. He drove northward through the city.
His driving was careful, as befits a man who has had a narrow escape from death. The wound in his side had not been as deep or as dangerous as Doctor Sayre had at first feared. The flying fragment of metal from Spud Wilson's dynamited automobile had inflicted a shallow, bloody gouge rather than imbedding itself deeply into the flesh. That fact, plus Sayre's skill and the splendid vitality in The Shadow's lean body, accounted for his miraculous reappearance behind the wheel of his high-powered coupe.
A stiff corsetlike band of adhesive tape made Lamont Cranston's figure sit