The leader of the vigilantes laughed. He thrust the girl aside. Henry Arnaud offered no resistance. A look of puzzlement appeared upon his face. He quietly awaited the bidding of these captors.
"We want you," said the leader gruffly. "Come along quietly. You and the girl, both. Nothing's going to happen to you if you behave yourself."
Henry Arnaud walked calmly forward, the leader striding beside him, his revolver pressed close to his captive. Martha Delmar was protesting. The other two men were dragging her in spite of her struggles. A hand was thrust in front of the girl's mouth, to prevent an outcry.
For Martha was trying to scream the truth. She knew the ways of vigilantes.
Outside the door, other men would be waiting. They would assassinate Henry Arnaud the moment that he stepped through the door. The man would be between two fires.
The leader of the trio had Henry Arnaud at his mercy. The other men were holding their guns, but the girl was taxing all their efforts.
Arnaud, had he resisted, would have been shot on the instant. Martha, however, was a different matter. She was not to die. The brutal killing of a girl would turn public sympathy against these vigilantes. Arnaud and his captor were nearing the half-opened door. The chief of the vigilantes urged the wounded man to one side. He wanted Martha to be dragged out first. He shot a quick, wary glance, to see that they were coming.
That was the movement which Arnaud had been peacefully awaiting. In an instant, the quiet, deliberate form of Henry Arnaud had become the swift, active Shadow.
His right fist swung upward. It caught the startled leader squarely on the chin. The vigilante toppled backward with a gargling gasp. The Shadow was upon him. With one quick grasp, he plucked the gun from the vigilante's nerveless hand.
The other men had dropped the girl to meet the menace. One raised his hand to fire.
Martha was upon him, clawing fiercely. She thrust his arm away. The second man was slower.
His arm was swinging toward The Shadow, who was kneeling on the floor.
A quick shot came from The Shadow's gun. Down went the vigilante. The man whom Martha had attacked was bringing his forearm downward, aiming the revolver. Martha had gripped his shoulder, but his free wrist was trying to strike the girl senseless with the weapon.
His head and body were obscured by Martha's form; only his hand, with its gleaming gun, was visible above the girl's head. It was toward that hand that The Shadow fired his second shot. His true aim found the mark. The descending wrist dropped, and the gun fell against Martha's shoulder as it clattered to the floor.
Now came the new menace. Shots were being fired from without. From places where they were in hiding, four more men leaped forward. One spotted the tall form of Henry Arnaud through the door. He fired, but the shot was wild.
The attackers were clambering toward the porch. With quick, instinctive action, The Shadow swung forward to drag Martha to a spot of safety, for the girl was standing stupefied beside her ex-captor, who was groveling on the floor.
In seizing the girl, The Shadow used his left arm. The sudden pain that shot through his shoulder made him falter.
The issue was in the balance. Four men, outside in the dark, dropped behind the outer rail of the porch, their forms visible from the street, but not from the lighted house. Could The Shadow swing the petrified girl to safety?
Alone, he could have beaten back this attack. Alone, he could have dropped to cover.
Had the girl retained her wits, she could have helped by escaping. But her nerves had weakened under this terrible strain.
It was a race with death, and The Shadow, weakened though he was, gained his objective.
With his right arm he fairly hurled the girl into the corner of the room, away from the open door.
With a plunging leap, he dove for the cover of the stairway.
Bullets whizzed by him, but they were late. The Shadow reached his goal — the gun — and pointed it through the posts of the banister. The shot clipped the gun hand of a man on the porch.
The Shadow was in a place of safety. Here he could hold out against his foemen. But he had only three bullets left. He was forced to harbor his supply, for his enemies were keeping under cover, firing quick, chance shots to keep The Shadow at bay.
The Shadow did not act. It seemed as though he was waiting for something that he had expected. His keen eyes were peering toward the street. He saw a sedan drawing up beside the curb. He fired two quick shots; then paused and fired a third. The bullets found no targets, for the vigilantes were laying low. They saw The Shadow rise, as though about to flee.
They knew that his ammunition was exhausted. They did not know that those last futile shots had been a signal!
Up they rose, four together, the man whose right hand had been clipped brandishing a revolver in his left. They started for the steps, bent on stopping the flight of their enemy. As their forms became clustered in front of the light of the open door, a staccato popping of revolver shots came from the car beside the curb.
Down went one attacker — a second, and a third. The fourth staggered on. He raised his hand to fire, but The Shadow had swept in to meet him. The Shadow's arm smashed its revolver against the last man's wrist. Then, as the fellow faltered, The Shadow smote the back of his head a vicious, stunning blow. Down fell the last of the four.
The room was silent. The revolver shots from the parked automobile had ended. Distant shouts were coming through the air. The Shadow turned to Martha, and his face became the quiet countenance of Henry Arnaud. The girl stared in amazement.
"It is seven minutes after nine" — the voice of Henry Arnaud was speaking, as the man glanced calmly at his watch — "and my men are here — later than I anticipated. They are waiting for you in the car. Harry Vincent and Clifford Marsland. They have come here from New York. Go with them. You must not stay here."
Martha nodded. She understood The Shadow's purpose. People would think there had been other vigilantes — that she had been abducted, and her companion slain. The gleaming eyes were bidding her to go.
Hurriedly, the girl ran to the door — down the walk, to that waiting car. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Henry Arnaud's form silhouetted in the doorway, his right hand giving a signal. The door of the car was open. Martha was drawn in. The car shot into gear and whirled along the street. Shouts were approaching. Men were coming along the street. The Shadow quietly closed the door and locked it. He calmly picked up a revolver that one of the wounded men was trying to grasp with his left hand. He chose another weapon. He pocketed both guns, and strode rapidly toward the closet beneath the stairway.
The leader of the vigilantes stirred. He sat up and rubbed his jaw. He heard loud hammering at the door. He rose and dashed toward the rear of the house, anxious to escape before police arrived. The door was yielding. Someone was crashing the glass in a front window.
From behind the stairway stepped a black figure — The Shadow, garbed in his cloak and hat.
He stood there, calmly, a strange, imposing figure. Then, from his hidden lips, came a long, sardonic laugh. It was the mirth of justice, crying its triumph over friends of crime.
Swinging swiftly, The Shadow swept away, through a door that led toward another room. The entering men found only a crowd of masked ruffians sprawled on the floor — some dead, the others very badly wounded. They saw no sign of the black avenger.
For The Shadow, bent on further action, had vanished — gone into the gloom of the night!