To Harvey Chittenden, The Shadow’s surprise attack meant salvation. He could not understand who the rescuer might be; he knew only that rescue had come. Leaping forward to the rail of the porch, the beleaguered man raised his revolver and shot down one gangster whom The Shadow had wounded. A rising fiend tried to clip Harvey at the rail. A bullet from The Shadow silenced the would-be killer.
The lawn was strewn with attackers who would fight no more. The charge was broken. Not a single shot came from the scattered mobsmen as they lay spread about. Harvey, exulting in victory, rushed down the steps and out into the moonlight; then stopped, vainly looking for cover.
The other half of the mob had arrived. Eight men, sweeping from the rear, had circled the house to annihilate Jessup and his two henchmen. They had struck too swiftly for resistance. Only one of the invaders had fallen, while Jessup and his two were dead. Those had been the shots from quarters other than the lawn.
HARVEY CHITTENDEN was cut off from the house. His only fortune lay in the fact that he was not instantly recognized. Seeing the danger, he began to rush across the lawn toward the shore, the seven gangsters suddenly spying him.
All these had circled the building, knowing that those from the shore could cover the side by the grove.
Hence they had not seen The Shadow’s fight. The first sign of the avenger in black came when the leading mobsman raised his revolver and paused to take certain aim at Harvey Chittenden.
Had that finger pressed the trigger, Harvey would have fallen with a bullet in his back. Mildred, from above, screamed out a futile warning.
It was The Shadow, again, who frustrated the cold-blooded killing. A loud roar came from the automatic in his left hand. As the recoil thumped back against the black-garbed arm, the standing gangster slumped crazily to the ground. Another man fired wildly toward Harvey, then paused for better aim. Like the first, he had no chance to place a well-directed shot. The Shadow finished this murderer with a well-placed bullet from his right-hand gun.
With their quarry out of range, the five remaining slayers sprang in widespread formation toward The Shadow. They had seen him vaguely, they could spot the flashes of his pistols. They knew that they had but one man with whom to deal.
They realized the identity of that one man as they swept forward, coming up with glistening revolvers. A strident laugh rang through the night; upon its echoes came the roar of guns that barked like cannons.
“The Shadow!”
The loud, shrill scream came from the lips of a terrified mobsman. An instant later the gangster’s arms swung in the air, and his revolver tumbled from his grasp. He stumbled aimlessly upon the greensward and fell.
Shots whistled through the dark — shots toward the grove — fired by the other gunmen. But these men, rushing up to overpower a single foe, were throwing their lives away. The Shadow, crouching with leveled automatics, replied with perfect, calculated aim. As the foremost gangsters fell to rise no more, the last three of the evil crew broke and fled for the corner of the house.
One staggered, clipped by The Shadow’s following shot. Then, with his taunting laugh ringing clear, the black avenger swept forward in pursuit. Mildred, staring in amazement, saw the swift chase made by this relentless foe of evil. She knew that the last members of the gangster horde could not escape the one who followed them.
Harvey Chittenden realized it, too, as he saw the pursuit. He was lying on the ground beside the shore, where he had fallen. Now, with his revolver in hand, he arose, intent upon going back to the house. But as Harvey stood within the range of moonlight, a shot was fired from several yards away. A bullet seared the sleeve of Harvey’s shirt. Turning with upraised revolver, he saw the author of the shot.
Zachary Chittenden was skulking by the edge of the grove near the shore. He had stepped into the moonlight, unseen by Harvey, and had aimed with intent of ending his brother’s life.
With a frenzied cry, Harvey leaped across the ground, raising his revolver. Zachary was about to fire again; then, in craven fashion, he ducked and started to flee. He slipped on the grass, and before he could escape, Harvey was upon him.
With a frightened squeal, Zachary squirmed away, and ran along the edge of the grove, heading toward the house. Harvey overtook him, threw him on the ground, and grasped his revolver.
MUFFLED shots were sounding from the direction of the cove. The Shadow was dealing justice to the last of the mobsters. Harvey did not hear those shots, so intent was he upon the coward who cringed before him. Mildred, still at the window, watched, too worn with terrible excitement to make a move.
“So this is your work, you cur!” growled Harvey, to his brother. “I expected something like it. Lying back, you sent a mob of killers to get me!”
Zachary was crouching, his hands upraised in fear.
“A bullet through your black heart!” shouted Harvey. “That is what you need. You came here to kill me!”
A sudden defiance came over Zachary Chittenden. Raising his head, he stared fiercely at his brother.
“Why not?” he snarled. “What of you? Where is Walter Pearson? Where is Wilbur? Where is my father? Answer me!”
“What do I care where they are?” demanded Harvey.
“They are dead!” cried Zachary.
“Dead?” Harvey’s question was a jeer. “If they are of your kind — as they have shown themselves to be — that is what they have deserved — death!”
“You know they are dead!” denounced Zachary. “You know they are dead! You know where they died!”
“Where?” questioned Harvey.
“In that grove!” cried Zachary.
“So you know where they died,” said Harvey coldly. “You, a man bent on murder tonight, telling me of others who have died, and where. You — the youngest and meanest of the family — the one who wanted all that he could get. Coming here to end my life after” — Harvey’s note was fierce — “after you have murdered the others who stood in your way!”
“You lie!” screamed Zachary “You lie! You drew Walter Pearson to his death! You lured Wilbur! You are to blame for my father’s death! Now you — you are trying to kill me — the gun is in your hand! Trying to blame me for your crimes; pretending to kill me in self-defense. All was well until you came here — to murder. That is why I came tonight; to put an end to your crimes!”
A look of fierce rage came over Harvey Chittenden’s face. Angrily he raised the revolver, then lowered it. His words burst forth in staccato tone as he voiced his wrath upon Zachary.
“Lies! Lies! You speak lies!” At Harvey’s glare, Zachary cringed and drew away. “You who have lied all your life! Get out! Get out! I give you ten seconds!”
Zachary backed rapidly away. Finding himself beneath the branches of the beeches, he began to sidle toward the lawn.
“Out of my sight!” roared Harvey. “Into the woods before I kill you!”
“No — no” — Zachary was backing away, unconsciously going deep beneath the trees. “No — no—”
Harvey raised his revolver, furiously. Zachary could see his face in the moonlight. Harvey was charging forward. Death was the threat in his eyes. In stark terror, Zachary turned and dashed into the grove, with Harvey in pursuit.
THE menace of the revolver, wielded by a man who had gone mad with rage, was too great for Zachary Chittenden’s terror-stricken mind. No thought of other dangers could overcome that one. He plunged madly through the woods, padding over the brown matting, with Harvey’s vengeful footsteps following him. The pursuit ended suddenly, but Harvey’s voice threw forth a final threat.
Panting, shouting, pleading, Zachary ran on. Harvey, returning to the edge of the beeches stood upon the lawn and glowered toward the trees where Zachary had fled. He could hear those cries becoming fainter and fainter. Then came a distant scream, a vague, fearful sound that wafted through the lonely, blackened corridors beneath the thick-leafed boughs.