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The man who had clipped Marquette was trying to recover. Half up, he aimed for The Shadow’s fleeting form. His gun barked uselessly. The Shadow, a parting laugh bursting from his lips, had swung through the opened panel to the passage.

THEN came a burst of shots from the outer door. Hamilton and the Feds had arrived. They clipped the rising crook and two others who still came up to offer fight. The Shadow had heard the clatter of newcomers. That was why he had so quickly swung from view.

Joe Cardona was with the Federal men as they took possession of the strong room. Behind them was Senator Ross Releston. The gray-haired statesman stared at the scene of carnage. He watched Hamilton and another prop up Vic Marquette.

“I’m all right,” growled Vic. “Just a nip — that was all, boys. Good work, Delka — and you, Cardona. We plastered them, didn’t we?”

“We did our part,” began Delka. “But—”

He stopped as he caught a nudge from Cardona. A glance at the detective, then at Marquette, told Delka that neither wanted mention of their rescuer. For a moment Delka was perplexed; then the truth dawned on him. He had seen The Shadow aboard the Zouave. He realized that both Marquette and Cardona must have also seen the cloaked avenger in the past. Like Marquette and Cardona, Delka was one of those who owed their lives to the protection of this mighty friend.

Shrouding blackness was The Shadow’s habitat. The mystery that surrounded him was part of the strength that he possessed. It was up to those who understood to play the game as The Shadow wanted it. His ways must remain unknown.

Nodding, Delka strolled away to speak with the other two Federal men. Joe Cardona followed him. The detective was pocketing his revolver. The Scotland Yard man did the same. A group of four, they approached Senator Releston.

Then another entered. Caleb Wesdren had arrived from above. Releston turned to speak to him; to tell of what had happened. Wesdren looked about; he saw Clink Huron’s body. Deliberately, he strode to the entrance of the vault.

The others watched him stare at the untouched coffers. They wondered at the strangeness of his actions.

They saw Wesdren stoop to look past the opened grating; then gasps came from all as the black-haired man whirled suddenly about.

In his fist, Wesdren held a revolver. Insanely he brandished the weapon as a warning. He spat a vicious challenge as he swung it from man to man, catching all off guard.

“Fools!” shouted Wesdren. “My secrecy has failed! But not my game! Look behind you! See what awaits you!”

“Get him!” cried Marquette, from the floor.

DELKA and Cardona made a dive together. Wesdren fired; his bullet singed Delka’s hip. Then the two were upon the owner of the vault room, fighting to get Wesdren’s gun, battling a would-be murderer who fought with fury.

The others swung about. Two Feds brought out their guns as they pushed Senator Releston behind them; the pair by Vic Marquette came to their feet. Clatter from the stairway told that they were too late.

Wesdren’s cry had been a signal for a trio on the stairs. New crooks bounded into view with leveled guns, ready to beat all comers to the opening shots. The cause looked hopeless for the men of the law.

Then flame burst from the darkened passage that had played so great a part in tonight’s attack. Roaring shots were thunderous from that low-ceilinged path of darkness. The foremost entrants toppled.

The third man aimed above his falling fellows. He fired at a form that he saw coming; a black-cloaked figure that swept out to the fringe of light. An automatic flashed a split-second after the crook’s wild shot.

The last minion dived to the floor, but the shout that resounded was not from his lips.

This cry, amid gun echoes, came from Caleb Wesdren. Powerful in his frenzy, Wesdren had downed Cardona with a savage stroke from his revolver. With a furious twist, he had broken loose from Delka.

Clear away from the vault, he was aiming point-blank for that figure at the passage entrance.

The Shadow wheeled. Even as he swung, he fired. Wesdren had gained a perfect aim; but he had not calculated on The Shadow’s swiftness. That shot from motion stopped the square-jawed man.

Revealed as the master crook, Wesdren had met The Shadow. Like other masters of crime, he had lost through that encounter. As Delka covered Wesdren’s rigid form; as secret service men swung about to do the same, the square-jawed plotter sagged. Gun hand lowered. Wesdren sighed as he twisted to the floor.

A solemn laugh came startling from the stillness. Its tones resounded, rising; then broke into sardonic mirth. It was mockery of the efforts made by men of crime — The Shadow’s final verdict of the doom that he had proclaimed.

Men turned about to stare in bewilderment. Delivered from doom, they looked for that rescuer who had lingered to meet the aftermath of first invasion. But The Shadow was gone — out through the passage by which he had arrived.

Dying echoes faded as a token of The Shadow’s departure. But the weird notes of that laughter still rang in the ears of those who had been saved from death. Weird, outlandish in its tone of victory, that mirth could not he forgotten. Listeners had heard the triumphant laugh of The Shadow.

It meant deliverance to all but one. That lone hearer was Caleb Wesdren, coughing out his last breath on the burnished floor. A venomous gasp hissed from Wesdren’s lips: then the super-plotter breathed no longer.

An author of murder, a master of deep-plotted crime, Caleb Wesdren had gone to a deserved end, doomed by The Shadow’s might.

CHAPTER XX. FACTS OF THE PAST

ONE hour had passed since The Shadow’s triumph over the hordes of Caleb Wesdren. In the office above the strong room, Senator Releston was seated behind the huge desk. Vic Marquette, shoulder heavily bandaged, was propped in an easy-chair. They were awaiting someone.

A sound from the front of the house. A few moments hater, Hamilton entered and nodded to the senator.

“They’re here with Jollister,” said Hamilton.

Arriving footsteps. Jollister stalked into the office, accompanied by Eric Delka and Joe Cardona. The vault expert delivered a smile as he accepted Releston’s extended hand.

“Tell us about it, Jollister,” urged the senator.

“There’s not much to tell,” returned Jollister, as he seated himself. “But what there is, will prove most astounding. You know, it was purely my own way of doing things that caused me to leave here without speaking again to Wesdren. I had no idea—”

“Wesdren’s endeavor,” interposed Releston, “was to frame you, Jollister. Even if you had been eavesdropping you would not be culpable.”

“But I was not eavesdropping, assured Jollister. “It was purely chance that brought me to the door just as Wesdren opened it.”

Joe Cardona smiled grimly. He said nothing. He knew the reason for the turning knob that he had seen while in conference with Wesdren. The Shadow had been beyond that door; he had closed it because of Jollister’s approach.

“I went to my apartment,” declared Jollister. “I called for a taxicab to take me to the Union Depot. While I was peering from the window, I saw the door open in the reflection. I turned about to face a strange person clad in black.”

“Instinctively. I sprang against the intruder. I remembered a short struggle in which I was overpowered. When next I gained recollection, I was in a hotel room, lying in an easy-chair. Another man was present.”

“He did not tell me his identity; but I knew he was not the fighter who had invaded my apartment. But he explained exactly what had happened. That black-clad stranger had come to my apartment to warn me against danger. I, like a fool, had battled him.”

“Two crooks had been deputed to seize me and carry me away in a high-powered motorcar. So the only course my rescuer had was to overpower me. So the young chap said, and I believed him. Then he told me where I was.”