Both had guns in readiness while they hastened to put on the spare. They were ready to take to the woods should The Shadow and Dadren appear. As minutes passed, Hildrow began to chuckle.
“Korsch did it,” he announced to his companion. “They’re trapped in the sedan, both of them. Dead, perhaps. But we have no time to return and see. We’ll be on our way inside of three minutes. More important work lies ahead.”
BACK by the shattered bridge, Commander Dadren had completed first-aid upon The Shadow’s wounded shoulder. Though not serious, the wound had bled profusely. The Shadow had held up despite the weakening from loss of blood. The crash; an injured leg — those had been added to the wound.
Endurance had failed at last. Commander Dadren, realizing the amount of blood that his rescuer had lost, was amazed that The Shadow could have kept on to the bridge. As he stared at the pale features which counterfeited those of Stollart, the commander was due for more astonishment.
The Shadow’s eyes began to burn. Dropping his right hand to the ground, he thrust his form up from a reclining position. He reached his feet and began to limp on his weakened leg. Despite the pain, he delivered a soft laugh.
Resting his arm upon Dadren’s shoulder, he raised his right hand slowly and pointed off through the trees. Dadren began to object. The Shadow would not listen.
“Come!” ordered The Shadow, in a quiet, steady tone. “Take up the trail.”
WITH Hildrow, in Washington, The Shadow had lingered while playing the part of Stollart. The trip to the island, once begun, had required a full hour because of its winding, changing course and the bad roads encountered.
More time had elapsed at the cottage. There had been another interval after the crash. A clouding sky was bringing dusk when The Shadow and Dadren reached the end of the jagged road and stumbled to a better though little-traveled highway.
To the left was the way by which The Shadow had come with Hildrow. That was the road which the plotter must have taken. Despite the time lost by the changing of a tire — The Shadow and Dadren had seen the old shoe lying near the jagged road — Hildrow must by now be nearing the capital.
Instead of taking the course to the left, however, The Shadow, leaning heavily on Dadren, urged the commander to the right. Again, The Shadow had made a clever deduction.
There were no houses along that road to the left. It was miles to the nearest habitation. Yet Hildrow must have kept close contact with the secluded island. There was no telephone line into Korsch’s den, therefore, the contact point must be somewhere else close by.
Pete’s arrival was a further indication of that fact. The man who had come in the sedan probably had headquarters only a short way off. The road to the right offered the one solution.
The Shadow and Dadren traversed half a mile. The Shadow was making rapid progress, despite Dadren’s protests. The road kept curving to the left; The Shadow knew that it must miss the river, which twisted in the opposite direction. But he was looking for lights, not for water. He spied them through the increasing dusk.
A short bend had brought them into sight of an old roadhouse, which formed the center of a little settlement. This must have been Pete’s headquarters. The Shadow knew that a telephone would be available.
As they plodded on, The Shadow spoke to Dadren. The commander nodded as he heard the instructions. They were almost at a dilapidated garage when The Shadow gave his final reminder.
“Call Marsland first,” he said, in a steady whisper. “Then Releston. Then come into Washington.”
“But you are not leaving—”
The Shadow stopped Dadren with a warning motion. They were close to the garage. Standing in front was an antiquated roadster, that shook from the explosions of its running motor. One light alone was gleaming from the front of the car. The driver had stepped into the garage to purchase a new bulb.
“Proceed,” ordered The Shadow. “Make the calls from the roadhouse.”
He shifted his arm from Dadren’s shoulder and swayed for a moment. Dadren paused; he caught the flash of The Shadow’s compelling eyes. Nodding, Dadren turned and strode along the road.
Shedding his weakness, The Shadow approached the roadster. Opening the door, he moved noiselessly behind the wheel, drawing his weak leg in after him. He closed the door softly.
The owner of the car had come from the garage, talking with the proprietor. The man was holding the new bulb. He was about to step forward past the hood when The Shadow jammed the car in gear.
The rattly roadster shot away from beside its astonished owner. Shifting rapidly to second, The Shadow gave it gas. Then into high. Its one lamp blazing through the increasing darkness, the roadster took the bend. Thanks to the twisting course of the road, The Shadow gained a speed that a swifter car could not surpass if it came in pursuit.
EIGHT minutes after The Shadow had made off with the rickety roadster, Cliff Marsland strode through the lobby of a Washington hotel. The firm-faced agent of The Shadow was carrying a suitcase. He had received a call from Commander Joseph Dadren.
Reaching a parking space a quarter-block away, Cliff handed in a ticket. He stepped into a mammoth roadster, a high-powered car of foreign make, and rested the suitcase in a wide, deep niche behind the seat.
The motor throbbed. The lights came on. Cliff piloted the car to the street and headed for an avenue. The huge car sped forward, noiselessly increasing its speed. Cliff smiled grimly. This machine would roar when it reached the open road.
Cliff was on his way to meet The Shadow. He had heard the route from Dadren. He would be on the watch for a one-eyed roadster that would be straining every bolt to gain its topmost speed.
Then the transfer. With The Shadow, Cliff would head back for Washington. The Shadow would be busy with the suitcase while Cliff drove. It was anticipation of that coming ride that caused Cliff’s smile.
For The Shadow, traveling to frustrate crime, would order speed. This car was built for rapid travel. Whatever the game The Shadow had at stake, Cliff knew that the goal would be reached in record time.
CHAPTER XXIII
HIGH WATER MARK
A SOLEMN group was gathered in Senator Releston’s office. In this quiet room of the large apartment, Releston was listening to comments that came from Vic Marquette. Harry Vincent, also present, was puzzled by the situation.
“It’s got me beat,” admitted Vic. “I don’t know which one of those birds was phony. It looked like both. No Commander Dadren at the Navy Department. Nothing down at that siding in Virginia. Fifty men on the job; they covered the entire territory around that station called Alora. They haven’t found the shack; not even the siding, for that matter.”
“We have been hoaxed,” agreed Releston. “But I cannot understand what has become of Stollart. Do you think that he has met with harm?”
“Probably,” declared Vic, “The whole mess is black as ink. Tougher than anything I’ve ever encountered. Suppose, for instance, that the first man here was really Dadren—”
Vic paused as Smedley entered. The servant had come to announce that Mr. Eric Hildrow was calling. Senator Releston nodded.
“Does he have an appointment?” he inquired.
“He says so,” replied Smedley.
“He must have made it by telephone,” mused Releston. “While Stollart was here. I leave all that to Stollart. I shall see him, Smedley.”
“But listen, senator,” began Vic, “we’ve got other matters—”