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Wallace Norgan sagged. Like men stricken with paralysis, Barth and Warlock stood motionless, stunned by this new tragedy. The gun barrel was pulled from sight. The only evidence of its echoing shot was the form of Wallace Norgan, dead upon the floor.

THEN came a shout from beyond the curtains. From the foot of the stairway, out in the gloomy hall, some one was putting up a cry for aid. The voice was that of Marryat Darring. It carried triumph despite its tone of partial terror.

“Help me!” was Darring’s call. “Help me! I’ve got him! The Unseen Killer!”

A gun thudded on the floor as Barth and Warlock sprang past Norgan’s body. Outside the doorway, the two men stood astounded. So did another witness — Joe Cardona, coming down the stairs.

Marryat Darring was engaged in a desperate struggle with an invisible foe. With hands clutching at a throat that could not be seen. Darring was lurching back and forth. His body twisted, his legs sagged.

With a sudden choke, Darring dropped one hand to his own throat. He tugged to release invisible fingers.

He succeeded. Throwing his arms about a form that no one could view, he shouted a warning to Joe Cardona, who was suddenly springing down the steps.

“His gun!” exclaimed Darring. “I can see it — where he dropped it— on the stairs—”

Joe stopped suddenly to reach for the weapon. At that instant, Darring went hurtling sidewise. His hands dropped; his arms spread out. He slumped and tottered under the force of an invisible blow. With a futile clutch for an escaping enemy, he sprawled on the floor.

Cardona was blocking the stairway. Barth and Warlock were in the hallway that led to the back of the house. The one opening was the front door, that stood wide. That was by order of the Unseen Killer, part of the conditions that he had proposed.

“Get him!” cried Darring, coming to hands and knees. “That’s the way he went!”

Darring grabbed for the gun on the floor. Cardona yanked a revolver also. Darring fired through the front door. Joe did the same. They listened. There was no evidence of success. Detectives came dashing in from the street.

Darring came tipsily to his feet. He was weakened by his struggle. Still gasping, he spoke of the encounter that had been his lot.

“I–I heard the shot!” he exclaimed. “Just as I came down the stairs. I–I sprang for the curtain. He locked with me. I could feel his hands, his wrists, the gun. I wrenched at the revolver that I felt. It fell to the floor.”

“I saw the gun,” nodded Warlock, “when the Unseen Killer fired the shot.”

“I saw the flash,” added Barth. “I think—”

He paused as some one entered. It was Lamont Cranston. He had arrived just in time to hear this testimony. Barth greeted his friend and began to give the details of the crime that had occurred. Cranston nodded, solemn-faced.

“The mystery is deeper than ever!” concluded Barth. “Miles Crofton is a fiend. Unless we find him, the Unseen Killer, we shall have no end to murder in the city—”

The commissioner broke off as a detective entered to hand a note to Joe Cardona. The ace opened it; while Barth stood puzzled, he saw an expression of amazement come over Cardona’s face. Excitedly, Joe turned and handed the note to the commissioner.

“What is this, Cardona?” demanded Barth, before looking at the paper.

“A message, commissioner,” returned Joe, grimly. “Read it. A message from The Shadow!”

CHAPTER XX. FROM THE SHADOW

“FROM The Shadow?”

Barth’s tone was angered as well as skeptical. To the police commissioner, talk of The Shadow was absurd. Yet even as he gave indication of his wrath, Barth paused. He realized that The Shadow could be no more an incredibility than the Unseen Killer.

“Very well.” Barth mollified his tone. “I shall read this message.”

He adjusted his pince-nez. He looked at the paper. Then a scoffing smile appeared upon his lips. He handed the sheet back to Joe with a comment:

“You have a good imagination, Cardona.”

The detective looked at the paper and blinked. It was blank. Joe gazed up to see Barth frowning.

Angrily, the detective spoke.

“There was writing on this paper when I opened it,” he said. “A message, signed by The Shadow — and I read it. Even if the writing is gone — well, that doesn’t mean—”

“What was the message’” inquired Barth, testily.

“It said a box was coming,” replied Joe. “To be delivered here. Its contents to aid us in solving crime. A box from The Shadow—”

Another detective entered. He spoke to Joe, meantime nudging his thumb over his shoulder toward the open front door.

“Two guys out there with a truck,” informed the dick. “Got a box they want to deliver to Detective Cardona.”

“Bring it in,” ordered Barth. Then, noting Norgan’s body, he added: “Take it upstairs to the study. Bring the men also. Markham” — he turned to the detective sergeant, who was standing by — “you take charge here while we go up.”

The box went past the door. It was a large box, with a padlocked lid. It was more than four feet square and the delivery men staggered with their burden. Barth noted holes in the side of the box. His curiosity was aroused.

He ordered Cardona to bring Warlock and Darring upstairs. Motioning to Cranston, the commissioner invited his friend to join him. They reached the study, to find the delivery men standing beside their lowered burden, watched by two detectives.

“Where did you get this box?” demanded Barth.

“Found it on our truck,” replied one of the delivery men. “Two fellows had put it there. They gave us ten bucks apiece to bring it around here. Said they were hiring another guy to go ahead with a note.

“Seeing as how it was going to a detective, we didn’t see no reason not to bring the box. The guys looked all right. Talked like they were regulars. Couldn’t see their faces close, though. It was dark where we had the truck.”

“Hold these men,” said Barth to the detectives. “Take them downstairs to the kitchen and wait there until we call for you.”

“Say,” protested the second truckman. “We haven’t done nothing—”

“Don’t worry,” assured Barth. “We may need your testimony. That’s all.”

“O.K. Say — here’s the key to the padlock. Them fellows gave it to us.”

Dicks and delivery men departed. Barth eyed the box suspiciously; then ordered Cardona to stand ready with a revolver. Gingerly, the commissioner unlocked the box and raised the cover. He leaned forward; then stood staring.

Others approached. They, too, showed surprise. Inside the box, trussed and packed inside padded walls, was the huddled figure of a man. The fellow was gagged as well as bound.

Cardona put away his gun. He stooped beside the box. Lamont Cranston did the same on the other side.

Together, they hoisted the huddled form out to the floor. As the man stared at them, Cardona pulled away the gag that half obscured his face.

“My word!” ejaculated Wainwright Barth, mopping his bald head. “It’s Miles Crofton!”

“The Unseen Killer?” demanded Cardona.

“The same.” Barth’s surprised tone had changed to a note of accusation.

THE commissioner glared like a fierce eagle as he surveyed the captive. “Well, Crofton, we’ve got you. This means the chair for you.”

“Cut these ropes,” pleaded Crofton, anxiously. “I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything. But — listen, commissioner — I’m not a killer—”

“Keep him covered, Cardona,” interrupted Barth. “Have your bracelets ready while we release him from these bonds.”

Three minutes later, Miles Crofton was leaning wearily in a chair, his wrists handcuffed behind him.