Contact with Zegler by those in the lodge; odd-shaped metal cylinders in Zegler’s desk; the net beneath the mill, where a huge, hidden stream surged in to join the main body of the creek; Cliff Marsland’s story of the outlet from the lake in The Condor’s limestone strong room; Cliff’s description of the cylinders that he had seen there — these were the conclusive clues that had told The Shadow all. He knew that The Condor, when trapped, would use the underground channel for removal of his ill-gained spoils.
The Shadow’s one surprise was to find The Condor here. By all odds, the master crook should have fallen in the fray outside the lodge.
A thud sounded as Zegler and Elisha let their cylinder drop. Weighted at one end, it wabbled upright as Zegler shot his hand to pocket for his gun. The Condor, crouching, dropped behind the cylinder, snatching out a revolver of his own.
Automatics barked. One spat a bullet that sent Zegler sprawling while he sought to aim. The other sent hot lead toward the top of the cylinder. Slugs sizzled their way just above The Condor’s head.
Treft had gained good shelter, thanks to Elisha. Half behind the tube, half behind the miller’s nephew, The Condor was immune to those first shots. But he wanted greater surety when he fired.
Springing up, he clutched Elisha. Like an old man of the sea, he kept behind the stupid fellow, dragging him back toward the wall. Fiercely, The Condor returned The Shadow’s fire.
Bullets from automatics; bullets from revolver — all zoomed wide. The Shadow, weaving across the floor, was trying to clip The Condor without striking Elisha. He knew that the nephew was an innocent party to crime.
The Condor, in turn, could not follow with his shots because he had Elisha as too heavy a shield.
Between the lamplights this strange duel thundered, The Condor fighting to retain the living barrier between himself and The Shadow.
Suddenly, The Shadow dived forward to the center of the room. His automatics clattered to the floor.
The Condor cried out in wild elation. He thought that he had wounded his black-clad foe. He stared, peering from the edge of Elisha’s shoulder as he saw The Shadow seize upon a cylinder.
Treft fired one wild shot as The Shadow twisted the heavy burden. He was swinging it horizontally; with a terrific lunge, he sent it bowling forward along the floor as Treft fired again.
This bullet clipped The Shadow’s arm. Off balance, he had slipped as he sought to dive along the floor. A slight wound only; but it made The Shadow slump slightly as his side struck heavily.
Treft had no chance to follow up his lucky stroke. The Shadow’s full force had been behind that cylinder.
Spinning across the floor, it clipped Elisha’s ankles and whisked the miller’s nephew from his feet.
As Elisha sprawled, hands foremost, Treft floundered also. Elisha flattened, then came puffing to his hands and knees, his breath knocked out by the sudden upset.
The Condor was flung clear. He landed on his knees and swayed dizzily while The Shadow, twisting forward on the floor, shot his uninjured arm toward one automatic.
Savagely, The Condor aimed. He fired hastily as The Shadow performed a quick roll. The Condor’s shot zoomed wide. Hard upon the revolver blast, The Shadow’s automatic roared its fire-tongued reply.
While the echoes of that shot still quivered through the mill, The Condor sprawled, face forward, to the grimy floor. His clutching claw lost its gun. His snarling lips spat incoherently. His frame quivered, then lay still. The Shadow’s bullet had reached Treft’s heartless breast.
ELISHA, quivering in a corner, saw The Shadow rise. He watched the cloaked avenger open a cylinder.
Gold coins poured out upon the floor. This tube was one that The Condor had used to pack some of the precious metal — as much as it would hold without sinking.
Another tube disgorged stacks of bundled currency. A silver casket clattered on the floor. The Shadow pounced upon the object and opened it. He saw the false pearls that Cliff Marsland had carried to Mountview Lodge. The fake Blue Pearl was centered in the velvet.
Elisha whimpered fearfully as a fierce laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. Sinister, eerie, it rose to an echoing burst of sardonic mirth. The Shadow swept past the bodies of Treft and Zegler, the room still ringing with his triumph laugh.
The Shadow had taken back his own possession. The false pearls gone, Cliff Marsland would need no alibi for the part that he had played in The Shadow’s service. Within the next few days, Michael Walpin would be the astonished recipient of his own genuine pearls. They would reach him from some unknown sender.
Elisha, still whining, heard the last shudders of The Shadow’s laugh. Blinking, the dullard no longer saw the black-cloaked form. The Shadow, his last strokes delivered, had departed to the outer darkness. But Elisha dared not move. He still felt terror of the weird shape that he had seen.
The Shadow had reached the autogyro. He gave an order; the motor throbbed. Huge blades whirled; the strange craft rose precipitously from the open space beside the mill. Ground dwindled away as it hovered higher.
Peering down from the darkened sky, The Shadow spied tiny lights speeding along the west road. They were turning into the byway that led to the old mill. Harry had learned where the outlet from the cave could he found. The Shadow had explained it during their ride tonight.
Spoils of The Condor lay waiting on the floor of the old mill. The law would soon hold that wealth, to deliver it to the owners whom The Condor’s brood had robbed. The law would find Griscom Treft also.
The Condor had escaped capture, to find death.
From high in the darkened sky sounded a quivering laugh. A dirge to men of crime; another token of The Shadow’s victory. Swishing winds submerged the eerie cry. The Shadow, triumphant, was riding into his chosen realm of night.