The fiendish old man stood staring, at the form in the doorway. He still held his hands behind his back.
No sign of fear appeared upon his features. His smooth, parchmentlike face was calm and undisturbed.
"Well," said Isaac Coffran. "Who may you be?"
A sinister, whispering voice emerged from the shape in the doorway. It was a voice that would have chilled the blood of a brave, virile man. But old Isaac Coffran's withered veins did not quiver.
"I?" asked the voice. "I am The Shadow!"
Isaac Coffran's eyes dropped to the floor. The shadow that appeared there seemed to be an extension of the form in the doorway. It was a huge, black shadow. It merged with the figure as the old man turned his head slowly upward.
"The Shadow!" said Isaac Coffran, in a sneering tone. "I have heard of you. Perhaps you have heard of me?"
"I have," replied the cold, relentless voice.
"Perhaps you know a bit about me. Perhaps you would like to know more. You have come to the right place to find out. What people learn here, they remember as long as they live. Unfortunately they never live long after that. Strange, isn't it?"
The Shadow was silent. The form seemed to project from the half-drawn curtain against which it stood.
"Those buttons on the wall," observed Isaac Coffran. "Perhaps you pressed them?"
"I pressed them."
"That interests me. On that account, you shall die. I understand now why Pedro looked different. You were Pedro. You have learned much here. You shall forget it all — within an hour. Perhaps within a minute. You shall die, because I do not wish you to live. You are dangerous, alive. You will be helpless, incapable of annoying me, when you are dead."
The old man scanned the figure as if to discover the effect of his words.
"Isaac Coffran." The whispered voice, though low, had penetrating volume. Its words seemed to take shape as they were uttered, as though they were living things. "Isaac Coffran, I shall not die. You would die, if I commanded it. But dead, you would be useless to me. Alive, you may prove useful. So live. But remember" — the voice was solemn and slow — "you live only because I choose to be indulgent."
The old man moved a step nearer as The Shadow finished speaking. Suddenly he swung his right hand from behind his back. The motion was marvelously quick.
The hand held a small revolver. The finger was on the trigger. The gun covered the silent form by the curtain. Isaac Coffran's keen, beady eyes were searching as they watched the figure of The Shadow.
"One motion on your part," threatened the old man, "will mean instant death. My hand is firm, but the slightest quiver of the finger will discharge the contents of this weapon. Stand where you are."
The black form trembled slightly, but the old man did not press the trigger. Instead he smiled and chuckled. He had expected that. This fearless Shadow could yield to fear after all. Isaac Coffran moved a step nearer.
"The Shadow!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "The man whose face has never been seen. The strange creature of the night, that comes and goes invisibly — that is here and there at once!"
He fancied that the figure shook again. It slumped slightly, its black hat tilting forward, the edges of the cloak sagging as though the being within had lost his proud posture.
The old man was close now. His revolver was pressed against The Shadow's cloak; his face was grinning triumphantly.
"Die!" he cried. "Die, Shadow! And before you perish, I shall see your mysterious face!"
Isaac Coffran's left hand shot forward and seized the broad brim of the black hat. The right forefinger pressed the trigger of the gun, and the automatic spat its bullets through the cloak. As the old man swept the hat away, the lower garment fell to the floor and collapsed into a small mass of cloth.
Isaac Coffran almost staggered. The revolver slipped from his nerveless fingers. He had shot into nothingness. There was no one in the cloak; the removal of the hat had revealed no head and face!
The figure had been standing between the half-opened curtains. Two gleaming pins revealed the ruse.
The slump in the figure had not been caused by fear. It had been the exit of the real Shadow — the man within. Only the vacant shell — a cloak and hat — had remained to receive the bullets from Isaac Coffran's weapon. When the hat had been swept away, the cloak had fallen.
The Shadow had gone, and Isaac Coffran stood in the hall, fuming with rage and anger. His lips spat oaths of disappointment.
Then came a sound from the floor below; it was a long, tantalizing sound. A quivering laugh came up the stairs — a taunting, sardonic laugh. It was jeering, maddening to the ears of the old man above. The laugh came again — farther away; then a third time, fading in the distance.
Trembling with rage, the old man still stood in the upstairs hallway, shaking his fist in wrath. The air seemed to quiver with the echoes of The Shadow's laugh.
Back in his room the old man seized the black garments and flung them against the wall. He stamped upon them in sudden rage. Then he became suddenly calm. He had held The Shadow and had lost him.
Well, they would meet again.
Grimness was expressed upon Isaac Coffran's evil countenance as he drew another revolver from the table drawer and started downstairs to find the missing Pedro.
CHAPTER XVII. MEN MARKED TO DIE
While Isaac Coffran had been watching the clock upstairs, the two men in the chamber of death had been witnessing the final approach of the wall that was designed to crush them.
Bruce Duncan's eyes had become glassy. He was standing nearer to the archway than Abdul, the Hindu.
His back was against the wall behind him; his arms were outstretched. He had felt certain that it must be too late for rescue.
Only a few inches had intervened between his body and that moving surface. The air was stifling. Then, at the moment when death seemed imminent, a feeling of faintness had come over Duncan. Mercifully, consciousness had faded from him.
The dark-faced Hindu had glanced stolidly at Duncan. Abdul was accepting death. Yet he had thrown his arm between his master and the moving wall. The solid surface pressed against his wrist and forced it toward Duncan's body. The Hindu realized that he could not withdraw his arm.
The thumping of the machinery had drummed into Abdul's thoughts. Then suddenly it had ceased. The pressure against his wrist remained the same. The Hindu stared in front of him. The wall was no longer moving!
Then came a grating sound, followed by a rush of cool fresh air. The steel curtain raised. The two men in the death chamber were revealed in the spot of a flashlight.
"Bruce Duncan?" came a voice. "Are you alive?"
"He is alive," replied Abdul.
The Hindu pressed his arm firmly against his master's body and managed to draw it free. There was not sufficient space for him to turn sideways, but he managed to force Duncan's form toward the archway where the steel curtain had been.
A pair of strong arms assisted him from the outside. A few seconds later Bruce Duncan was lying on the floor of the cellar. Abdul edged out of the narrow crevice and approached the man who held the flashlight.
"I am a friend," the man whispered. "My name is Harry Vincent. I saw you enter the cellar. I came to help. We must get Duncan out immediately."
He lifted the feet of the prostrate man. Abdul bore Duncan's head and shoulders. With Vincent's flashlight blazing the trail ahead, they carried their burden toward the open grating, passing the prone form of Pedro on the way.