was clawing at its captor.
"They have gone down, Nuland," remarked Hildrow. "Put the cat in the room with them and
wait for Polmore. He will give you further instructions. Do exactly as he orders."
Nuland nodded while he was snatching the cat's claws from his collar. Then he followed the
path that the others had taken. Hildrow spoke to Polmore.
"I shall place this envelope in the study," growled the plotter. "In the meantime, go down to
that submarine room. Give Nuland the signal to kill Whitburn and Stephen. Shoot them
down, and allow a couple of bullets for the cat."
"They can't escape from that room," returned Polmore. "Just as you said, chief, they'll
suffocate."
"I know they haven't a chance. That does not matter. No one can hear the shots. Kill them;
then lock the door. That gang of Nuland's can stand some target practice. I want killers
working for me.
"Watch the job, Polmore. It will do you good. You turned yellow to-night; but I can forget that
fact. I shall have other work for you. I want you to be steeled. Proceed with the order."
With that, Hildrow turned and strolled toward the study. Polmore watched his chief pass
along the corridor. White-faced, the traitor stood beside the door. Unused to murder, he was
hesitant about giving the grim command to Nuland.
Polmore was yellow. But in his yellowness, he gave thought to his own welfare. As he
hesitated, he realized that his position with the chief was none too secure. Hildrow had
deliberately ordered the secretary to start the massacre because he wanted to test
Polmore's mettle.
Realizing this, Polmore forced a fierce grin to his lips. Deliberately, the man adopted the
attitude of a fiend. Self-encouraged, this tool began to share the evil nature that
characterized Eric Hildrow. Polmore turned toward the cellar steps.
So intent was Polmore that he gave no thought to his surroundings. Mumbling furious words,
he was staring straight ahead. He did not glance toward the stairway that led to the second
floor. Hence he did not see the eyes that were burning from the dim steps.
The Shadow had arrived just after Hildrow's departure. He had watched the flickering
expression that had shown on Polmore's face. Outside of that observation, The Shadow
had, as yet, learned nothing. But his keen study of Polmore was sufficient to tell him that
malice was afoot.
The menace had fallen upon the abode of Professor Arthur Whitburn. The old inventor was
in danger. Polmore was on his way to complete some evil chain of action. Of that, The
Shadow was certain.
As Polmore's figure started down the cellar steps, The Shadow advanced from darkness.
The dim light showed him as a fantastic figure. A being cloaked in black, with slouch hat
pulled low upon his forehead. A spectral personage, whose glowing eyes showed
vengeance, The Shadow was moving to thwart murder.
Whipping from the folds of the cloak, The Shadow's hands produced a pair of mammoth
automatics. With these weapons in readiness, the black-garbed avenger stalked forth on
Polmore's trail. Descending a flight of curving stone steps, The Shadow closed the gap
between himself and Professor Whitburn's treacherous secretary.
THE SHADOW paused when he arrived at the final turning point. A massive metal door
stood open. Beyond it was the submarine chamber. Short steps led down into the pitlike
room. A single ceiling light showed the grim scene.
Like victims in a medieval prison, Professor Whitburn and Stephen stood facing the firing
squad. Two men were covering them, while Nuland stood ready with another gun.
Polmore had also drawn a revolver. On the lowest step, he was ready to issue Hildrow's
manifesto.
Slowly, The Shadow's automatics came to aim. The cloaked rescuer was ready. The
Shadow knew that Polmore's command to kill would be the proper signal for his own attack.
Stopped on the point of murder, men of crime would be most vulnerable.
"Give them the works!" said Polmore, suddenly. His voice sounded strained. "Kill them,
Nuland! The chief said to kill them! Both of them—and the cat!"
The added statement came blurted from Polmore's lips. Nuland, a professional killer,
word—Nuland turned to look at Polmore's whitened face.
There was contempt on Nuland's features as the man eyed the pale secretary. Then, on the
instant, the expression changed. Purely by accident, Nuland had seen beyond Polmore. He
had caught the outline of the blackened figure that stood in the doorway to the room.
"The Shadow!" Nuland shouted the name as he spied the burning eyes above. "The
Shadow! Get him!"
With the order, Nuland aimed past Polmore. With gun on the move, the killer pressed the
trigger for a first wild shot. That bullet was the last that he was to deliver. Hard on the bark of
the revolver came the burst of an automatic.
As Nuland's shot went wide, The Shadow's zimming bullet found its mark. Nuland
staggered. While echoes still resounded, his revolver went clattering to the stone floor. Then
the man himself keeled sidewise and sprawled dead.
NULAND'S minions had turned with the shots. They were caught helpless, their guns
lowered and unready. There were two, however, who acted without an instant's delay.
Professor Whitburn, amazingly agile, came springing upon one foe, while Stephen, close
behind him, landed on the other.
At that instant, The Shadow whirled. He had not discounted Polmore. A coward at heart, the
secretary was most dangerous in an emergency, for fear for himself could inspire him to
frantic effort. At this moment, Polmore was profiting by Nuland's failure.
Polmore had sprung away at the sound of the shots. Back against the wall, he had swung
about to aim steadily for the figure in the doorway. He had The Shadow covered. He was out
to kill. But his very deliberation proved his undoing.
As fierce eyes blazed upon Polmore, an automatic swung with them. A black-gloved finger
pressed the trigger with split-second precision. Polmore wavered. His face became sickly
as his numbed trigger finger failed to respond. With a croaking gasp, the traitor sank dying
to the floor.
As The Shadow swung away from Polmore, he saw Stephen stagger. A killer had dealt the
man a glancing blow with his revolver. That same killer was turning to get The Shadow. An
automatic ended his attempt. Flame flashed from the muzzle of The Shadow's left-hand gun.
The would-be killer tumbled to the floor.
One enemy remained. That was the man upon whom Whitburn had sprung. The fellow had
gone down beneath the professor's attack. Brief seconds, however, had changed the tide.
The old inventor had clutched the throat of his foe; now the grasp was loosening.
The Shadow could not fire. Whitburn's body intervened. But the black-clad fighter came
promptly to the rescue. Springing down the short steps, he crossed the room and wrested
the professor away from the fighting crook.
Snarling, the man aimed up from the floor. The Shadow whirled upon him. The automatic
dropped from The Shadow's left hand; the gloved fist caught the crook's right wrist and sent
it upward. The killer's revolver spat flame. Its slug sizzle
d past the brim of The Shadow's hat.
A clawing hand caught The Shadow's shoulder, before the avenger could deliver a shot with
the second automatic. The Shadow grappled with the crook. Locked together, the two
staggered halfway across the room.
Then Professor Whitburn, crouched by the wall, saw The Shadow slump. A gasp of alarm
came from the old inventor.
The cry was premature. As Whitburn stared, The Shadow came up. Above him was the
clawing, struggling form of the crook. The Shadow had gained a jujutsu hold. With a mighty
lunge, he sent his enemy whirling across the floor. A scream; a head-first crash upon the
floor; then the thwarted killer rolled over and over until he struck the wall.
While Professor Whitburn gazed in profound amazement, Quex, the cat, sat blinking upon a
dismantled machine beside an old torpedo tube. Back with its master, the feline had
scrambled there the moment that Nuland had released it.
The Shadow, with his final lunge, had whirled close to the machine where the cat was
resting. He had dropped his second gun. As he reached to recover it, The Shadow heard
the cat emit a snarling hiss. Whitburn, staring, saw the animal arch its back. But The
Shadow looked toward the door.
AT the head of the steps stood Eric Hildrow, still wearing the disguise of Logan Collender.
The arch-fiend had arrived to witness the annihilation of his minions. Gun in hand, Hildrow
saw The Shadow.
Had he paused to aim, Hildrow would have met the same fate as his henchmen. But the
plotter was too wary. As The Shadow's gun came up, Hildrow leaped for cover, back behind
the huge metal door that stood open beside him.
The Shadow fired. His first shot whistled through the doorway and nicked the stone stairway.
Then, as The Shadow moved sidewise to gain new aim, the metal door came swinging shut.
Aiming with a momentary glimpse of Hildrow's mustached face, The Shadow delivered a
second shot. The bullet flattened against the steel of the closing door.
With that, the barrier clicked in place. As echoes died, the clatter of a closing lock came
from the steel door. Then faint footsteps died from beyond the solid steel. Eric Hildrow was
departing by the upper stairs.
The master villain had resorted to his original plan: Death by confinement, within the
suffocating walls of the air-tight submarine chamber. Bodies of his obliterated henchmen
remained with those who still lived. That did not matter to Eric Hildrow.
The master plotter was departing, with Professor Whitburn and Stephen entombed. Quex,
the cat, was also there; the note to Bragg had been placed upon the desk in the professor's
study.
But with the prisoners that he had originally doomed, Eric Hildrow had interred another living
being. Deep in the cellar vault was The Shadow. The arch-enemy of crime was encased in a
trap of death!
CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW WAITS
A LAUGH resounded within walls of stone. A tone of whispered mockery; a rising noted that
reached a shivering crescendo, the laugh awoke strange echoes that answered in ghoulish
discord. Such was the laugh of The Shadow.
Professor Whitburn stared bewildered. The closing of the metal door had placed him in the
grip of dismay. He had seen an end to everything, a tragic finish to the climax of The
Shadow's rescue.
Yet The Shadow laughed. Mocking the man who had trapped him, this master fighter was as
challenging as before. Professor Whitburn could not understand. He did not know that The
Shadow relished such situations as this. Rarely was The Shadow trapped. When he
encountered a seemingly hopeless snare, he found the plight intriguing.
Silence followed the dying echoes. Gleaming eyes turned upon Professor Whitburn. Then
came the whispered tone of The Shadow's voice. It was a keen command.
"Speak!" ordered The Shadow. "Tell what occurred before my arrival."
The professor nodded. He knew The Shadow for a friend. Despite the fact, old Whitburn
was awed by the presence of this being in black. His tones, usually harsh, were almost
feeble as he began the story. But as he continued, Professor Whitburn gradually gained his
ease.
The inventor ended with a statement regarding the note that had been left for Bragg on the
study desk. His tone was almost pathetic as he completed his own summary.
"Bragg will leave," he declared. "Of course, his arrival could not aid us, for the air in this
chamber will be exhausted before morning. But if Bragg could only learn that we were dead,
he might at least warn Commander Dadren regarding this terrible enemy. Logan
Collender— Reginald Satterly—whatever the man's true name, I class him as a fiend who
will stop at nothing."
Stephen had come to his senses while the professor was speaking. The man was staring
steadily at the ominous figure of The Shadow. He trembled when he heard the sinister tone
of the voice that replied to Professor Whitburn.
"Have no fear for Dadren," declared The Shadow, in a tone that bore a tinge of mockery. "I
made arrangements for his welfare, immediately after the call from you. He will be warned of
danger."
WITH that, The Shadow turned and began to inspect the submarine chamber. He stopped
by the machine on which Quex was curled. The cat blinked and turned away from The
Shadow's burning eyes. A soft laugh whispered from unseen lips.
The Shadow remembered this submarine room. Once he had rescued his agent, Harry
Vincent, from imprisonment within these very walls. Deep beneath the house, this room was
below the level of the lake. It fronted on a subterranean channel under the island.
Professor Whitburn had used it for torpedo tests. At the time of Harry Vincent's
imprisonment, the torpedo tubes had been in use. A girl—Arlette Deland—had been a
prisoner with Harry; and the agent, at The Shadow's command, had sped the girl to safety
within a torpedo.
But none of these contrivances were usable at present. Machinery dismantled, torpedoes
gone, the room was but a relic of Whitburn's former experiments. Just above the machine on
which Quex rested was a periscope that formed a solid shaft up through the top of the room.
This led above ground, and the professor had used it to watch the progress of his
torpedoes.
At the time of Harry's imprisonment, there had been water sluices in the submarine
chamber. These had been installed in order to flood the room in case spies tried to enter.
No longer needed, the sluices had been blocked.
But the locked door still remained. The Shadow had opened it once from the outside. The
inner wall, however, offered a most difficult task—one that would take hours, at least. By
morning—before the barrier could be cut—life could no longer exist in this cramped space.
Moreover, Bragg, returning and departing, would be on the way to Eric Hildrow's toils.
Yet The Shadow approached the door. He studied its smooth, riveted surface. He saw that
with few tools available, this means of exit afforded slow progress. With him, The Shadow
had another means of attacking the door. Two powders, mixed, would form a high explosive
that might blast the barrier from its hinges.
Here, again, was danger. The steel door was unusually formidable. Should a first blast fail,
&n
bsp; as was highly probable, the fumes would exhaust the remaining air supply. That would
hasten death instead of prolonging life.
WHILE The Shadow was examining the door, Quex rose from his perch. In placid fashion,
the big cat dropped from the machine and stalked over to the stone steps. Ascending, Quex
began to claw at the fringe of The Shadow's cloak.
Lowering his gaze, The Shadow looked at the cat. Quex moved to the door and showed the
claws of one paw as he scratched inquiringly at the steel barrier. The Shadow laughed
softly; then turned toward Professor Whitburn.
"Quex always does that," explained the white-haired inventor. "If he is locked out at night, he
claws at the front door until I open it."
The cat began to mew.
"That follows," added the professor. "Then, if no one answers, he sits by the door. He waits
until he is admitted. Twice, when I was away all night, I returned to find him waiting for me."
The Shadow made no response. Yet his steady gaze impelled the professor to a further
statement.
"If that fiend had left Quex in the study," declared Whitburn, "Bragg would have known that
something was wrong. When he returns to-morrow, you understand."
"And if the cat had been taken from the house," whispered The Shadow, "then -"
"Quex would come back to the front door," completed Whitburn, "to wait there for the first
person who might arrive. If he could only be where Bragg could find him -"
Whitburn shook his head as he speculated. He watched The Shadow come away from the
door. He saw the cloaked rescuer stop at the periscope above the machine.
The periscope consisted of a lower reflector, connected with another mirror above the
ground. Between the two were lenses. Only the lower reflector was visible; the rest of the
apparatus was encased in the tube that led up through the low ceiling of the room.
The Shadow studied the periscope. Whitburn thought that he was trying to sight through it.
The professor could see no purpose in such action, for nothing could be gained by staring
out into the blackness above ground.
As Whitburn watched, however, he suddenly realized The Shadow's purpose. The
periscope was patterned after those used in undersea boats; its construction, though, was