fellow who had accompanied Dadren on other flights. He seemed impatient to start the trip.
Dadren, too, appeared anxious to be off. He beckoned Harry to hurry up. When Harry
reached his side, Dadren spoke in a querulous, testy tone that all could hear.
"What kept you, Vincent?" he demanded. "I told you to be up at dawn. I wanted to see those
expense sheets."
"I have them here, sir," apologized Harry, exhibiting the briefcase. "I have corrected the
expense errors; and I have arranged the letters for the files."
"I don't have time to go over them now," returned Dadren. "Half an hour would have sufficed.
You have been neglectful, Vincent. You have caused me a great deal of trouble."
"Sorry, sir."
"That doesn't help. However, I shall give you another chance. Get busy this morning.
Complete your work here. Then bring all your papers to Washington."
"By train, sir?"
"Yes. Wilkins will drive you into town in time to catch the afternoon express. I shall need a
secretary after I reach Washington. Meet me to-morrow, at my hotel."
Dadren stepped to a wing of the ship. He drew a small portfolio from beneath his arm and
stowed it in the pilot's seat. The commander took the controls, with Hasker perched in the
open seat behind him.
A few minutes later, the propeller of the amphibian was whirling. The plane started across
the blue-watered cove, heading in the direction of the inlet. It gathered speed; its glistening
wings rose above the water. Rising, the plane headed seaward, then banked and swung
along the coast. Commander Dadren had begun his flight to Washington.
HARRY VINCENT left the boat house while the other men were standing about. Returning to
headquarters, he entered the empty building and made directly for the telephone. He put in a
call to the hotel that was located five miles from Cedar Cove.
Over the wire, Harry Vincent talked briefly with a man named Cliff Marsland. In guarded
tones, Harry indicated what had happened at Cedar Cove. No one listening could have
caught the gist of his remarks. For Harry was talking to another agent of The Shadow.
Cliff, waiting near Cedar Cove, would put in a long-distance call to Burbank. Unless
instructions came back to the contrary, Harry Vincent would follow Commander Dadren's
order. He would leave for Washington, taking along the set of plans that the skipper had
given him.
Harry was sure that no danger remained at Cedar Cove. Last night's episode had been of
his own doing. As yet, there was no indication that a spy actually was in camp. Harry had
acted only at The Shadow's bidding; and even now, Harry wondered what had inspired The
Shadow to send his emergency order.
If outside persons were trying to learn the secret of Commander Dadren's model submarine,
they could learn nothing at Cedar Cove. Dadren was canny; he had tested different devices
at various times. The submarine, now beneath the boat house, was incomplete. An
inspection of it would reveal nothing to spies.
Only the plans were complete. They held the secret of an invention that was apparently
destined to revolutionize naval warfare.
Entering his own room, Harry Vincent stowed his precious briefcase in the closet. He locked
the door; then sat down at the table and began to work on detailed report sheets. He was
determined that no one would learn that the plans were in his possession.
COMMANDER DADREN'S amphibian was a slow ship. Its heavy landing equipment
handicapped it. That was why Dadren had taken off so shortly after dawn. He wanted to
arrive in Washington before noon, and he needed an early start to accomplish his desire.
Plodding through a head wind, the cumbersome plane jounced north across the Carolina
coastal region. Dadren was a stolid pilot; Hasker, behind him, seemed accustomed the
monotony of the journey. As slow hours moved by, the ship reached Virginia and continued
onward. Washington was not far away.
All the while, the commander had his portfolio close beside him. It was wedged between his
body and the side of the pilot's seat. With his goal almost reached, Dadren smiled beneath
the goggles that he had donned. He felt sure that Harry Vincent had been
over-apprehensive, so far as danger was concerned.
Then came a break in the monotony. Dadren was flying at an altitude of five thousand feet.
Nearly a mile below, lay a wooded acreage; beyond it, the spread-out buildings of a small
town. The chart showed the place to be the village of Tarksburg.
Between the woods and the town was an open stretch that looked like a flying field. Two
biplanes were in sight; as Dadren passed above, one of the ships took off. It ascended with
surprising speed. Watching the plane, Dadren was sure that a stunt flier was at the controls.
For a dozen miles, the commander kept his amphibian ahead of the biplane. He had almost
forgotten the stunt flier when he suddenly became aware of the fact that the ship was above
him. The biplane was passing the amphibian, traveling at the higher altitude of six thousand
feet.
As the commander stared upward, the first inkling of danger came. Something cold was
thrust against the back of Dadren's neck. Turning to glance over his shoulder, the
commander looked into the muzzle of a revolver held by Hasker.
WITH his free hand, the mechanic pointed upward. His face assumed a grim scowl. His lips
framed words that Dadren could not hear; but he easily made out Hasker's statement. The
mechanic was stating:
"Follow that ship."
Stolidly, Dadren turned to look ahead. Again, the gun muzzle pressed against his neck. The
danger had arrived. As Harry Vincent had warned him, there was a traitor in camp. Hasker,
the mechanic, had been delegated to gain the submarine plans.
Dadren delivered a smile that Hasker could not see. Under other circumstances, the
commander might have ignored the traitor's order. By killing Dadren, Hasker would risk his
own life.
For a moment, Dadren was on the point of banking the amphibian. Fancy work at the
controls would put Hasker in a sweat. Dadren doubted that the man would have nerve to
shoot once the straight course ended, for he would be fearful about reaching the controls.
Then Dadren changed his mind. Here was adventure to his liking. He had prepared for such
an emergency as this. The envelope now held by Harry Vincent would nullify the theft of the
portfolio that Dadren held. Nodding to indicate his willingness to obey Hasker's order, the
commander took up the course set by the biplane.
The two ships deviated from the route to Washington. They passed over hilly terrain that
took them on a northwest course. Then the biplane, a mile ahead, began to circle for a
landing. Dadren conformed. He saw the other ship glide downward toward an obscure
landing field, just west of a wooded hill.
Hasker's pressing gun was firm. Again, the commander nodded. Banking, he duplicated the
biplane's maneuver. He brought the amphibian to earth one minute after the other ship had
landed.
As he came to a stop upon the old field, Dadren saw men scramble from the grounded
biplane. He stopped the motor.
"Climb out!" came Hasker's growl. "No funny business, or you'll get a bullet in your neck!
Leave that pa
ckage you've got with you."
Dadren stepped from the plane; all the while, Hasker covered him. Three men approached;
their leader was dressed like an airplane pilot. He also had a gun. He gave a nod to Hasker
and the mechanic alighted, bringing the portfolio.
"Stay here," growled the pilot of the biplane, turning to his men. "We'll take care of this mug."
The pilot and Hasker marched Commander Dadren toward the trees. They came to the
marks of an old dirt road and continued into the woods. There they saw a man waiting. He
was tall, his face sported a heavy black beard.
"Who's that guy?" questioned Hasker, suspiciously. He was speaking to the pilot of the
biplane.
"The chief," was the reply.
"Don't look like him," stated Hasker, still suspicious. "He never had a beard when I met him."
"It's phony," chuckled the pilot. "That's where the chief is smart. He wears one rig when he
meets me—another when he meets you. Different rigs at different times -"
THEY had arrived beside the bearded man. Commander Dadren stopped. He was face to
face with Eric Hildrow; but the master plotter was wearing another of his rough disguises.
Dadren, eyeing the beard, could not trace Hildrow's features.
"Good work, Wenshell," said Hildrow, to the pilot of the biplane. "I shall need you no longer.
Take care of Commander Dadren's plane; then return to the Tarksburg field. Be ready to
disband the air circus - or what remains of it— after you have heard from me."
"All right, chief," returned Wenshell.
"You also have my commendation, Hasker," said Hildrow, smugly, while Wenshell was
walking away. "Inasmuch as you came with Commander Dadren, I shall have you remain
with him. You have the plans?"
"In here, chief," returned Hasker, showing the portfolio.
"Good," said Hildrow. Then, to Dadren: "Come, commander. We are awaiting you."
"Come where?" questioned Dadren.
"To the machine that I have waiting," chuckled Hildrow. "A short motor trip will take you to the
comfortable place that I have provided for your stay with us."
"Who are you?"
"That is difficult to say." Hildrow chuckled again as they walked along, with Hasker bringing
up the rear. "To Hasker, I am known as Philip Pelden. To Wenshell, I am Carl Ostrow.
Korsch—the man we are about to meet—also knows me by that name. But others have met
me in various identities."
A turn in the dirt road revealed a stocky, hatchet-faced man standing beside a parked
sedan. Commander Dadren knew that this must be Korsch.
Smiling within his false beard, Hildrow introduced the rogue to Dadren; then pointed out
Hasker, whom Korsch had never met before. Hildrow motioned Dadren toward the machine.
"Wait a moment," objected the commander. "It is time that these high-handed methods were
ended. You have the portfolio which contains my submarine plans. Why do you intend to
keep me prisoner?"
"For reasons of my own," snarled Hildrow, half forgetting the smug tone of the part that he
was playing. "You are coming with us, commander. By force, if necessary."
"And you intend -"
"To do with you as I see fit. We have your plans; I intend to hold you so long as you may
prove necessary."
"And after that?"
"I shall hold you longer, if you are not troublesome. But if risk is involved, I shall do away with
you."
Hasker was close with his revolver. Korsch had also drawn a weapon. Hildrow stepped up
to the commander, found an automatic in his pocket and took the weapon. Dadren knew
that a fight would be hopeless. With a shrug of his shoulders, he entered the machine.
Hasker followed. He and Dadren occupied the rear seat, while Korsch took the wheel.
Hildrow, carrying the portfolio, stepped in front with Korsch. He looked around to make sure
that Hasker still had his revolver trained on Dadren.
AS Korsch started the car, Hildrow opened the portfolio. He found an envelope and tore it
open. He drew out a sheaf of diagrams. They were inscribed in India ink, on sheets of
tracing paper. Sight of the tough cloth sheets brought a snarl from Hildrow. The fact that the
diagrams were on transparent material aroused suspicion in his mind.
"Are these the originals?" he challenged, turning to Dadren.
The commander made no reply as he met the plotter's glare. Again Hildrow glared.
"You have tried to trick us," he declared. "Professor Whitburn had duplicate plans. Those
have been destroyed. Possibly they were the originals. It is also possible that another set
exists. These tracings do not satisfy me."
Dadren remained unresponding. Hildrow recognized that he could not combat the
commander's iron will. Turning to Hasker, Hildrow snapped a new question.
"Where are the originals?" he demanded. "Back in the office at Cedar Cove?"
"I don't think so, chief."
"Why not?"
"Because the skipper—Dadren, here—told Wilkins to end the patrols while he was away.
Last night somebody—I don't know who it was—tried to break into the lab. If the originals
were back at headquarters, Wilkins would still be patrolling -"
"That's enough. It is apparent that nothing can be learned at Cedar Cove. Do you think that
these tracings are the only plans?"
"I guess they are, chief. Unless they -"
"Unless what?" demanded Hildrow, as Hasker paused.
something to his secretary. Told him to come up to Washington. To bring papers with him.
Vincent is leaving on the afternoon express. I was just thinking, chief, that maybe Vincent -"
"Never mind the 'maybe', Hasker," sneered Hildrow, still staring squarely at Commander
Dadren. "You told me all I need to know. That fellow Vincent is the man we want."
Turning, Hildrow buzzed instructions in Korsch's ear. The hatchet-faced man nodded, as he
turned the car on to a main road. One mile further on, he took another side road and pulled
up beside an old house where a coupe was standing.
As Hildrow alighted from the sedan, Korsch gave a signal. A couple of tough-looking aids
stepped from the coupe.
Hildrow beckoned Hasker from the sedan. One of Korsch's men entered the back and took
his post beside Commander Dadren. The other took Hildrow's place in front. Hildrow gave
an order to Korsch.
"Take this man up the river," ordered Hildrow, indicating Dadren. "Hold him there until you
receive further orders. I am taking the coupe. Send a man in to get it from the usual
Washington garage."
THE sedan pulled away. Hildrow watched until it was out of sight. Then the false-bearded
plotter beckoned to Hasker. The two entered the coupe. Hildrow took the wheel; as the car
started toward the main road, he spoke to Hasker.
"I am taking you to Tarksburg," declared Hildrow. "There we shall make new contact with
Wenshell. You will operate with him. We are going to capture those missing plans."
Hildrow continued to talk in a cold, harsh tone as he guided the coupe along the high road.
As the plotter talked, Hasker listened, signifying his understanding by occasional nods.
Spellbound by Hildrow's cleverness, Hasker was hearing the scheme whereby his evil chief
expected to gain new success.
CHAPTER X
. THE SHADOW'S TURN
WHILE Eric Hildrow was planning to follow up the capture of Commander Joseph Dadren,
he was doing so with the confidence that, thus far, his methods had been entirely successful.
Hildrow was sure that he had disposed of troublesome persons on the night before.
The arch-plotter would have been astounded could he have looked in upon the house of
Professor Arthur Whitburn. The building on the wooded isle stood serene amid the morning
daylight. Death Island had lost its sinister aspect. Within the house itself was a scene of
quiet comfort.
Professor Whitburn was in his study. The white-haired inventor was working at his
flat-topped desk. He had cleared away books and papers in order to make room for Quex.
The big tiger-cat was lapping up the contents of a large bowl of milk.
Bragg had returned that morning. He had found the note on the cat's collar when he had
discovered Quex at the front door. Bragg had descended to unlock the door of the
submarine chamber. Professor Whitburn and Stephen had accompanied him up the stairs.
Bragg had not seen The Shadow. That spectral visitant had remained silent and motionless
in his place by the torpedo tube. His keen eyes had been fixed upon Bragg when the man
entered; but Bragg, horrified at the sight of dead bodies, had never glanced in The
Shadow's direction.
Professor Whitburn had left the door open after he and Stephen had joined Bragg. Up in his
study, the old inventor had given Bragg a brief description of what had occurred. He had
given credit to himself and Stephen for thinking out the scheme of putting Quex through the
periscope tube. Furthermore, he had motioned to Stephen to say nothing to the contrary.
Stephen had gone to the laboratory. Bragg had returned to the motor boat to get some
packages that he had brought from the mainland. Professor Whitburn had said that he
wished to be alone. The old man had an idea that he would soon receive a visit from The
Shadow.
A SOUND from the door caused Quex to look up from the bowl of milk. The professor stared
in the same direction. His face showed annoyance when saw Bragg standing in the
doorway.
"I did not tell you to come back here, Bragg," declared Whitburn. "Moreover, you must knock