AS they reached the side door, Steve remembered that Li Huang kept it bolted. That meant nothing to The Shadow. He simply opened the door, drew Steve through and promptly barred the door behind him. So far, so easy, until a sharp voice offered challenge.

Steve turned and saw Ming Dwan.

The girl's face showed no trace of pallor. Rather, it displayed a creamy flush above the stubby, shiny revolver that matched the silver braid of her pajama costume. The words that Ming Dwan spoke were in Chinese, which The Shadow evidently understood.

No laugh came from The Shadow's hidden lips. Instead, Steve saw the glint of burning eyes beneath the slouch hat brim. Those eyes, the only visible portion of The Shadow's countenance, were fixed directly on Ming Dwan, the frail, delicate creature who dared to block the fighter who had trampled a dozen a.s.sa.s.sins from his path!

The Shadow recognized Ming Dwan's determination. He moved slowly, not rapidly, as he drew Steve along. Steve found himself wishing that The Shadow would wither this lotus flower with a scorch from one of those deadly automatics. The trouble seemed that The Shadow hadn't a chance to draw one, so sharp was Ming Dwan's watch.

Then they were stock-still, The Shadow and Steve Trask, their very motion hinging on Ming Dwan's bidding. Steve was looking for the triumphant gloat to end the girl's fixed expression, when one of Li Huang's servants shuffled into sight.

It was the very break that The Shadow awaited!

As Ming Dwan gestured, the servant lunged. But in gesturing, the girl let her gaze rove from The Shadow, who sprang into instant action. Before Ming Dwan could turn to aim anew, The Shadow caught the lunging Mongol, spun him like a toy top and flung him at Ming Dwan, who was forced to duck aside.

Next, The Shadow was thrusting Steve along a pa.s.sage in a mad race toward the front door. From behind them came the flashes of Ming Dwan's gun, but a corner intervened. Then, as the girl reappeared to open direct fire, The Shadow hurled Steve ahead, right to the front door itself, giving the two-word command: "Unbolt it!"

Complying, Steve wondered why Ming Dwan was no longer shooting. Hearing commotion, he turned and saw the answer. Li Huang's other servants had arrived.

One from each side, they were flinging themselves upon The Shadow, slashing knives at the cloaked fighter. At least, they were blocking Ming Dwan's aim; but to Steve, the knives were a greater menace.

Not so to The Shadow.

WITH a spin he let the blades slash his cloak as it fluttered in theirpaths. By then, Steve had the door unbarred and The Shadow was springing toward him with a forward gesture. Steve didn't accept the hint, because the Mongols were after The Shadow, poising their knives for a fling, and Steve wanted to help out.

The Shadow aided Steve, instead, with a shoulder lunge that spilled him right through the door. Sprawling, Steve saw The Shadow coming with him, only a few feet ahead of the deadly knives. But as he came, The Shadow flung a hand to the inside of the doorway and pressed a switch located there.

A clatter followed The Shadow's arrival on the sidewalk. Steve saw Li Huang's servants disappearing, knives with them. They were dropping right through the floor into the same pit that Steve had earlier tested. Clutching Steve's arm, The Shadow whipped him away from the open door just in time to avoid the shots that Ming Dwan fired from beyond the open floor. The trap was closing, but the girl wasn't taking chances with it while The Shadow was still close by. Then The Shadow was gone, and Steve with him, around the corner of Li Huang's house and through the narrow alley between that building and the eaved apartment.

As they went, they heard the bronze door clang, slammed shut by Ming Dwan.

The Shadow added a whispered laugh to the brazen echoes, but kept Steve on a steady dash through the alley. Police whistles were shrilling from the front street.

How The Shadow would manage an escape was a puzzle to Steve, until the answer cropped up just when wanted. The answer was a taxicab that didn't have to be summoned. It was wheeling to the curb, its door wide open. The Shadow thrust Steve inside, then joined him.

Out from the streets of Chinatown, into a quiet area where gunfire and excitement were very far behind; there, The Shadow opened the door as the cab paused for a traffic light. The Shadow didn't have to state his purpose. It was obvious. He was going his own way, leaving this cab for Steve to do with as he chose.

It seemed that there should be some parting token, though Steve didn't quite know how to introduce the subject. Shaking hands with a friend who might vanish in the middle of the clasp was just a bit too eerie. Still, The Shadow's hand was coming toward Steve, so he reached out to accept it.

What the Shadow did was place an object squarely in Steve's hand. Then, as the cab started forward, the cloaked being whirled suddenly through the door, disappearing.

Squatting in Steve's palm was the miniature dragon carved from solid jet, the black talisman with green jade eyes that had so mysteriously disappeared from Steve's possession - to be returned by that incredible master of things unknown: The Shadow!

CHAPTER V.

THE LAW DECIDES.

CLYDE BURKE waited until Steve Trask filled his pipe and lighted it.

WhileSteve was drawing a long breath of smoke, Clyde said: "Go on."

"That's about all there is," returned Steve. "I'll admit that my adventures sound fabulous, particularly when related in the broad daylight of this hotel room, but last night they were real enough."

Clyde shook his head. "The part about the opium den queers it, Trask.

People would cla.s.s it as a pipe dream."

"There's the jet dragon." Steve gestured toward the object. It was on a writing table in the corner. "It should prove something."

"It might prove that you went Sujan's shop, if he would admit selling you the thing. But Sujan won't do any talking. The police loaded him with lead when they were mopping up the hop joint."

"But the fact that Sujan was in the opium den! With other j.a.panese!"

"That's all been covered," argued Clyde. "The police have rounded up a lot of j.a.ps in other places, and this makes just one more, The fact that they were hopheads makes this bunch look like a lot of no-accounts. Sorry, Trask, but your yarn won't make news, not even in a scandal-loving tabloid like the Cla.s.sic, for which I work."

Steve was glad Burke wouldn't print his story. In fact, Clyde's decision gave Steve a deeper inkling into the real purpose of the reporter's visit.

It struck Steve that Clyde Burke was working for The Shadow rather than for the New York Cla.s.sic. At least, the reporter's arrival at the hotel formed a connected chain. Having come from Chinatown in the cab supplied by The Shadow, Steve a.s.sumed that the driver of that cab had checked his ident.i.ty and informed his cloaked chief. Today, The Shadow doubtless learned that Steve Trask was acquainted with Rufus Miljohn, whose recent death was marked as suicide.

For Clyde Burke, by way of introduction, had mentioned that the Cla.s.sic was looking into the Miljohn case. The reporter hoped that Steve could shed some light on it; and Steve had, by recounting the whole story of the jet dragon, along with describing such partic.i.p.ants as Sujan, Li Huang, Ming Dwan, and most important of all - The Shadow.

Now Clyde, in his casual reporter's style, was picking up the tiny black dragon and examining it. Reverting to their initial premise, Clyde queried: "You saw a dragon like this in Miljohn's apartment?"

"I did," replied Steve. "Only an hour before Miljohn was found with a bullet through his brain and a gun in his fist!"

"And Miljohn had no reason for suicide?"

"None at all. He told me he'd cleaned up plenty while he was in the Orient."

Clyde produced a clipping and handed it to Steve, who read it between pipe puffs. The clipping cla.s.sed Miljohn as a refugee who had lost an entire fortune when the j.a.panese invaded Hong Kong. Steve shook his head.

"That was Miljohn's bluff," he declared. "He was smart enough to pretend he'd lost everything, because he didn't want the wrong people on his neck.

Trouble was, they guessed the truth, so they murdered Miljohn and framed it to look like suicide."

SO confident was Steve regarding his theory that he went further with it.Picking up the jet dragon, Steve tapped it with his pipe stem.

"Miljohn counted on one of these to protect him," argued Steve. "I'd say this token must represent some secret group that aided Miljohn's escape.

Whoever carries one of these will find friends when he needs them. Maybe it slipped with Miljohn, but the rule worked with me. The person who proved it was The Shadow."

Clyde's lips straightened, suppressing a smile. Bluntly, the reporter inquired: "Would you like to test the dragon further?"

Steve sucked deeply at his pipe, comparing the pleasant aroma of this afternoon's tobacco with the sickening smell of last night's opium. Somehow, the taste of the pipe gave Steve new confidence.

He nodded. Whereupon Clyde drew an afternoon newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it on the writing desk, beside the jet-black dragon.

"This happened last night," declared Clyde, "about the time when you were in Chinatown. Only they didn't discover it until this noon."

The newspaper account shrieked murder. The victim was Lewis Pendleton, a wealthy publisher just returned from the Orient. His case couldn't be suicide, for three bullets of varying caliber had been extracted from Pendleton's brain, after the police discovered him dead in his hotel room. Nor were any guns found on the premises.

"Why, this ties in with Miljohn's death!" exclaimed Steve. "Only, this time, the police know that it was murder."

"There's another difference," put in Clyde, referring to the newspaper.

"Pendleton really suffered heavy financial losses, because his publishing plants were destroyed."

"Maybe he'd written off the costs," remarked Steve cagily. "From what Miljohn told me, smart men in the Orient saw things coming a long while before they happened."

Clyde pointed to another paragraph.

"It doesn't apply to Pendleton," the reporter stated. "He was going to start all over. He'd found a million-dollar backer, whose name is given right here - Miles Fenmore, one of New York's biggest financiers."

The mere name of Miles Fenmore was enough to take Steve's breath away, but the thing that Clyde suggested was even more gasp-producing. Picking up the carved dragon, Clyde plunked it in Steve's palm and queried: "Why don't you take this to Miles Fenmore? Show him the dragon and tell him about Miljohn. Fenmore wants to find the men who murdered Pendleton. He'd listen to your story."

At first, the proposition staggered Steve, but gradually he regained his mental balance. Knocking the ashes from his pipe, he dropped the brier in one pocket and placed the carved dragon in the other.

"All right, Burke," Steve decided firmly. "I'll go."

DUSK was settling over the Fenmore mansion when Steve knocked at the front door. Admitted to the house that rated as one of Manhattan's show places, Steve stated bluntly that he wanted to see Miles Fenmore. To his surprise, hisrequest was promptly granted.

There was some red tape along the way, the footman pa.s.sing Steve to a secretary, who turned him over to another at the top of a grand staircase.

Then there was a private secretary who wanted to know something about Steve's business, but this caused little delay. The moment Steve said that it concerned the Pendleton murder, the secretary spoke to Fenmore by telephone.

Immediately, Steve was ushered through a final door into Fenmore's own study.

Broad-shouldered, with a face proportionally wide, Fenmore gazed at Steve with sharp, appraising eyes that flanked an aristocratic nose. Below that high-bridged centerpiece were wide lips, firm and tight, that showed neither smile nor greeting. The proof that Fenmore had weighed Steve satisfactorily came when the financier raised one hand and brushed back his short-clipped hair, as though to cover its streaks of gray.

Then, in blunt tone, Fenmore spoke. "Good afternoon, Mr. Trask. You have something to tell me about my friend Pendleton. Let me hear it."

Inasmuch as Steve's story began with Miljohn and wouldn't really include Pendleton, Steve started proceedings by producing the jet dragon and sliding it across Fenmore's gla.s.s-topped desk.

Immediately, Fenmore's eyes showed curiosity. He picked up the miniature dragon and proceeded to examine it while Steve talked.

Steve found himself contrasting this interview with the one he had held with Li Huang. Of course the circ.u.mstances were different; still, the contrast held good. With Li Huang, Steve had found it difficult to choose his words under the steady gaze of the merchant's eyes. In Fenmore's case, it was a case of telling everything to even gain the man's attention.

Indeed, Steve felt that Fenmore hadn't heard a tenth of what he said, until it was all finished. Then Fenmore laid the little dragon aside and looked up with that same sharp gaze. Aloud, he repeated the high-spots of Steve's story practically word for word, to prove how completely they had registered.

Nodding his corroboration, Steve brought out his pipe and tobacco pouch.

Finding the pouch almost empty, he produced a flat tin of smoking mixture.

Then, fearing that he might be offending Fenmore, Steve laid the tin on the desk and started to put his pipe away.

At that point, Fenmore actually smiled, and his lips were very genial.

Opening a square ebony box that rested on the desk, he pushed it Steve's way, displaying a full supply of rich tobacco.

"Try my blend," suggested Fenmore. "Fill your pouch, too, Trask. My friends all like this special mixture."

Having thus cla.s.sed Steve as a friend, Fenmore went further. He produced a meerschaum pipe and filled it after Steve had finished packing brier and pouch.

They were both smoking away when Fenmore completed his summary and inquired: "Am I correct on all the details?"

When Steve nodded, Fenmore asked if he would like to dictate the whole account to one of the secretaries. Steve agreed that he would, so Fenmore ushered him into a little room off the study.

When the secretary arrived, Fenmore left, closing the door behind him.

Choosing his words carefully, Steve repeated his account as nearly verbatim as he could remember it. AT the end of ten minutes, Steve returned to the study. From behind the desk, Fenmore gestured him to a chair. Picking up his tobacco tin, Steve dropped it in his pocket and brought out the pouch, to load his pipe for another smoke.

He was reaching for the jet dragon when Fenmore stopped him.

"Inspector Cardona is outside," stated Fenmore. "He is the police official who is handling the Pendleton case."

Steve decided that the law could know the facts, so far as he'd dictated them. He'd left out the little matter of his revolver, now in the possession of Li Huang, whose whole behavior he had commended.

Pressing a buzzer, Fenmore smiled dryly and gestured toward the carved dragon.

"We'll let the inspector see this," said Fenmore. "If it excites his curiosity as it did mine, it will keep him occupied until the secretary finishes typing your statement."

Inspector Cardona entered. He was a stocky individual with a swarthy face that formed a perfect dead-pan. But his eyes couldn't restrain their sudden interest when they lighted on the jet dragon. While Steve and Fenmore were exchanging smiles, Cardona pounced upon the object as though intending to swallow it.

Turning the dragon from hand to hand, Cardona stopped abruptly and looked from Fenmore to Steve. Maybe the inspector detected the pride of ownership in Steve's expression, for he quickly demanded: "Did you bring this here?"

Steve nodded, whereupon Cardona promptly tendered him the tiny dragon, gesturing for him to put it away. Steve was dropping it in his empty coat pocket, when he noted that Cardona was rubbing his hands as though they were sticky. Muttering something about a handkerchief, Cardona was reaching in his own hip pocket, when he added: "Funny, the way that black polish comes off! Leaves your hands looking like a coal-heaver's!"

Steve brought his own hands palms-upward and stared at them. He couldn't see any traces of the black stain that Cardona mentioned. Still staring, Steve exclaimed: "Why, I didn't get any of it, inspector -"

Cardona's hand was slashing forward with a glitter. Cold metal cracked against Steve's wrists and clamped there! Before Steve could realize that he was solidly handcuffed, Cardona was hauling him to his feet. Turning his prisoner toward the desk, the swarthy inspector displayed him like an exhibit. Staring in amazement, Miles Fenmore couldn't seem to understand the sudden turn of things any more than Steve.

Then came Cardona's gruff explanation, if it could be called such.

"Lucky I came along, liar. Fenmore," announced the inspector. "Whoever the fellow is, he's dangerous. We want him for the murder of Lewis Pendleton!"

CHAPTER VI.