considered to be an organization of clever men; was it not?"
Lamont Cranston nodded.
"The czar's agents," said Zuvor, "were children compared to the men who now receive their orders from
Moscow. Why? Because the Red agents can find a haven in any country.
"Here in America, they are received by communist organizations. They are protected.
"Silent, and unseen, they hide behind a perfect smoke screen. They let the American radicals blurt and
fume; they remain silent, and direct the work. No man can cope with them."
"Not even The Shadow that you mentioned?"
"The Shadow? He may be a power among criminals. Faced by the Red organization, he would be
helpless. His cloak of mystery would prove a thin, ineffective disguise. Whether he works alone, or
depends upon other men, he would be utterly unable to combat the agents of Moscow."
"Who directs them?"
"Ah!" exclaimed Prince Zuvor. "That in itself is a mystery. It is said that they work in groups, and that the
leaders—men of nerve and cunning— receive their instructions from one higher up, a Red Envoy, whose
power is greater than that of a government ambassador.
"These are facts which I have heard; but I cannot say that they are thoroughly reliable. My own
knowledge is imperfect. I only know that the Moscow government pretends to have no connection with
the Red Envoy."
"He must be more remarkable than The Shadow," observed Lamont Cranston, with enthusiasm. "Have
you ever encountered him?"
"No!" exclaimed Prince Zuvor. "May I never do so! Those who are watching me are his agents. That is
why I exercise great caution.
"I do not know when they may decide to strike. My life is a defensive one. I am not afflicted by fear—if
that emotion should dominate me, I would go insane. My one controlling power is caution. Constant
caution."
"Your Russian servant. Can you trust him?"
"Ivan? He is a relic of the czarist time. Faithful and honest. He obeys my commands implicitly. He would
sacrifice his life if he thought for an instant that I was in danger."
"Why do you stay here?"
"I have work to do. While I still possess sufficient freedom to aid those friends of the old regime, I shall
stay.
"The invisible meshwork of the Red organization has been growing closer. Soon it will close—threatening
to ensnare me. Then I shall leave—as Berchik left; by a way known only to myself."
"In the meantime," said Lamont Cranston thoughtfully, "you must remember that I am your friend. While it
would be inadvisable for me to become entangled in the snare of which you speak, still, I may be able to
help you."
Prince Zuvor bowed in appreciation.
"Those words are welcome, sir," he said. "Our acquaintance has been a short one; but the emblem which
you carry beneath your ring is a token that I recognize. Perhaps, when we meet again, I shall propose
certain plans which -"
"Very good. You can always reach me by a message to the Cobalt Club. At present I am staying away
from my home; in fact, I am constantly in and out of New York during the daytime."
LAMONT CRANSTON rose, as though about to leave. Prince Zuvor stopped him with an upraised
hand.
"The danger does not lie in coming here," he said. "The real risk is in departing. You will be watched,
to-night, if you leave this house as you came in -"
"I shall assume that risk," replied Cranston.
"I can provide a certain means of departure," offered the Russian. "A method whereby you can escape
followers -"
Cranston shook his head.
"I do not fear them," he said. "I doubt that these men will trail me very far. It is worth the experience, at
least."
The prince rang for Ivan, and the Russian servant escorted the millionaire to the front door.
Lamont Cranston stepped forth into the darkness of the night. He walked a few paces; then observed a
taxicab, and hailed it. As he rode away, the millionaire glanced up at the house of Prince Zuvor. The front
of the building was totally dark.
But the curtains were no longer drawn on the second floor, although that fact was not discernible from
the street.
Prince Zuvor had extinguished the light in his room. He was watching the departing cab; and as it went
into motion, he saw a car move from the opposite curb, swerving outward, as though in pursuit.
Prince Zuvor closed the curtains. He turned on a light in the room. His face was grim, and his lips moved
as though he was talking to himself. Ivan entered. The prince's face assumed its accustomed calm.
"Ivan," said Zuvor in Russian, "that man is our friend. You must receive him as a friend—when he comes
here again."
Then, as an afterthought, he added, in English:
"If he comes here again."
CHAPTER XVIII. THOSE WHO FOLLOWED
LAMONT CRANSTON'S cab sped westward across New York. The driver had been given a
destination more than a mile away. But now he received new instructions. The man in the back seat
leaned forward through the window, and exhibited a ten-dollar bill.
"Turn quickly," he said. "Left at the next corner. Double back. Go by the house which I just left."
The cab wheeled around the corner. The driver made another quick turn to the left, down a narrow
street. Realizing that his passenger had some plan afoot, the man at the wheel chose an unfrequented
byway.
But before he had reached the avenue beyond, he was aware that another car was roaring down the
narrow street. The cab driver mumbled to himself, as he realized that he was being followed.
A taxicab is not a vehicle for speed; but it is designed for quick turn and prompt control. Lamont
Cranston, calmly smoking a cigarette in the back seat, smiled as he felt the cab swerve around another
corner.
Lamont Cranston leaned into the front seat.
"When you come to the house I left, stop there," he said. "I am going back."
"Oh," exclaimed the driver. For a moment he thought that the pursuing car was imaginary. "Shall I go
slower, sir?"
"On the contrary," replied Cranston calmly, "I would appreciate it if you would go faster."
The cab whirled along the avenue. It was approaching the corner where it must turn to reach Zuvor's
house. Cranston again spoke through the window.
"Take this one corner slowly," he remarked. "It is rather dangerous."
The driver nodded approvingly. The avenue turned at an angle at the point mentioned. The corner was
indeed a bad one. The cab was nearing it now.
The driver applied his brakes with a jolt. The cab skidded slightly, as it came to a standstill; then the
taximan swung the wheel, and the cab leaped forward like a living creature.
As it shot down the street, a sedan turned from the avenue, in close pursuit.
THE driver stopped his cab suddenly in front of Prince Zuvor's house. Leaping from his seat, he opened
the door. At that instant, the sedan came up behind.
The taximan stepped back in amazement. Then he reached in, and turned on the light. To his utter
astonishment, the back of the cab was empty!
The man's bewilderment was observed from the sedan. A tall, broad-shouldered fellow stepped to the
sidewalk, and approached the cab.
"What's the matter, bud?" he asked.
"The matter!" ejaculated the cab driver, forgetting all about the recent pursui
t. "I had a passenger in here
a minute ago. Now he's gone!"
With an oath, the other man dashed back to the sedan. The big car swung around, and climbed the curb
on the opposite side of the street, making its turn with the greatest possible speed.
It shot up toward the avenue; and just as it arrived, a cab left the corner. A man was staring through the
back window. The sedan moved in immediate pursuit.
Lamont Cranston laughed slightly, as he rolled along in the new cab. A freak of fate had spoiled his little
game.
He had left the first cab, when it had stopped so suddenly at the corner of Prince Zuvor's street. He had
cleverly avoided observation of those in the sedan. He had led them back to Prince Zuvor's house— to
the end of a blind trail.
But he had reckoned on another cab at the corner; and none had been there. It had been more than a
minute before a cab had come along; and in that space of time, the occupants of the sedan had learned
their mistake, and had taken up the chase anew.
The driver of this cab was as reckless as the other. He displayed a marvelous knowledge of upper New
York. Picking streets with remarkable precision, he seemed always to arrive at a corner while a green
light was burning.
Once, he left the sedan confronting a light which turned red as the taxi passed; but Lamont Cranston,
glancing backward, saw that the pursuers paid no attention to the stop signal at the crossing.
The taximan knew it, too; and he tried the plan again; this time to better avail. He shot over a crossing as
the light was changing.
There was a traffic officer here, and the cab driver chuckled at the plight of the sedan. Now he was
earning his ten-spot. They would get away this time!
"Well done," complimented Cranston. "Now drive slowly. Take it quite easily, until you have passed the
next corner."
The driver was completely bewildered. This man who had seemed so anxious to get away was now
deliberately enticing and aiding the pursuing car!
IN fact, the sedan was close behind, when the cab resumed its speed. The driver, catching a slight
advantage, put a half a block between himself and the pursuers.
A few blocks later, the cab stopped. It was well ahead of the sedan; yet the passenger seemed in no
hurry to leave. He stepped slowly from the cab; gave the driver another bill, and watched him pull away.
Then, as the sedan whirled up the street toward him, Lamont Cranston calmly stepped into a limousine
that was parked a few feet away. The chauffeur, dozing at the wheel, woke up instantly as he heard the
door close. He looked back with a startled expression.
"Take me to the Landis Club," said Lamont Cranston, in a deep voice. "Hurry, Wilkes. Move along."
"Yes, sir," replied the chauffeur.
He turned the limousine into the traffic, skimming the front of the pursuing sedan as he did. Lamont
Cranston was scarcely visible in the back seat. But he was moving in the darkness. His hands were lifting
a package from the floor.
Ten minutes later, the limousine rolled grandly up to the entrance of the Landis Club, which was fronted
by a canopy that stretched across the sidewalk. The sedan pulled into a vacant space behind, and waited
there.
THE car starter was busy at the moment; then he saw the limousine, and hurried to open the door. No
one stepped out. The starter spoke to the chauffeur.
"Have you come for some one?" he questioned.
The chauffeur looked bewildered.
"I'm bringing Mr. Krause," he said. "Didn't he get out?"
"There's no one in the car," replied the starter.
The chauffeur alighted, and looked into the back of the limousine, with unbelieving eyes. At the same
time, a man emerged from the inconspicuous sedan, and strolled up toward the limousine.
"Blame me," said the chauffeur. "I've been dreamin', that's what! I would ha' swore that Mr. Krause was
in the car there. You're sure he didn't get out?"
"Positive!" snapped the starter. "He's not there now, that's certain."
The chauffeur looked at his watch.
"Early for him at that," he said. "Just the same, I can't figger it. He got out where he always leaves me, an'
left me waitin' there. Funny thing, too; just after he left, I thought he came back, but it wasn't nobody at
all.
"Then I went to sleep; couple hours. Then he gets in the car, wakes me up, an' tells me to bring him here.
"Blame me, it's funny. Yet it ain't time for the theater to be out. Guess I'd better be goin' back."
He took a last look in the back of the limousine; his eyes saw a piece of wrapping paper. He brought it
out; looked at it, and dropped it on the street.
"Looks like somebody had a package in there," he said. "They must ha' opened it, an' left the wrappin'."
His final remarks were addressed to a few bystanders; the starter had left.
"It sounded like Mr. Krause, all right," continued the chauffeur. "'Take me to the Landis Club. Hurry,
Wilkes,' he says. I ought to know his voice when I hears it. Yet it must ha' been me dreamin'."
The chauffeur returned to the limousine, and drove away, still shaking his head in bewilderment. Yet he
had propounded one theory which was correct.
There had been a package in the car; it had been placed there early in the evening, just after Mr. Krause
had left the limousine. That same package had been opened—while the chauffeur was driving to the
Landis Club.
Its contents had been a black cloak, and that cloak had been donned by the man who had ridden in the
car. Lamont Cranston had slipped from the door opposite the curb, just as the limousine had pulled up to
the Landis Club.
He had been nothing more than a shape of the night—a shadowy, sable figure, that seemed clothed with
a garment of invisibility.
THE sedan remained a while after the limousine had gone. The man who had left it had returned. He
watched the street on both sides.
He saw a cab pull up on the other side; it discharged two passengers, who argued about who should
have the privilege of paying the driver.
The cab pulled away; and the man watching it from the sedan never detected the blotch of blackness that
flitted into the back seat just before the driver closed the door.
The taxi driver did not see it either. In fact, he was stupefied, a short while later, when a head appeared
from the interior of the cab, and he was given an address by a passenger whose presence he had not
suspected.
The cabman was somewhat in a quandary about how to regulate the meter; for he did not know when his
passenger had arrived. But the man in back settled that matter, by handing him more than sufficient
payment.
The sedan pulled away not long after the cab. It wended its way uptown, again, and stopped for nearly
an hour in front of Prince Zuvor's house. Then one of the occupants alighted, and walked along the street,
while the other drove away.
The man who was on foot was an observant fellow; but he did not see the peculiar shadow that had
suddenly detached itself from the house that he had been watching.
He stopped at a restaurant, and his companion joined him. The other had put the car in a garage. The
two men sat and talked.
They scarcely observed a quiet, black-clad individual, who sat in a corner, eating alone.
Leaving the restaurant, the men walked along a street, an
d their shadows moved with them, by the curb.
Had they looked behind, they would have seen a third shadow, not far in the rear; a strange, uncanny
shadow—one that apparently had no right to exist; for no human being was visible beside it.
The men reached a house, and entered. When they had gone in, the shadow that had kept pace with
them suddenly disappeared. It melted into the shadow of the house, and its presence was no longer
evident.
Those who followed had, in turn, been followed.
They had been traced by The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX. THE GHOSTS OF DEATH ISLAND
THE first three days at Death Island had been uneventful ones for Harry Vincent. His strange introduction
to the men who lived there had been followed by very prosaic reality.
He was lodged in an upstairs room on the second floor; and it appeared to be a typical room of the
house.
The downstairs portion of the building was quite ordinary—with the exception of Professor Whitburn's
study, which was simply the working room of a very eccentric man.
Harry had quickly become accustomed to the routine of the place. He had met the other member of the
group—Marsh—and had found him to be quite as unusual as Crawford and Stokes. In fact, Marsh was
more unusual.
He was a pale, gawky fellow, more than six feet tall, who walked with a pronounced stoop, as though
accustomed to ceilings that were too low for him.
Each man seemed to have certain duties to perform, which were his own particular business. There must
be some tasks that they shared in common, for occasionally Harry saw two together; but usually they
were alone.
Crawford handled the cooking, and the men helped themselves to the food. Professor Whitburn seemed
to eat very little, and Crawford attended to his meager wants.
Harry's work proved to be the accumulation of knowledge. Professor Whitburn had supplied him with
numerous textbooks on engineering, and had marked certain passages which he proposed that Harry
should read.
The motor boat was seldom used. Sometimes Crawford operated it; sometimes Stokes. One or the
other went to get supplies or mail. The former appeared to be Crawford's job; the latter was the duty of
Stokes.
Wandering about the island, between his studies, Harry found it to be of small acreage, and thickly
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