The Cup of Confucious

of a furious fight taking place somewhere below in the estate.

It might mean a renewed attack from the staircase or from the sheer surface of the ivy-covered wall. Vincent knew that a determined man could climb

that wall, if he were desperate enough. He gave it tense, undivided attention.

The stone that flew without warning through the open window almost struck Vincent's hunched shoulder. It landed with a thump on the floor, rebounded against the wall.

Vincent pounced on the object before he saw clearly what it was. His first

thought was that it might be a bomb. But it was a plain, jagged stone. A sheet of paper was wrapped about it, tied securely in place with a tight loop of cord.

Harry Vincent ripped the cord loose, spread the paper flat under his eager

eyes. He uttered a low exclamation.

The paper contained a hasty scrawl in a hand that was familiar to Harry.

There was no doubt in his mind but that The Shadow had written this message.

The note was terse. Vincent frowned, but Clyde Burke's eyes gleamed when he read it:

Vincent remain with Arnold Dixon. Do not leave under any circumstance.

Burke report immediately to burned house on shore road. Signal sparrow chirp.

Speed.

Clyde Burke whirled, his face aglow with delight. Vincent showed no sign of the disappointment that filled him. He merely extended his hand, said "Good luck!" and watched Clyde race from the room. He heard Clyde depart on the motor

cycle on which he had come out from New York.

CHAPTER XVII

THE INDIAN'S NOSE

IT was pitch-dark in the tool shed where Bruce had so callously thrust William Timothy and his niece. The lawyer couldn't see Edith Allen, but the sound of her shrill scream made his ears tingle.

"Quiet!" he told Edith. "Screaming won't help us get out. I have the means

of escaping from here in less than five minutes!"

His sharp whisper was confident. Edith became silent. In the darkness, she

could hear the scratch of a match. Light flared. Timothy was holding the match high over his head. He uttered an exclamation of satisfaction when he saw the vertical wire of an electric droplight.

There was a click and the windowless prison of the tool shed became bright

with illumination.

"Search the shelves," Edith cried, eagerly. "There must be a chisel, or something."

"A chisel won't help a bit," Timothy replied, evenly. "I know the strength

of that door - and the strength of the lock, too."

His smile deepened.

"Luckily, I was suspicious about what we might run into here to-night. I came prepared for an emergency."

As he spoke he fished a circlet of keys from his pocket. They were skeleton keys. He knelt at the keyhole of the door and began to manipulate them

with trembling fingers. Then he left the door abruptly and began to rummage along the shelves at the back of the shack. He was looking for a length of stout cord and he found a piece that satisfied him.

"Cord?" Edith inquired in a puzzled tone. "What's that for?"

"For you, my dear," the lawyer cried, softly - and sprang at her.

TIMOTHY was gentle as possible, but Edith was unable to elude the firm grasp that caught her and held her helpless. The cords were tied swiftly, in spite of her furious efforts. He laid her on the floor, surveyed her with a panting apology.

"I'm sorry," he muttered in a shamefaced tone. "It's for your own good, Edith. This is the safest place you can be to-night, and I mean for you to stay

here."

"You're afraid to trust me," she sobbed. "You think I'm still in love with

Bruce!"

He nodded. His hands shook. But there was no relenting in his steady eyes.

"It will take all my nerve and energy to protect myself," he muttered. "I can't be bothered with the presence of a woman."

He sprang back to the door. One of his skeleton keys had really fitted the

lock, although Edith had been unaware of it at the time. Timothy threw open the

door, quickly slipped into the darkness.

He ran noiselessly toward the mansion. As he darted past the side wing, he

glanced warily up. The house itself was in darkness except for two lighted rooms. One was on the upper story: the bedroom of Arnold Dixon. The second lighted room was on the ground floor.

The lawyer approached this latter spot. The frame of the window showed unmistakable signs of a forced entry. The rug on the floor looked rumpled and scuffed as if a furious fight had taken place within at some recent moment.

Yet

there was no sign of a human being lurking within.

Timothy crouched back from the window, wondering uneasily what he ought to

do. As he stood there, half turned to protect himself from a sudden attack at his rear, his startled glance saw a tiny square of white paper lying on the grass. It was visible because of the slanting rays of light that issued from the window.

Bending swiftly, the lawyer snatched it. He read the note on it with incredulous amazement. It was the same bait that The Shadow had left with Bruce

Dixon. Bruce had dropped it as he sprang swiftly from the room after his rather

easy "victory" over The Shadow.

The lawyer realized the significance of his find as quickly as Bruce had before him. It was obvious that some one - just who, the worried lawyer found it impossible to decide - had unearthed the secret hiding place of the missing Cup of Confucius.

The typed memo under the cryptic lines above was proof of that. And the memo made the whereabouts of the cup ridiculously clear. All that was needed now was resolute determination, and speed.

WILLIAM TIMOTHY hastened away through the darkness, unmindful of the painful limp that came from the partly cured arthritis in his foot.

He found his car where he had left it and drove swiftly along the deserted

road that led to the blackened ruin of the old Carruthers house. He drove past it and parked his car in a branching lane that cut inward through pine and spruce, away from the direction of the near-by Sound.

When Timothy returned to the Carruthers property, he was on foot and his movements were cautious. The house had been almost completely obliterated by the roaring flames that had consumed it. The only remnants were a few charred ends of beams that protruded from blackened foundation walls.

Timothy's watchful eyes gleamed as he saw a patch of blackness on the earth midway between the ruin and himself. The black patch had seemed to move slightly. It was almost the exact size of a crouching man - a man who might be wearing a dark, concealing cloak and a wide-brimmed slouch hat drawn low over burning eyes and a hawklike nose.

The Shadow!

Timothy drew his gun, a small glittering automatic. The patch was no longer moving. He circled cautiously, approached from the rear. Suddenly, he gasped. The thing had been a trick of Timothy's overwrought imagination.

Starlight had made that patch of blackness seem to move. It was merely a small area of charred ground where a blazing timber had fallen and burned away the grass to a blackened bald spot.

Chuckling with relief, Timothy circled the ruin and approached the brow of

the cliff that overlooked Long Island Sound. He descended the stone steps cut in

the face of the cliff.

A FEW moments after the lawyer had vanished, there was a faint pop-pop from down the road. A motor cycle approached, its motor muffled. Clyde Burke dismounted hastily, wheeled the machine out of sight. He hurried to the ruin of

the Carruthers house.

He pursed his lips. The sound of a chirping sparrow filled the smoky air with brief clarity.

It was answered from the foundations of the ruined house. A black-gloved hand beckoned. Calm lips issued orders. Clyde listened attentively to the words.

When The Shadow had finished, Clyde was in complete knowledge of what was required of him. He nodded to show that he understood. There was utter amazement on his face. The Shadow had told him things that seemed completely incredible. But knowing The Shadow's methods, the absolute logic of his thoughts and actions, Clyde was ready to obey him.

The two hurried to the brow of the cliff and descended the stone steps to the platform at the water's edge. There was no sign of William Timothy. The Shadow's gloved hand pointed to the cliff wall two or three feet above the tide

mark where the restless waters of the Sound lapped the foot of the rocky precipice.

Exposed by the low tide was a perfect replica of an Indian's head. The freak rock formation was in profile and the face pointed away from the float on

which Clyde and The Shadow stood.

The Shadow held a length of rope in his hand. The end was directly over the bold outline of the Indian's nose. Clutching the loose end of the rope, Clyde lowered himself into the water and swam slowly away. The rope straightened. It touched the black surface of the water a dozen feet to the left of the platform.

Clyde's hand dipped beneath the surface at this exact point. His groping fingers felt no rock. There was a hole in the cliff below the water. It was the

entrance to a submerged tunnel.

Clyde drew in a long breath of air. He dived. Relying implicitly upon the instructions that The Shadow had given him, he swam through a long gallery filled completely with salt water from floor to roof.

THE floor of the tunnel swerved sharply upward and The Shadow's agent emerged gasping into air-filled darkness. He had been given a tiny flashlight and he sent its beam into the gloom. The gallery continued upward for a few yards farther. Its stone floor was dry.

There were muddy footprints, showing that some one had preceded Clyde into

this queer crypt within the cliff. Perhaps more than one, if The Shadow's warning had been correct. Other footmarks had evaporated. Only Timothy's still showed.

Clyde was very careful with his tiny light, as he moved onward. He descended a suddenly steeper slope to what looked like a natural doorway in the

rock tunnel. The round hole was open, but the means for closing it was close at

hand.

A rounded boulder was propped against the wall, midway down the slant.

Beside it rested a rusted crowbar.

Both boulder and crowbar were relics of an earlier day of criminal activity. This cliff and the house above it had been the headquarters of a powerful gang of rumrunners. The Shadow had uncovered the story from backfiles of newspapers, after he had penetrated to the secret of the underground cave.

It had once contained barrel upon barrel of contraband liquor. Now it hid men who were feverishly searching for a million-dollar cup - a priceless relic from the ancient civilization of China.

With the crowbar, Clyde pried the boulder loose. The incline took care of the task of shifting it. It rolled downward with a faint rumble on the smooth floor of the slanting tunnel. It struck the opening in the rock and wedged itself there. No man within could budge it without tools.

The exit of the lawyer and those who had preceded him into that underground labyrinth was now definitely closed. There was another entrance, but only The Shadow knew of it. He alone had explored every nook and cranny, on

a previous visit.

The last act of the drama was now about to commence.

Clyde again filled his lungs, dived into the water-filled gallery and swam

back to the dark ripple of the Sound.

He followed The Shadow up the cliff steps to the brink of the sheer precipice. The two disappeared into the blackened ruins of the foundation walls

where the Carruthers house had once stood.

For an instant, their creeping figures were dimly visible. Then there was no movement at all. Both men had vanished.

CHAPTER XVIII

EDITH TAKES A HAND

EDITH ALLEN lay stretched on the floor of the tool shed, where her uncle had left her bound hand and foot.

She was working tenaciously to free her hands from the loops of twine that

fettered them. In this activity, she had more than a mere forlorn hope. When her

uncle had jumped at her, she had a second's warning of his intent by the look in

his eyes.

Wisely, she had made no effort to struggle. But she held her hands together in such a way that the wrists overlapped slightly. Timothy had not noticed the girl's stratagem. But the trick had given her a precious fraction of an inch in which to slide her wrists back and forth.

She had slim, supple wrists, muscular from golf and tennis. The cords bit deeply into her flesh as she worked to loosen them. She gritted her teeth and tried to forget the pain. Already, one of her wrists was almost free. In another moment, she gave a sobbing cry. The cord fell to the floor. Bending, she untied her ankles with scarcely a pause.

She had a definite plan of escape in mind. Unlike her uncle, she had had ample time, while she lay straining on the floor, to notice the formation of the tool shack. The front and sides were a formidable obstacle to freedom. But the rear was a different story. Behind the shelves that lined the rear wall, the planking was very thin.

She concentrated her efforts on a single plank. It was rotted by rain and moisture, and field mice had gnawed part of the crumbling wood away. Edith hooked her fingers into the tiny aperture and tried to rip the board away. But the task was too much for her strength.

She got to her feet, ran desperate eyes along the length of the shelves.

Suddenly, she saw the glint of a hammer-head. She seized the implement and went

grimly back to her task.

It took several hard blows before she was able to split the crumbling plank. It was thin enough to split in several places. She was able now to rip it out, piece by piece.

A nail gashed a furrow in the flesh of her neck as she crawled through, but she paid no attention to the sharp pain.

She ran toward the home of Arnold Dixon. The thought of the old man's peril was like a draft of cold water. It steadied her pounding heart.

LIKE her uncle, the first thing Edith noticed was the open window on the ground floor of the silent mansion. But approaching it, she made an additional discovery. A gun lay in a patch of trampled grass. She picked it up, examined it, found that it was loaded.

Clutching it with a repressed sob of determination, Edith climbed swiftly through the open window and crept like a noiseless ghost up the broad staircase

of the mansion.

So gently did she ascend that she reached the upper floor without disclosing her presence to whoever was in the lighted room at the end of the corridor. The door was partly open, but it was impossible for the girl to see who was within.

That some one was inside with Arnold Dixon, she was certain. For she could

hear the faint groaning voice of the millionaire, and another voice she had never heard before.

A cautious glance at the crack of the door showed her the profile of a stranger. He was whispering grimly to Dixon. But Edith had no knowledge that this was Harry Vincent, an agent of The Shadow. She didn't realize that Harry's

presence here was to defend Dixon from his own foolhardy impulses.

Edith sprang through the doorway without warning. She had the drop on Vincent before he was aware there was any one inside the house except himself and his frightened host.

"Drop your gun!" Edith cried. "If you move an eyelash, I'll shoot to kill!"

She meant it. Her taut eyes warned Vincent instantly that a move meant death. He did the only thing possible. The gun slid from his fingers and thumped to the floor.

"Back up!" Edith commanded. "Against the rear wall! Turn your face to the wall! Palms flat!"

Dixon cried hoarsely from his chair: "Edith! Don't be a fool! This man is not a crook! He's - he's here to help me!"

The girl paid no attention. Dixon, she thought, was merely repeating some thing the desperado had taught him under pain of death if he refused.

Also, her eyes saw something that made them harden like ice. She moved quickly toward the bureau where a small stone lay, partly covering a piece of paper. Her gun was ready to kill Vincent, if he changed his helpless pose against the rear wall of the room. She snatched the note, backed toward the open doorway.

Holding the paper over the barrel of her gun with a free hand, Edith was able to read it with a lightning glance. It was the same note that The Shadow had hurled from the ground through the open window, ordering Clyde Burke to join him at the fire-blackened ruin of the Carruthers house.

Edith uttered a clipped cry of comprehension. She darted swiftly from the room.

"Stop!" Harry cried. "Don't go! You'll be killed!"

Arnold Dixon added his shrill cry to the warning of Vincent. Harry ran to the hallway, but Edith was already on the floor below, racing away with every atom of speed in her lithe, young legs.

Had Vincent been free to rush from the house and pursue the girl through the grounds, he might easily have caught her. But he dared not stir a step outside. The Shadow had ordered him to remain on duty at the side of the threatened millionaire.

"Stop her, before it's too late!" Dixon shrilled.

Vincent shook his head.

"It's too late already," he murmured, quietly. "Her only help now is the brain and strength of The Shadow."

THE SHADOW, at this moment, was no longer on the surface of the ground.

He had lifted a small link of copper imbedded in the stone of a square flag in the center of the cellar ruins of the Carruthers house. The stone had lifted slowly, ponderously. Through the opening descended The Shadow, followed by the agile body of Clyde Burke.

The Shadow used his tiny flashlight sparingly. When it shone, it was a mere flicker of light. These tiny firefly glints were all the guidance The Shadow needed on his silent journey through twisting underground corridors that

led to the hollowed-out chambers in the heart of the cliff.

The Shadow had been through these passages before. He knew exactly what lay ahead. He knew, also, the exact whereabouts of the Cup of Confucius. The whisper of his grim laughter echoed softly from the rocky walls.

Occasionally, a side passage radiated off from the main corridor. Some of these passages were mere offshoots, smaller caves filled with dust and musty odors. But from one of them a faint groan sounded, as The Shadow's light winked

briefly. The groan was barely audible, but The Shadow heard it and motioned to Clyde to follow him.

It was with difficulty that Clyde repressed a cry, as he saw the gagged-and-bound figure. The Shadow's hand grasped Clyde's in a warning gesture. Clyde clamped his lips together and made no sound. He followed The Shadow back to the ever-descending slope of the winding passage.

Another opening appeared on the left. It was similar to the one in which the gagged figure had lain. But there was no human being in it. It had evidently been used as a storeroom by the bootleg gang of the past. Its contents were grimly ominous. Boxes were piled up in a narrow tier along the cobwebbed wall. The lid was off one of them.

Dynamite sticks! Packed loosely in a protecting matrix of slightly damp sawdust.

Something equally dangerous - more so, in fact - was visible in other cases across the damp floor of the dungeon. The calm finger of The Shadow pointed; his faint whisper breathed at Clyde's ear.

"Mercury - fulminate of mercury!" Clyde repeated, his eyes round with wonder.

He knew the explosive force imprisoned in those innocent little objects in

the open case. They were detonating caps. Made of sensitive chemical gelatin, they would explode from the tiniest impact. A single one in the hands of a careless man could transform him instantly into bloody tatters of flesh and rags.

CLYDE'S hair prickled on his scalp, as The Shadow drew him out of the storeroom and led him silently onward into the rocky heart of the cliff.

The corridor was widening, spreading into a huge underground cave. In size, the place was enormous. But the size was not readily apparent because of the odd way in which the cave was broken up. Huge stalactites like enormous stone icicles hung from the damp roof of the chamber. They had been formed by the slow drip for centuries of water that had seeped through the rock.

Each drop left its deposit of carbonate of lime. The result was these crusted monsters of stone hanging like pointed pillars from the roof, dividing the cave into a network of smaller chambers.

Clyde Burke stood perfectly still. The finger of The Shadow was pointing.

A light glowed in the midst of this underground maze. To the sound of dripping water was added still other sounds - the clink of a pickax, the rough metallic scrape of a shovel.

Two men were digging furiously at a spot in the floor where the earth looked as though it had been recently disturbed.

The man with the shovel lifted his sweating face. It was a mean, ratlike countenance. Beside him, the man with the pickax swore fiercely. In the lantern

light, Clyde caught a glimpse of a pointed brown beard and ruthless pinpoint eyes.

The underground diggers were Paul Rodney and his evil little henchman, Squint.

CHAPTER XIX

THE END OF THE RIDDLE

"IT'S no use," Rodney snarled. "Get up out of that hole. We're wasting time!"

"We've only dug about three feet," Squint protested. "The cup may be buried deeper than we thought."

The Shadow and Clyde Burke watched the crooked pair. The Shadow had drawn his agent into a tiny grotto of the cave wall, formed by the rough juncture of two huge stalactites. Neither Rodney nor Squint were aware that they were under

surveillance.

"The cup can't be buried any deeper," Rodney growled. "It's been stolen already! I was afraid of this, when I saw how soft the earth was. Somebody has been here ahead of us!"

"The Shadow!" Squint muttered.

Rodney's bearded face seemed to twitch under the impact of sudden murderous rage.

"That damned paper of his! It must have been a deliberate plant! He found the cup, long ago! He meant us to read that note and come here. It might be a trap!"

His arm gestured fiercely.

"Quick! Get back to that water tunnel! See if the exit is still open! I remember now - there was a boulder that might be - Quick!"

Squint turned, raced off through the cave. Rodney's gun whipped into his hand. He turned, his glance searching the darkness beyond the lantern's glow with the stare of a cornered animal. He could see neither The Shadow nor Clyde.

But by some evil intuition, he remained facing the tiny grotto in which they were hidden, as if he were dimly aware that peril might lurk in that particular

spot.

It would have been easy to shoot him where he stood, but The Shadow had other plans. He intended to take full advantage of the play of evil against evil in this cliff cavern. He knew now the various forces involved against one another - and the amazing truth back of it all.

The sound of stumbling footsteps put an end to the grim tableau. Squint came racing back from his inspection of the tide tunnel.

"It's blocked!" he shrilled. "There's a big rock jammed tight in the hole we came through! There's no way to get out!"

"I thought so," Rodney growled. "Trapped!"

Squint's cry was tremulous with terror. "How - how are we gonna get out?

Maybe the water will come in, fill the whole damned place like an underground lake!"

"Shut up! Stop that yelling! I've got to think."

A voice behind the rigid pair interrupted with cold, slow menace.

"Hands up, you cheap rats!"

THE evil pair whirled, saw the level gun. It was Bruce Dixon. His face was

black with murder. He stood motionless at the edge of a dank gallery, from which

he had emerged.

Rodney dropped his weapon. He knew death when he saw it. But Squint, noticing that Bruce's attention was centered almost wholly on the brown-bearded

crook, sprang sideways and sent a treacherous bullet flaming toward their captor.

The bullet missed. The slug struck rock with a sullen thwack. The cave was

still roaring with sound when Squint toppled slowly forward. Bruce had shot him

grimly through the middle of the forehead. Squint was dead before his wizened body struck the ground.

"How about it, Rodney?" Bruce jeered. "Want a little dose of the same medicine?"

Bruce moved slowly forward, his weapon ready for the second kill. But Rodney made no hostile move. For some queer reason, the appearance of Bruce Dixon had filled him with rage, rather than terror. His words carried their own

explanation to the ears of The Shadow.

"So this is your game, you double-crossing skunk! I put you in Dixon's house, fix everything so you can pose as the old guy's son and clean up his dough - and I get this!"

Bruce laughed. The sound of it was freezing, utterly merciless.

"Talk some more," he jeered. "You're not a smart guy. You're a fool! You still don't know what it's all about! I'm handing you a lead pill, same as Squint got, right through the skull!"

Rodney's nerve left him. He began to plead.

"A sniveler!" Bruce sneered. "Did you think I came here to find that damned Cup of Confucius? I've got a bigger stake than that - I'm after every penny of Arnold Dixon's fortune! An I've got to do is to blast you to death -

and two more fools like you - and then I'm sitting pretty!"

"Two more?" Rodney faltered.

"You wouldn't understand."

Bruce's finger was beginning to squeeze ominously against the trigger, when Paul Rodney gave a shout of wild joy. He was glaring with glazed eyes past

the shoulder of his executioner. He seemed to be watching some one in the darkness behind Bruce.

"Kill him!" Rodney screamed. "Let that rat have it!"

But Bruce merely laughed.

"That's an old trick! It won't do you a damned bit of -"

A STREAK of scarlet jetted from the rocky cave behind Bruce. A bullet smashed into his back. He went down as if struck by lightning and lay there on his face without moving, badly wounded.

Rodney said, hoarsely: "Nice shooting, Timothy!" and picked up his dropped

gun.

Arnold Dixon's lawyer advanced slowly into the circle of yellow radiance cast by the lantern. He moved awkwardly because of the arthritis in his left foot. But that was the only familiar sign that linked this cold killer with the

peaceful lawyer that Arnold Dixon knew and trusted. His usual timid expression had peeled away like a mask. Even his voice was different.

"A fine mess you've made of things, you fool!"

"I obeyed every order you ever gave me," Rodney muttered. "It's not my fault if Bruce went haywire. You should have offered him a bigger cut. Then maybe he wouldn't have tried to double-cross us and grab everything."

"He grabs nothing," Timothy snarled. "He's dead! So will you be dead - if you don't remember I'm running this show and do as you're told!"

"You don't have to get tough with me! I've been head man of all your rackets too long, for you not to trust me."

"Maybe," Timothy snapped. "What happened to The Shadow? Are you sure he didn't follow you here?"

"I don't know."

"All right; we'll search the cave. Forget about drowning. The tide doesn't

rise that high. I know, because I studied the tidal marks. We've got to find The

Shadow! He's got to be killed - or I don't get my fingers on Arnold Dixon's millions!"

"Drop those guns both of you!" Clyde Burke ordered.

CLYDE had advanced with a noiseless bound from his vaulted hiding place.

Beside him was a more ominous figure, a black-cloaked specter that seemed to tower above the tense Clyde. Burning eyes and a beaked nose were visible in the

yellow light of the lantern.

"The Shadow!" Timothy gasped.

The robed figure made no answer. There was death waiting in the gloved fingers that rested so lightly on the triggers and William Timothy knew it.

He began to babble terrified words, a protestation of his innocence. But Clyde Burke cut him short with a brief sentence.

"Don't lie, you hypocrite! You betrayed yourself very neatly during the little talk you've just had with Rodney - your own henchman working under your criminal orders!"

The Shadow uttered a whisper of sibilant laughter. He began to glide slowly forward, and at his side Clyde Burke advanced, too.

Without warning, the cavern behind them echoed with a piercing scream. It was a woman's cry, bubbling with terror. It filled every nook and cranny of the

underground cave with spine-tingling abruptness.

Clyde Burke whirled instinctively. He saw a girl bending over a motionless

huddle on the floor. The huddle was Bruce Dixon. The girl was - Edith Allen.

Clyde had barely recognized her when he felt a powerful fist strike him between his shoulder blades. The blow knocked him from his feet. As he fell he heard the whistling rip of a bullet a scant inch above his head. Timothy had fired with the speed of desperation.

But The Shadow's action had been faster still. He had seen the guns of Rodney and Timothy jerk level. A sidelong blow sent his agent plunging head-first out of the path of death. His other gun took care of Rodney.

A scarlet dot appeared just below Rodney's left eye. He fell forward, and the weight of his dead body struck The Shadow's knee and knocked him off balance.

In that second, Timothy recovered from his futile shot at Clyde. The muzzle of the crooked lawyer's gun pointed straight at The Shadow's throat.

But

even as the gun spat, there was a queer, convulsive, jerk of Timothy's wrist.

The bullet nicked the ear lobe of The Shadow, instead of ripping his jugular apart.

Timothy stared dully, as though puzzled by his miss. Blood gushed from his

own throat. He died before he knew what had happened. He was unaware of Clyde, hunched fiercely on his knees, a curl of smoke eddying upward from the hot barrel of his weapon. Clyde had returned the swift favor The Shadow had done for him.

EDITH was still on her knees beside the figure of Bruce Dixon. She was moaning, wringing her hands. Apparently she hadn't heard the roaring pistols a few feet away.

The Shadow vanished into darkness. He followed the passage that led to a chamber where a mysterious, trussed figure had been lying, when Clyde and The Shadow had first made their cautious descent from above.

When The Shadow returned, he was not alone. A figure stumbled at his side.

The two hurried straight to the spot where Edith Allen was staring at the limp body of Bruce Dixon.

Edith seemed carved from stone. But as The Shadow helped his faltering companion forward, the grief that held Edith speechless was abruptly broken.

She uttered a shrill cry of wonder.

The man who stood facing her, his countenance etched in lines of suffering

and pain, was an exact counterpart of the wounded man who lay on the ground.

It

was as though Bruce Dixon had split himself, by some diabolic magic, into two separate bodies.

Bruce Dixon was staring downward into the sneering, wide-open eyes of -

Bruce Dixon!

CHAPTER XX

HIS FATHER'S SON

FOR an amazed second, Edith stared at the identical men. Then two things happened. The wounded Bruce uttered a faint, snarling oath. The Bruce whom The Shadow had brought back from the corridor offshoot held out trembling arms toward the girl.

"Edith! Thank God, you're safe! Oh - my darling!"

Her face cleared. She moved toward him, crept with a sob into his open arms. This was the man she loved and trusted. He talked tenderly to her in a voice she knew. But his smile was ashen; there was fear in the depths of his eyes.

"You are Bruce," Edith whispered. "Now I understand at last! This wounded man is an impostor. He was playing a criminal role, pretending to be Arnold Dixon's true son."

The man holding her in his arms was silent. His eyes avoided Edith. But the wounded man laughed jeeringly.

"Why doesn't he answer you? He can't - because he's a liar! He's not Arnold Dixon's real son. I am!"

The girl shuddered, drew back a pace. Clyde Burke glanced at The Shadow.

The Shadow nodded permission to speak.

"It's the truth," Clyde told Edith, quietly. "Dixon's real son is that murderous rat on the floor. The man you love is an impostor. But don't misjudge

him. The real criminal is Dixon's own son."

He glanced at the sneering crook on the floor.

"You're dying, Bruce. You might as well talk, before you die."

Bruce laughed feebly.

"Okay. Why not? I hated my stupid father - left him ten years ago - never would have returned until it was time for me to identify myself and inherit his

fortune. But I happened to read an item in a San Francisco paper, and realized that this good-looking fake was taking my place in the family, pretending to be

me."

He drew a deep, rattling breath.

"I came back secretly. I found out what was going on. This fellow was being used by Timothy, the lawyer, who was after the Dixon wealth. Rodney was the guy who arranged the substitution."

"That's not true," the white-faced impostor replied. "I never met Rodney.

I never saw him until the night he first appeared outside the library window at

Shadelawn."

Clyde Burke shook his head.

"You had met Paul Rodney before, but you didn't recognize him in his disguise of the brown beard."

The Shadow took a quick step forward where the dead Rodney lay. He bent suddenly and his gloved hand ripped the false beard from the stark face. It was

no longer Paul Rodney. It was the sleek, clean-shaven face of Donald Perdy, the

art photographer.

THE fake son of Arnold Dixon gave a shuddering cry. He buried his face.

"You'd better talk," Clyde told him in a gentle voice. "You're safe, now.

Tell the truth."

The young man nodded, squared his shoulders. His eyes moved toward Edith.

He seemed to be talking only to her.

His name, he confessed, was not Bruce Dixon but Bill Chandler. He had come

to New York as a young civil engineer, out of work but determined to get a job.

He failed. He was hungry, penniless, on a park bench when Perdy discovered him.

Perdy had been combing the city with a camera, hunting for some one to impersonate the missing Bruce Dixon. Chandler agreed, not knowing the criminal plot he was furthering. The smooth Perdy took Chandler to Dixon's lawyer, Timothy, and the latter convinced the young engineer that the whole scheme was a last effort to save the life of a sick and sorrowful old man.

Dixon, according to Timothy, was dying from grief because of the continued

absence of his son.

Bill Chandler was completely transformed. The fact that he was physically an exact double of Bruce was merely the beginning of the scheme. He was operated on, given a duplicate appendicitis scar. Timothy, who had known the real son from childhood, taught Chandler every fact he could recall - and the cunning lawyer's memory was prodigious.

The result was a masquerade that defied detection. It fooled the old man and Charles, the butler, and, at first, Edith.

"I love you, Edith," Chandler whispered, brokenly. "And - and I learned to

love Arnold Dixon, too. As soon as I discovered that I was being used in a plot

to kill him and turn his fortune over to Timothy, I - I tried to protect him.

I

knew that if I stayed in the house and pretended to work with the crooks, I could guard Arnold Dixon and perhaps save him from death."

He drew a shuddering breath.

"I - I didn't know that the real Bruce had returned secretly from San Francisco. I didn't know who Snaper and Hooley were. There was no one that I dared turn to for help, except a crook named Spud Wilson.

"I offered Spud money, and he agreed to double-cross Timothy and help me to protect the old man. But Spud was discovered the night he crept to my window

to talk to me. The next night, Perdy planted dynamite in Spud's parked car and blew him to pieces."

"You mean," Edith faltered, "that all through this horror you've been helping Arnold Dixon, not trying to - harm him?"

Chandler nodded.

"He's telling the truth," Clyde Burke said. "The Cup of Confucius was stolen by Bruce himself, not young Chandler. The murder of Charles and the attempted killing of his own father were also the ugly work of the real Bruce.

Chandler was innocent all through this case. His sole guilt is the fact that he

impersonated another man. He -"

THERE was a quick warning hiss from The Shadow. He had been listening quietly to the true story he had already discovered for himself. He failed to reckon on one thing: the criminal cunning of the real Bruce Dixon.

Bruce had not been fatally wounded. His dying moan was merely a piece of clever acting. He had apparently fainted. But he was biding his time.

He staggered suddenly to his feet. Reeling, he fled toward the corridor.

Clyde's first warning of disaster was the quick movement of The Shadow.

The Shadow raced after the disappearing figure of the wounded son of Arnold Dixon. He ran swiftly because he divined in a flash what Bruce intended. But he

was unable to overtake the desperate fugitive.

Bruce Dixon darted into the rocky crypt where the explosives were stored.

Before The Shadow could reach the doorway, he reappeared, something clutched in

his wildly waving hand.

It was a deadly thing - an explosive cap of fulminate of mercury.

"Back!" he shrieked. "You can't arrest me, do you hear? One step nearer and I'll -"

Clyde Burke came racing along the dim corridor. His gun whipped level for a shot. He couldn't hear what Bruce had cried. The rocky walls of the corridor had blurred the words.

Before The Shadow could restrain him, Clyde had fired.

The Shadow threw himself and Clyde flat on the rock floor. Bruce Dixon swayed with a bullet in his lungs. His dying hand threw the deadly cap. But he was too weak to toss it far. It smashed against the floor directly in front of him.

The roar of the explosion was terrific. Flame gushed up in front of the toppling murderer. When the dazzle was gone and the long thunderous echoes of the explosion died away, Clyde Burke uttered an exclamation of horror.

The place where Bruce had fallen was like a shambles. The walls were spattered crimson. Dixon's criminal son had blown himself to pieces. Only a twitching huddle of bloody rags showed where the desperate fugitive had been.

THE SHADOW drew a hissing breath. He clutched at Clyde, hurried him back along the corridor. Edith Allen and Bill Chandler were standing where he had left them, rooted in terror. Chandler's arms were about the girl in a protecting gesture.

The Shadow whispered briefly to Clyde. Then the darkness of the cave swallowed The Shadow for a few moments. When he reappeared, he was carrying something in his hand. Clyde took it from him, walked to where Chandler and Edith stood. He handed the object to the young man.

It was the Cup of Confucius. Even in the harsh yellow light of the lantern

on the floor, the marvelous beauty of the fabulous cup was evident. Under its grime of centuries old dirt, the priceless jade gleamed with a soft, living beauty. The nine mystic circles of jewels sparkled. There were rubies, emeralds, diamonds, pearls - Chandler's eyes bulged as he looked at the cup.

So

did Edith's.

"Is... is Bruce dead?" the young man faltered.

Clyde glanced at The Shadow. The Shadow had told him what to say.

"It all depends," Clyde said, slowly. "Do you really love Arnold Dixon enough to want to keep him from dying of heartbreak?"

"Yes, yes! He's been more than a real father to me!"

"And you've been more than his real son. Bruce was his son only by name and birth. He's dead now, blown to pieces. But Arnold Dixon need never find it out. Go back to him. Take the cup. Tell him you followed the thieves and recovered it. Timothy and Rodney are dead. They can never betray your secret.

"The police will never find out the actual facts behind this case. The Shadow will take care of that. He wants you to continue in what no longer will be a deception. Fate and an old man's need has changed you to Dixon's son.

You're the honest son he's always wanted to have. Go home to him, Bruce Dixon, and take Edith with you!"

Tears welled from Edith's blue eyes. She turned, stared toward the spot where The Shadow had been. The spot was empty. The Shadow had melted into darkness.

Edith's steps took her into Chandler's outstretched arms.

"I want to go home with you, Bruce, to your father. He needs you - and I love you!"

FROM the fire-blackened stones of the foundations that once had supported the stately Carruthers mansion, a dark figure glided. It moved rapidly under the lonely stars in the sky. It vanished without sound.

A faint whisper of sibilant laughter was the only indication that a living

being had moved across that open spot.

The Shadow was satisfied. The case was closed, forever.

Other cases would intrigue the Master of Darkness, however - particularly one that would lead him along a "Treasure Trail." Millions in bullion lay between the rotting ribs of an old frigate under the East River's treacherous waters, but only The Shadow could pierce the innermost secret of its strong box

at the end of the "Treasure Trail."

THE END