The ship was from Bermuda. Customs formalities would be short. The Shadow watched a small group of persons whose baggage was being examined beneath a huge placard that bore the letter “F.” He saw a portly, round-faced man who was joking with a customs officer. He was the one who answered The Shadow’s pictured description of George Furbish.

Soon a hand truck came lumbering from the pier, pushed by a dock attendant. It held two suitcases and a steamer trunk. Furbish accompanied the truck; he ordered it to the baggage room. As he stood by the counter, Furbish heard a voice speak his name. He turned about, surprised; he saw the disguised features of The Shadow.

“My name is Arnaud.” The Shadow extended a hand as he spoke. Then, in an undertone, he added: “I come from Major Rowden.”

Furbish nodded, alert, quietly, The Shadow ordered:

“Leave your baggage here. Come with me.”

Trustfully, Furbish followed The Shadow to the cab. They entered; The Shadow spoke an order in Arnaud’s tone to the driver. As they rode along, The Shadow made inquiry.

“Tell me about the money. Is it available, so that you can complete your transaction tonight?”

Furbish nodded. Unsuspecting that his life had been in danger, he was quite willing to trust the emissary from Rowden. It seemed quite natural that the major should have sent some one to meet him at the pier.

“I have the money at my bank,” he stated. “It is in a safe deposit box; the vaults are available until nine o’clock. Does Major Rowden wish to make the sale tonight?”

“Possibly,” replied The Shadow. “That, however, depends upon certain circumstances. Suppose we dine together, Mr. Furbish. After that, you can obtain the funds.”

THE cab arrived at a secluded restaurant. During dinner, Furbish became more and more impressed by his new friend, Arnaud. It was when they had finished the meal that The Shadow quietly broached the matter of danger.

“Two nights ago,” he stated, quietly, “an assassin sought your life at the Royal Arms, thinking that you would have the funds there with you.”

Furbish gaped; then exclaimed: “But I was not at the Royal Arms!”

“I was there,” returned The Shadow, with a slight smile. “I thwarted the attempt. Your enemies have decided to cover the Maribar Hotel, expecting your arrival there.”

“Then if I go there tonight -”

“You will be protected. You must, however, follow instructions as I give them.”

Furbish nodded his agreement. Reflecting, he decided that if this new friend could have thwarted a killer at the Royal Arms, he could certainly provide protection at the Maribar Hotel.

“A cab waits you outside this restaurant,” explained The Shadow. “Take it. Go to your bank and obtain the quarter million dollars that you placed in safe deposit.”

The Shadow’s statement of the exact amount added to Furbish’s confidence. The Wall Street man believed that only Major Rowden could have informed The Shadow of those details. Furbish had no idea that his enemies, mentioned by The Shadow, were governed by so well-informed a man as Kenneth Malfort. Furbish, like Blessingdale and Hessup, had never heard of the master crook.

“The same cab will take you to a place near the Maribar Hotel,” resumed The Shadow. “Wait there, inside the cab, until the driver decides to go to the hotel. He will be informed if the trip is safe.

“Should the way be clear, stay no longer than fifteen minutes. Major Rowden will have your jewels ready. Take the gems; leave the money with him. Outside the Maribar Hotel, the same cab will be waiting for you.”

The Shadow arose and motioned. Furbish joined him; they left the restaurant together. Outside, they found the waiting cab. Furbish did not recognize it as the taxi that had been at the pier.

“When you see Major Rowden,” added The Shadow, “deliver him this envelope. Tell him that he can read it after you have gone.”

The Shadow opened the door of the cab and put Furbish aboard. Stepping back, he lifted a small bag that the driver had placed upon the rear bumper. The cab pulled away.

As Arnaud, The Shadow watched it turn a corner. He strolled along the street, picked a chance cab of his own. Entering, he gave the driver a destination. Opening the bag, The Shadow produced his black garments and his automatics.

Fifteen minutes was the time that The Shadow had allotted should Furbish actually visit Rowden. There was good reason for the specified time interval. From Yat Soon, The Shadow had learned the exact location of the courtyard where Ku-Nuan had last been seen. He had estimated that it was just fifteen minutes’ drive from the Maribar Hotel.

THE SHADOW’S chance cab reached its destination, less than two blocks from the courtyard that the Chinese had inspected. A five-dollar bill fluttered down beside the driver. A quiet voice ordered him to keep the change.

While the driver gulped his thanks, the rear door closed noiselessly. Looking along the street, the cabby could see no sign of his mysterious passenger. Cloaked in black, The Shadow had vanished like a ghost.

The disappearance was a logical one. This was a grimy, almost forgotten section of the East Side, where lights were few and lurking spots were many. Black against shaded, dingy walls, The Shadow was pursuing an invisible course through the night. Unseen, he neared his goal, the space between the warehouses, indicated by an arrow on two separate diagrams. Both Malfort and Yat Soon had picked one passage as the logical entrance to the courtyard.

Thick blackness covered the space between the passage walls. Stopping at the entrance, The Shadow looked across the street, then along toward a corner. He knew that there were lurking spots all about; that such a thuggish leader as Spark Ganza and his men might be on hand. But if they were to prove active, they would logically have become impatient through long delay. The Shadow watched for blinks of flashlights; listened for whispered voices and sneaky footsteps.

There were no tokens in the darkness. Soundlessly, The Shadow edged into the passage. After five silent paces, he came to a tunnel formed by the connection of the walls on either side. The Shadow paused to listen. If men were in the courtyard, their slightest whispers would echo through the roofed passage. Minutes passed; no sounds came. The Shadow was sure that the courtyard was empty.

Advancing with soundless paces, The Shadow moved steadily inward. His course was established; his progress would not cease until he reached the courtyard, there to match his wits against the craft of Ku-Nuan, whom he expected to find alone.

Wisely had Yat Soon suspected a trap; but the Chinaman’s searchers had failed to detect its presence. In the darkness, the first black beam crossed The Shadow’s path. Even the keen discernment of this master sleuth could not detect its presence.

Silence and blackness lured The Shadow onward. Nothing could withhold him from the final snare that Kenneth Malfort had provided.