Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 021 - Shadowed Millions

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SHADOWED MILLIONS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE SECRET MEETING
? CHAPTER II. LEGIRA ANSWERS QUESTIONS
? CHAPTER III. WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW SEEKS
? CHAPTER V. THE EYES OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VI. A THOUSAND A WEEK
? CHAPTER VII. LEGIRA'S DOUBLE
? CHAPTER VIII. LEGIRA'S PROPOSAL
? CHAPTER IX. THE LAST WARNING
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XI. HENDRIX DECIDES
? CHAPTER XII. DEATH IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW KNOWS
? CHAPTER XIV. LEGIRA PROCEEDS
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S THEORY
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW'S PLANS
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE MAN HIGHER UP
? CHAPTER XIX. CARDONA RECEIVES INSTRUCTIONS
? CHAPTER XX. DESMOND SCHEMES
? CHAPTER XXI. ZELVA DECIDES
? CHAPTER XXII. BEFORE NINE
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW'S FIGHT
? CHAPTER XXIV. A TRAITOR'S TRIUMPH
? CHAPTER XXV. THE DOUBLE CROSS
? CHAPTER XXVI. THE COMPROMISE
? CHAPTER XXVII. THE JUST REWARD
CHAPTER I. THE SECRET MEETING
THE lobby of the Hotel Corona was thronged with an after-theater crowd. The big clock above the desk
showed twenty minutes before twelve. The passive clerk blinked quietly at the gay host of visitors, who
were on their way to the popular roof garden which this hotel maintained.
The Corona was known as one of the brightest spots in Manhattan. Big men of business frequented this
place. The clerk had noted many well-known faces among to-night's gatherers. Each elevator that went
to the roof was filled with patrons. Business was always good at the Corona.
A tall, middle-aged man entered the lobby. He cut an excellent figure in his immaculate evening clothes.
He strolled along, swinging a light cane and staring about him with a bored expression. His pointed
mustache gave him a sophisticated air; his keen eyes indicated a shrewdness that his manner masked.
The clerk bowed courteously as the arrival glanced in his direction. This man was a most desirable patron
of the Hotel Corona. The clerk recognized him as Alvarez Legira, consular agent of the newly formed
republic of Santander.
The clerk smiled as Legira acknowledged his greeting with a curt nod. Such guests as this wealthy South
American added to the prestige of the hotel's popular roof garden. Legira was a frequent visitor at this
hour. He was one of the celebrities that it was wise to cultivate.
The elevator on which Alvarez Legira rode upstairs was well filled with persons who were all bound for
one destination—the roof garden. Arriving there, the passengers stepped into a lobby that was already
overthronged. Bell boys pointed out the check rooms. Legira, with the others, moved in the direction
indicated.
While he was waiting at the end of a line, the suave South American fitted a cigarette into a long holder.
He struck a match and began to puff away, mildly surveying the persons who stood near by.
While thus engaged, he seemed to lose all interest in checking his hat and cane. By a mere chance, he lost
his place in the moving line, and eased away along the wall, hat and cane in one hand, cigarette holder in
the other.
THERE was nothing conspicuous about his action. There was no apparent haste. It seemed almost by
coincidence that Alvarez Legira happened to reach the top of an obscure stairway, some thirty feet from
the check room.
Here, Legira stood waiting languidly, watching the doors of the elevators as though expecting the arrival
of some companion. Then, of a sudden, his lethargy ended. Satisfied that not a single eye was upon him,
the suave-faced man swung quickly away, and in a fraction of a second his form had disappeared down
the stairway.
There was stealth in the man's action as he passed the turn in the stair. The loud buzz of conversation
from the upstairs lobby was muffled and indistinct. Legira stopped and listened intently. The only sign of
motion about him was a curling wreath of smoke that trickled up from the lighted end of his cigarette.
Satisfied at last that no one had observed his crafty departure, the consul from Santander continued his
downward course.
The stairway was little used. Legira was alone and unwatched as he descended flight after flight. Each
landing was set back from the hall; hence the suave-faced man could have been seen only from the
stairway.
He stopped when he reached the eighth floor. There, he peered into the hallway. Seeing no one, Legira
emerged from the stairway and betook himself toward the end of the corridor.
He seemed familiar with the route that he was following. As he neared the end of the corridor, he
stopped and turned to look back. His sharp gaze showed him that the corridor was deserted.
Sure of this, Legira, his eyes still watching, reached forward and softly opened a door that bore the
number 888. He stepped into a little entry. The door closed behind him.
Legira was at the entrance to a suite of rooms. There were two doors close beside him, and a blank wall
in the middle. The visitor knocked at the door on the right. It opened, and Legira stepped into a small
reception room.
The man who had admitted him was a solemn-faced individual who had the manner of a private
secretary. He bowed to Legira, who merely nodded and raised his cigarette holder to his lips. The man
who had opened the door closed it and turned the lock.
“They are waiting for me?” questioned Legira.
His words were spoken in perfect English, without the slightest trace of Spanish accent.
Legira's companion responded with a solemn nod. With the air of a funeral director, he walked across
the room and rapped at a door on the other side. The door opened, and he went through, leaving the
South American alone.
Alvarez Legira laughed. He put out the stump of his cigarette, inserted a new one in the holder, and
resumed his smoking. His white teeth gleamed in the dim light of the room as he strolled backward and
forward. He seemed to possess a natural love of intrigue, and this secret visit suited his fancy to
perfection.
Yet with it all, the man was nervous. His slow, restless stride, his incessant puffing of tobacco smoke, the
occasional frown that replaced his gleaming smile; all betokened that he had only reached the threshold of
tonight's mission. Alone, he had been announced. Now, he was waiting the bidding of some other
persons.
Legira stood by the window. It was high above the low-lying buildings that surrounded the hotel. Across
flat-topped roofs, the observant South American saw the distant lights of brilliant Broadway. Half an hour
ago he had been among those lights, just one of thousands leaving the gay rialto.
Leisurely, with calmly feigned indifference, he had come to keep a mysterious appointment. Here in New
York, he had adopted the method of Santander, where secret cabals were held by stealth. A strange
contrast—the intrigue of South America mingled with the practical ways of the United States.
Finishing another cigarette, Legira glanced at his watch. It showed exactly twelve o'clock, the time of his
appointment. He had arrived early. It would not be long before he would be admitted to the other room.
STEALTHILY, Legira listened at that closed door. He heard nothing. He strode noiselessly across the
room, and listened at the other door. He opened it softly, and peered into the entry. It was empty.
Satisfied, the crafty man returned and locked the door. Back at the window, he lighted another cigarette.
He was staring idly at the myriad lights when he heard the door of the inner room open.
Without haste, Legira turned to look at the man who had ushered him here. The solemn-faced individual
bowed and pointed to the inner door. Legira, more leisurely than ever, went to the door and opened it.
He stepped into a larger room.
There, standing just within the doorway, he surveyed a group of nine men who were seated about a long
table. It was a staid gathering of prosperous businessmen—an anticlimax to the odd procedure that had
brought Alvarez Legira to this place.
The consul from Santander bowed to the men before him. His suavity was turned to courtesy. He had the
air of a man who is seeking a favor, endeavoring to place himself in the most favorable light.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, in his perfectly intonated English.
Responses came from the men at the table. One, a portly individual, who sat at the end, arose and
stepped toward the visitor.
“Hello, Legira,” he said, extending his hand. “Sorry we had to keep you waiting. You arrived a little
earlier than we expected.”
“To be early is to assure punctuality, Mr. Hendrix,” returned Legira, with a gleaming, affable smile.
He shook hands with the heavy-set gentleman, who then ushered him to a chair at the far end of the
table. With Legira seated, Hendrix took his place at the head.
The members of the group shifted their chairs. While they puffed their cigars, Alvarez Legira calmly
dangled his cigarette holder from his fingers, and watched them with a beaming smile that betokened his
assurance. He looked toward Hendrix.
“Go ahead, Legira,” said the portly man. “We want to hear your summary. Then there will be some
questions. Our discussion has been favorable. It's up to you, now.”
Legira smiled. These men were just the type that he had expected to meet. In appearance, they
resembled the standardized pattern of American businessmen whom he had encountered so often since
his arrival in New York.
He felt a vast superiority over men of this type. His suavity, his keenness, his clever ease of
speech—these were all to his advantage. Legira had a mission with these men, and he could picture
himself swaying them by his persuasive arguments.
Yet there were elements present that made his task a mighty challenge. These men were more than
ordinary businessmen. They were financiers who represented vast interests. That, in itself, was a factor
that required skill and diplomacy of speech. But to Alvarez Legira it was only a secondary matter.
The great challenge to the man from Santander was the tremendous stake that hinged upon to-night's
negotiations. If he could be calm, keen, and persuasive, he would gain his mission. If he should betray
anxiety and lack assurance, he would lose.
This thought was uppermost in Legira's mind as he began to speak. He had come here to ask for
something. Before he left, he would have the final answer from this group. That answer would be either
“yes” or “no”—without further qualification.
The matter that thus hung in the balance was a sum of money which Legira hoped to receive in return for
concessions that he had offered.
That sum was exactly ten million dollars!
CHAPTER II. LEGIRA ANSWERS QUESTIONS
THE silent group of financiers listened with intense interest while Alvarez Legira spoke persuasively. The
soft, purring voice of the South American carried a convincing tone.
With keen eyes watching his auditors, Legira unfolded a large map and spread it upon the table. All eyes
followed his finger as it indicated the territorial divisions that Legira had marked upon the chart.
“The state of Santander,” explained the consul, “has always been regarded as an important territorial
division of the Republic of Colombia. It has at times been practically an autonomous government; at other
periods, it has been merely a province of Colombia. It bears a close relationship to bordering territories
of Venezuela, leading to Lake Maracaibo, which provides outlet to the Caribbean Sea.
“The Spanish conquerors swept past this district when they drove southward. It was also a scene of strife
during the campaigns of Simon Bolivar, the Liberator. Thus the natural resources of Santander have
always been neglected.
“We, of Santander, had great hopes that through trade with the United States, we could develop the
tremendous mineral wealth that has not, as yet, been touched. Unfortunately, the controversy between
Colombia and the United States that followed the affair of the Panama Canal produced a prejudice
throughout Colombia.
“Now, through the work of important men in Santander, we have virtually established a new republic, an
offshoot of Colombia, with a territorial grant from Venezuela. We have managed to curb the factions that
have demanded violent revolution.
“The Republic of Santander is organized for peaceful development and stable government. With the
payment of indemnities to Colombia and Venezuela, we shall take our place among the nations of the
world.”
As Legira completed his remarks, his face took on the expression of the zealous patriot—a complete
change from the air of an intriguing schemer. His quiet, effective tones produced nods of approbation
from the listeners.
Legira sensed that he had gained results. He paused and waited for a full moment. Then, in an easy
manner, he added:
“We require ten million dollars to assure the independence of Santander. In return for that amount, we
shall grant full and exclusive concessions to the American interests which you represent. You have
already been presented with the details of the plan. I have summarized my proposal. I await your
answer.”
Legira resumed his seat at the end of the table. His languorous assurance returned. He replenished his
cigarette holder and leaned back in his chair, puffing away. He was expecting questions; and one came
from John Hendrix, the spokesman of the financiers.
“YOUR proposal has been carefully considered,” declared the portly man. “It appears bona fide, Legira.
I may add that we have discussed it— confidentially, of course—with certain men well acquainted with
affairs in South America. They have spoken in its favor.”
Legira smiled in confident manner.
“In fact,” resumed Hendrix, “we have obtained opinions from certain South Americans, themselves. One
man in particular—Rodriguez Zelva— studied the proposal in detail.”
Legira's eyes opened suddenly at the mention of the name. He stared intently toward Hendrix; then
quickly resumed his air of indifference. Only the sharp clicking of his teeth against the stem of the
cigarette holder indicated Legira's momentary perturbation.
“Mr. Zelva,” continued Hendrix, “is a prominent Venezuelan, who is at present in New York. He spoke
highly of the Santander plans, and gave us full assurance that the newly formed government would abide
by its agreements.”
Legira's surprise turned to perplexity; then his face assumed an expression of pleased confidence. He
smiled as he looked about the group. Then his features froze as he encountered the cold stare of a man
seated at the side of the table.
Until now, Alvarez Legira had considered these men as a group, not as individuals. It was with both
surprise and alarm that he discovered this one man who was different.
Legira saw a face that was firm and impassive, a countenance as rigid and as impenetrable as his own.
The eyes that peered from the masklike visage were inscrutable in their glance. Legira realized that those
eyes were searching, watching him with hawkish attitude.
Who was this stranger, so different from the other financiers? What was the meaning of his inscrutable
gaze?
Legira was ill at ease. He knew that he had met a man who was more than his match. Was the man a
friend or an enemy?
The voice of John Hendrix came in tones that seemed far away to Alvarez Legira. The South American
shook himself from the hypnotic stare that had so amazed him, and managed to look toward Hendrix.
“The chief question,” Hendrix was saying, “concerns the manner of these negotiations. Frankly, Legira,
the secrecy upon which you have insisted has raised doubts in our minds. You asked me to arrange this
meeting at this unusual time, and in this unusual place. We want to know why you have insisted on that
point.”
Legira regained his suavity with an effort. He looked about him, taking care to avoid the glance of the
hawk-faced man at the side of the table. He spoke with polished dignity.
“Gentlemen,” he declared, “the sum of ten million dollars is vital in the affairs of Santander. All is settled;
all is waiting. It is the desire of the new republic's officials to call an expected meeting of sworn delegates
from Colombia and Venezuela; and to pay them in full at that time.
“Talk of negotiations, discussion of money that is on the way— these are elements that might lead to
changes of policy on the part of our neighbors. Hence I, alone, have been entrusted with the obtaining of
the necessary funds.
“All that has been covered in the proposal given you, although it has not been stated in so many words. It
is our desire to bring the final arrangement into the hands of two men—myself as representative of
Santander; yourself, Mr. Hendrix, as representative of the American interests.
“There are two vital points that I can put as questions. First, are you convinced that the Santander
proposal is genuine? Second, are you convinced that I am the authorized agent of my country?”
“We feel that both those points have been established,” replied Hendrix.
“That should be sufficient,” announced Legira, boldly challenging. “Hence I feel justified in asking for your
decision. Are you willing to make the payment of ten million dollars?”
“We are,” declared Hendrix.
Legira smiled triumphantly. From now on the situation was in his hands. He saw that Hendrix was about
to ask another question. Shrewdly, Legira took action to forestall it.
“You are worried about the arrangements,” he said. “There is no cause for alarm. As accredited
representative of Santander, I can avoid all difficulties. It now rests between you and myself, Mr.
Hendrix.
“To avoid all complications, the proposal is that you should have the entire amount in your possession,
ready for delivery when I request it. Once it is given to me, your responsibility ends and mine begins.”
“That's just it, Mr. Legira,” interposed a puffy-faced man near the head of the table. “It's the irregular
way of giving you the money—”
“Do you have confidence in Mr. Hendrix?” queried Legira promptly.
“Certainly,” said the puffy man.
“Are you confident that my government has full trust in me?” was the consul's next question.
“Yes,” came the reply.
Legira simply shrugged his shoulders. Better than any words, the action carried home his thought. Nods
of approval came amid a buzzing murmur. It was clear that Legira had good reason for reducing the
transaction into terms of individuals.
“When Mr. Hendrix has the money,” purred Legira, “all will be in his capable hands. I, in turn, shall know
the proper time to send the millions to Santander. Then, quietly, with avoidance of publicity, I shall obtain
the money from Mr. Hendrix, and see to its safe delivery in my native land. When the world learns that
great American interests have supported Santander, the entire deal will have been consummated.”
Looking from face to face, Legira knew that he had triumphed. One by one he studied his companions,
and saw agreement on every countenance.
Then, at the end of his inspection, he once more encountered the hawk-faced man, who was sitting with
folded arms. Legira and this individual locked in a silent stare.
“Unless there are further questions”—Hendrix was speaking to his companions—“we can now give
Legira our decision—”
Legira scarcely heard the words. He was watching his adversary, knowing that here was one, at least,
who by a single question could ruin his plans. The consul's assurance began to fade as he saw the lips of
that impenetrable face move.
“I have a question.”
The voice was cold. Although the words were spoken to the entire group, Legira knew that they were
meant for him, alone.
“A question,” announced Hendrix, rapping the table. “A question from Lamont Cranston.”
LAMONT CRANSTON!
The name was known to Alvarez Legira, although he had never met the man before. He knew that
Cranston was a man of great wealth, one who had taken considerable interest in foreign affairs. He had
heard Cranston described as a cosmopolitan, whose home was everywhere.
Instinctively, Legira knew that success was no longer in his own hands. It depended entirely upon what
Lamont Cranston might have to say.
Legira's hopes seemed to fade. He dreaded the question that was to come. It could shatter his plans in
one moment. He tried to affect an air of indifference as he waited.
“My question is this.” Cranston spoke in slow, emphatic monotone, staring directly at Legira. “Will you
give us your absolute word, Mr. Legira, that this entire sum will be utilized for the express purposes
which you have stipulated?”
“Positively,” answered Legira.
“To the government of Colombia,” continued Cranston, “to the government of Venezuela; and to the
treasury of the new Republic of Santander?”
“For those purposes, and none other,” affirmed Legira.
Lamont Cranston's eyes were gleaming as they pierced the gaze of Alvarez Legira. The consul waited,
his spirit sagging, for he felt that another query was about to come. Then, Lamont Cranston did the
unexpected. He turned away and faced John Hendrix.
“I approve the plan,” he said. “I have no further questions.”
Legira gasped in amazement. In one brief second he had been raised from what seemed tragic failure to
sure success for his plans. Lamont Cranston, on the verge of ruining his hopes, had suddenly become his
stanch supporter!
Before the surprised consul could recover, John Hendrix had rapped the table and called for a vote.
Legira heard the chorus:
“Aye!”
There was not a dissenting voice. Legira found himself shaking hands with John Hendrix and accepting
the congratulations of others. He affixed his signature to a signed document. The last detail had been
arranged.
Ten million dollars!
Alvarez Legira had fought for that stake, and he had won. He gradually regained his composure. He
looked about for Lamont Cranston, the man who had furnished the dramatic climax to these negotiations.
But he saw no sign of the calm-faced millionaire.
The other men were leaving. Soon, Alvarez Legira was alone with John Hendrix. They talked for a few
minutes. Hendrix would have the money within forty-eight hours. Legira could call and make
arrangements for its shipment to Santander.
“Jermyn!”
When Hendrix gave his summons, the melancholy secretary appeared from the other room. He was the
only one who remained beside the two negotiators. Jermyn was a man who had the confidence of
Hendrix. He had been appointed usher at this secret meeting.
“Mr. Legira is leaving, Jermyn,” said Hendrix. “You may show him through the other room.”
Legira shook hands with Hendrix. He took his hat and cane, and left the suite. In the corridor, alone, he
glanced in both directions; then headed for the stairs that led to the roof garden. Upward he strode until
he reached the top of the final flight.
THERE, Legira peered cautiously from the head of the stairs. With quick, deft movement, he stepped
into the lobby. Standing by the wall, he lowered his head, but looked shrewdly about him while he
inserted a cigarette in his holder.
Legira saw no one watching him. He lighted his cigarette, strode toward the elevator, and joined a group
of people who were leaving the roof.
As he entered the car, Legira's back was directly toward the stairs that he had left. A sudden sensation
gripped him—the feeling that now some one was watching him. He turned; but too late. The door of the
car had closed.
Only a split second prevented Alvarez Legira from seeing what he had suspected. Two eyes were
burning from the darkness of the stairway - eyes that Legira would have recognized. They were the same
eyes that had viewed him so closely during the conference—the eyes of Lamont Cranston.
Now, those eyes had disappeared. No sign of a man was visible. Down through the semidarkness of the
stairway, only a swishing sound betokened the descent of a living being. The stairway ended in a side
passage on the ground floor, a spot which at this hour was deserted.
There, a tall figure came into view—a strange, silent figure that was seen by no one. A tall man, clad in
black, his cloak dropping from his shoulders, his features hidden by the brim of a slouch hat, stood
motionless. Had Alvarez Legira been there to see that phantom shape, with the eyes that gleamed from
beneath the hat brim, he would have been astounded.
For this mysterious man possessed the eyes of Lamont Cranston, yet he was a totally different individual.
In all New York, there was only one who appeared in this strange, fantastic guise. That one was The
Shadow—man of the night, whose very name brought terror to the hearts of evildoers.
A soft laugh came from the hidden lips. The black cloak swished and revealed a flash of its crimson
lining. Then the man of mystery was gone. Moving swiftly through the door at the end of the passage, he
had vanished into the night.
Where crime and danger threatened, there did The Shadow appear. Tonight, he had been present to
learn the plans of Alvarez Legira. Evil work was afoot, and The Shadow was prepared to thwart it.
Why had Lamont Cranston questioned Alvarez Legira? Why had he ceased his questioning at the very
moment when the consul had expected him to resume his quiz? What was the mystery behind the strange
negotiations which Legira had managed to conclude?
The only answer to these problems was a low, uncanny laugh that echoed along the outside wall of the
Hotel Corona. Some one, invisible in the darkness, had uttered that weird laugh, and the eerie mirth bore
unfathomable foreboding.
It was the laugh of The Shadow. He had observed the secretive actions of Alvarez Legira. Ten million
dollars were at stake. Others had been lulled into believing that the money was safe. They did not suspect
that a mighty plot was on foot to rob them of immense wealth.
That fact was one which Alvarez Legira had shrewdly avoided mentioning. He believed that his suave
speech had produced full confidence, and that none who had heard him to-night could possibly suspect
his plans.
In that, Legira had been mistaken.
The Shadow had been at that secret meeting!
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER III. WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT
AS Alvarez Legira stepped from his taxicab in front of a brownstone building on a side street north of
Eighty-first, the light of a near-by street lamp plainly revealed the figure of the tall consul as he paid the
driver. That light also showed the front of the building, which seemed a focal point in the middle of a
sullen, dark-windowed row.
The house was distinguished from the neighboring buildings by a bronze plate located beside the door.
The plaque bore the coat of arms of the new Republic of Santander. This marked it as the consular
residence.
The cab pulled away, leaving Legira alone on the curb. With his blase indifference, the consul mounted
the steps and rang the doorbell. There was a pulling of bolts; the door opened cautiously, and Legira
entered. The street remained deserted, with the illumination still glaring on the front of that one
conspicuous house.
All was dark across the street. The buildings there were old and unoccupied. Silence remained after
Legira's departure. Yet that darkness opposite the consul's residence bespoke the presence of living
beings. A passer might have imagined vague whisperings coming from the gloom of a little alleyway.
Footsteps sounded lightly. A man strolled along the street opposite Legira's. He paused to light a
cigarette. The glare of the match showed a keen, firm face. The man tossed the match in the gutter. His
glance, following the bit of blazing wood, swung toward Legira's house. He resumed his way toward the
next corner.
By the time he was out of earshot, whispers were at work. Two men were talking, both unseen and
unheard by the stranger who had passed.
“That's him,” came a low voice. “Martin Powell. Told you he'd be along as soon as Legira got in the
house.”
“What of it?” was the reply. “He's no better than a flatfoot. Might as well carry a police whistle to let us
know he's coming.”
“He's pretty smart, Pete.”
“Don't worry about him, Silk. Just keep out of sight. He's watching Legira —that's all.”
“But listen, Pete,” said the first speaker, “he's liable to come back. If you're dropping in on Legira, he'll
see you.”
“What if he does?” questioned Pete. “He won't know who I am. You've got to lay low, of course. He
might recognize you as Silk Dowdy. You're playing under cover. But nobody in New York knows me.”
“I get you, Pete. Better wait, though. Let him go by again. It would be bad to slide across the street from
here.”
“Say, Silk, you've got a lot to learn, in spite of your rep. I've visited Legira before. You wait here. I'm
going to cut back down the alley. When I show up at Legira's, I'll come in a cab.”
The whispering ended. A few minutes after silence had resumed its sway, footsteps again clicked on the
sidewalk, and the muffled form of Martin Powell passed by the entrance to the alley.
THE darkened windows of the house across the street reflected the light of the street lamp. There were
no signs of activity.
Neither the patrolling man nor the watcher in the gloom of the alley could tell what was going on in that
house. To all appearances, the occupants might have retired. But such was not the case.
摘要：

SHADOWEDMILLIONSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESECRETMEETING?CHAPTERII.LEGIRAANSWERSQUESTIONS?CHAPTERIII.WATCHERSOFTHENIGHT?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWSEEKS?CHAPTERV.THEEYESOFTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVI.ATHOUSANDAWEEK?CHAPTERVII.LEGIRA'SDOUBLE?CHAPTERVIII.LEGI...

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