CHAPTER II. MAT MORRIS.
CHAPTER III. SHADOW--WHO WAS HE?
CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE LION'S JAWS.
CHAPTER V. HELEN DILT.
CHAPTER VI. THE REMEMBERED BILLS.
CHAPTER VII. A HAPPY MOMENT.
CHAPTER VIII. A NARROW ESCAPE.
CHAPTER IX. IN THE BLACK HOLE.
CHAPTER X. FAVORING FORTUNE.
CHAPTER XI. IN THE MAD-HOUSE.
CHAPTER XII. SHADOW.
CHAPTER XIII. IN A BAD BOX.
CHAPTER XIV. DICK STANTON.
CHAPTER XV. A FIEND IN HUMAN SHAPE.
CHAPTER XVI. DISAPPOINTED AGAIN.
CHAPTER XVII. HELEN'S TORTURE.
CHAPTER XVIII. PUZZLED.
CHAPTER XIX. IN DEADLY PERIL.
CHAPTER XX. STILL SEARCHING.
CHAPTER XXI. FUN!
CHAPTER XXII. OUT OF JEOPARDY.
CHAPTER XXIII. WEAVING THE NET.
CHAPTER XXIV. "HELP IS HERE!"
CHAPTER XXV. MAN OR WOMAN?
CHAPTER XXVI. CORNERED CRIMINALS.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
INTRODUCTORY.
Again I have been called on to entertain my wide circle of young
friends, by relating another story of detective life. Before plunging
into my story, I have thought it best to address a few words to you
personally, and about myself.
It is held as a rule that an author should never introduce himself
into the story he is writing, and yet I find, on looking back, that in
nearly all of my recent stories I have described myself as playing a
more or less conspicuous part.
And yet I could not avoid doing so, as I can plainly see, without
having detracted somewhat of interest from the stories.
As I sit here now, prepared to commence, the question arises: "Shall I
keep myself in the background, out of sight, or shall I bring myself
in, just as I actually took part in the strange story of
"'SHADOW, THE MYSTERIOUS DETECTIVE?'"
Well, I don't know, but I think it may be just as well to introduce
myself when necessary, since when I write thus I feel that my pen is
talking to you instead of at you. And, besides, I think that to you the
story is more realistic.
Am I right?
Don't each of you feel now as if I had written you a personal letter?
And are you not satisfied that there is only one Police Captain Howard,
and he that one who now speaks to you?
I am sure of it.
And now for the story.
CHAPTER I.
A MURDER.
It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell heavily and steadily, and
what wind there was roamed through the streets with a peculiar, moaning
sound.
It was after the midnight hour.
Not a light was to be seen in any of the houses, nor was there any
sound to be heard save that produced by the falling rain, and that
soughing of the wind--not unlike the sighs and moans of some uneasy
spirit unable to rest in the grave.
It was as disagreeable a night as I ever saw. And I could not help
shuddering as I hurried homeward through the storm, with bent head, for
I felt somewhat as if I were passing through a city of the dead.
This heavy silence--except for the noises mentioned--was very
oppressive; and, while I gave a start, I was also conscious of a sense
of relief, when I heard a human voice shouting:
"Help--help!"
I paused short.
My head having been bent, the cry coming so unexpectedly, I could not
locate its direction.
Presently it came again.
"Help, for Heaven's sake, help!"
Off I dashed to the rescue.
Crack!
Then came a wild wail.
Crack!
Then I heard a thud, as of a human being falling heavily to the
sidewalk. And as the person uttered no further cries, one of two things
must be the case--he was either insensible or dead.
I increased my pace, and presently turning a corner, saw a burly fellow
just dragging a body beneath a gas-lamp, the better to enable him to
secure the plunder on his victim's body.
The assassin had already secured most of the stricken man's valuables,
when my rapid approach alarmed him, and jumping up, he sprang along the
street at a break-neck pace.
Crack!
Crack!
I had drawn a revolver, and I sent a couple of bullets after him,
hoping to wing him, as well as to extend the alarm which his shots must
already have raised.
A policeman put in an appearance some distance down the street, but the
flying murderer took a running leap at him, tumbled him head over heels
into the gutter, and then succeeded in making his escape.
When I compared notes with the policeman, I found that neither of
us had distinctly enough seen the murderer to be able to give any
description of him whatever, save that he was a chunky-built man, and
seemed roughly dressed.
We were not surprised, on examining into the prostrate man's condition,
to find him dead.
Right in the center of his forehead was a small hole, edged with
drying, clotted blood, which mutely said:
"Here entered the fatal messenger from a death-dealing weapon."
The body was conveyed to the station-house, there to remain until it
was claimed or conveyed to the morgue.
An examination of the pockets resulted in our learning that his name
was Tom Smith. As to his residence, we could find no clew from anything
he had on his person, or by consulting the directory.
About two o'clock the next afternoon, a wild-eyed woman entered the
station-house, and, in trembling tones, asked to see the body.
I was present at the time, and my heart went out in pity to the
pale-faced woman--or perhaps I should say girl, for she certainly had
not seen her twentieth birthday.
She disappeared into the inner room where the body was lying, and a few
seconds later I heard a low and anguished cry. Then I knew that she had
recognized the poor fellow as some one who was near and dear to her.
Kindly hands drew her away from beside the body, and when I saw her
again her face was convulsed with anguish, and tears were streaming
from her eyes.
For fully half an hour she continued weeping, and not a man of us was
there who did not feel uncomfortable. We did not venture to console
her, for it seemed like sacrilege to intrude on her during the first
period of her sorrow.
Then her sobbing became less loud, and gradually she subdued the more
demonstrative expressions of grief.
She finally lifted her head, and in a hollow voice asked to hear the
story of his death.
The captain briefly outlined what was known, and she calmly listened to
the tale.
"Can I see the person who first reached him?" she asked, when the
captain had finished.
"Yes," was the reply. "Detective Howard here is the man you want."
She wished to see me alone, and I conducted her into another room.
Arrived here, she begged me minutely to relate what had happened; and,
exhibiting a singular self-control, asked for as close a description of
the assassin as I could give.
"You knew him very well?" said I, when an opportunity occurred.
"Yes."
"Perhaps he was your brother?"
"No," she said, and a faint flush flitted into her pallid face for an
instant. "No," and then her voice sank to a whisper, "he was to have
been my husband."
"Ah! And now, miss, you don't suppose that the assassin could have been
an enemy of his? Did he have any enemies, who might rob him, as a blind
to cover up their real motive?"
"Tom have an enemy? No--no--he was too good and kind for that. It was
done by some murderous wretch for the sake of plunder. Tom must have
resisted being robbed, and the ruffian killed him."
"That is my own theory. And--I do not wish to pain you, miss--but what
about the body? Has he any family or relations?"
"No, none in this world. He and I were all in all to each other," and
the eyes of the girl became moist again; but she fought back the tears,
and quite calmly said:
"I will take care of the body."
Then a troubled expression crossed her face; and, to make a long story
short, I gained her confidence, learned that she had not enough to
properly inter her lover, and loaned her the money.
With tears of gratitude in her eyes, she thanked me, and every word
came straight from her heart.
Her name was Nellie Millbank, she said, and she was utterly alone in
the world. Until several days before, she had been employed in a store,
but had then been discharged.
Tom was a clerk, but had only a small salary, as soon as which was
raised they were to have been married. He had been to see her on that
fatal night, to tell her he had obtained a day off, and was going to
take her on an excursion on the morrow.
She had been dressed and waiting for him, but he had not come.
Alarmed, for he had always kept his word, she knew not what to do, nor
what to think, until, having bought an afternoon paper, she saw an
account of the shooting.
This was her simple history.
After the inquest, the body was delivered to her, and then she faded
from my sight and knowledge for a long while. Exactly how long, the
ensuing chapters will inform you.