him. His tall form was totally obscured as it clung to darkness in its path
toward the heavy curtains. Only the slight swish of the black cloak was audible.
The Shadow halted when he reached the curtains. His weird shape merged
with a hanging drapery.
The eyes of The Shadow peered into the room beyond. They spied one man -
Graham Wellerton. The visitor, his coat, hat, and cane laid aside, was seated
in an easy chair, smoking a cigarette.
A handsome face, above the peaked points of a Tuxedo collar - that was the
visage which The Shadow saw. Graham Wellerton, tonight, was a gentleman of
crime. As such, he was awaiting the arrival of the big shot - the man whom he
called King Furzman.
Graham Wellerton's eyes, steady despite their idle appearance, were fixed
upon a door at the opposite side of this reception room - the spot from which
the young man knew King Furzman would enter.
Intent in thought, Graham Wellerton gave no attention to the draperies at
the archway. He did not see the blotting patch of darkness that crept slowly
inward from the other room and became an unmoving blotch upon the floor.
That single sign of The Shadow's presence was motionless as The Shadow
waited. An interview was in the making - an important conference between Graham
Wellerton and his superior, King Furzman.
The ears of The Shadow would listen, unsuspected, to whatever might be
said; and in the meantime, the eyes of The Shadow were gazing sternly upon
Graham Wellerton, the gentleman of crime!
CHAPTER II
THE BIG SHOT
THE door at the opposite side of the room opened. A stout, dark-haired man
stepped into view. Graham Wellerton arose from his chair and smiled in greeting.
The other man grinned broadly and gave acknowledgment with a slight wave of his
hand. Graham sat down and the stout man took a chair opposite him.
Graham Wellerton, gentleman of crime, was face to face with King Furzman,
racketeer and big shot, whose word was law to skulking hordes of evil mobsters.
King Furzman, like his visitor, was attired in Tuxedo. But where Graham's
clothes were smoothly fitting, Furzman's, despite the efforts of the big shot's
tailors, were rumpled and misshapen. Furzman's stiff shirt was bulging and his
fat bull neck stuck turtlelike from his upright collar.
The difference in the faces of the two men was apparent. Graham Wellerton
did not have the expression of a crook. King Furzman, though he sought to
maintain a frank and friendly expression, could not hide the brutal, selfish
characteristics that were a latent part of his physiognomy.
This meeting was one, however, that could have but a single outcome - an
expression of approval on the part of King Furzman. Confident in that
knowledge, Graham Wellerton adopted an attitude of easy indifference and waited
for the big shot to begin the conversation.
"Good work, Wellerton," began Furzman. "You pulled a clean job today. The
best part of it was the way you slipped the swag to Gouger, where he was
waiting for you. He could have walked here with it."
