STILL SEARCHING.

All possibility of Shadow being Nellie Millbank would have been driven from my mind had I been where I could see him after parting with him on the night when I gave him the money.

Seen to receive a roll of bills by a party of rascals, they had made use of an alley-way to head him off, and then suddenly sprang on him from an ambush.

The possibility alluded to would have been killed by the coolness of Shadow's demeanor, by his quick-witted promptness taking his measures to disconcert the villains, by the exhibition of courage displayed by him.

The whole thing could never be a part of a woman's character.

Only a man, and not an ordinary man at that, could have acted as Shadow did under those trying circumstances.

He showed no disconcertion whatever when so suddenly attacked.

Agile as a cat in every movement, he gave a backward spring the moment they broke cover.

Before they could reach him, his hand had clasped the butt of his revolver.

The next second it was out.

They had then reached him—had him hemmed in, but he forced a passage by grimly pointing his revolver at the head of one of them.

He uttered not a word.

He did not forget himself, nor cease to maintain that singular silence which he seemed to have forced upon himself.

Perhaps his silence added to the effect of his threatening movements, but at any rate the villainous quartette shrank away from him, feeling they had caught a Tartar.

Shadow never lost his composure.

Keeping his face to them, he slowly backed away from them.

They followed him up, chagrined, yet resolute, wishing to retrieve their mistake.

One or two swift glances Shadow threw behind him, then changed the line of his retreat, at last fetching up in a doorway.

With his back planted against the door, the villains could only attack him from the front, and this—well, Shadow smiled. He gauged their temper and courage to a T.

Fire-arms are tools too noisy for such fellows, and they were armed with knives. To make these effective it was necessary to get within arm's length.

But to do this in the face of Shadow's revolver was a task they had little relish to attempt.

Silent as the grave itself, and grim as a man of stone, Shadow kept his revolver raised, his finger on the trigger, ready to defend himself.

Nearer came the villains.

Shadow made no movement until they were within a half-dozen feet of him, and then he slightly waved his deadly weapon to warn them away.

They paused.

Glaring at him, they cursed under their breaths.

To be balked was bad enough.

But to be balked in this off-hand, cool, easy manner, was far worse.

But what could they do?

They could not fail to see and understand that a revolver was aimed at them with deadly intent.

They well knew that a bullet is a messenger which travels rapidly, and if the mulatto's aim was as true as his arm was steady, to attempt to rush on him would be the death-signal of at least one of their number.

This fact was evident.

And they hung back in an undecided state of mind.

Shadow laughed quietly.

He had the advantage—had turned the tables, and was aware of it.

He now assumed the aggressive, and took a step toward them, menacing them with the loaded and cocked weapon.

They retreated.

Finally one uttered a few low, hoarse-toned words, and then they took to their heels, Shadow after them.

Around the corner they dashed, but the detective kept them in sight until they disappeared into the alley-way which they had used to head him off. It was a singular incident, and would have appeared so to any one who could have been there to witness it. Nor was it any the less thrilling that it was so quiet.

During the whole affair, from beginning to end, Shadow had uttered no word, but had preserved that mysterious silence in which he had wrapped himself, for causing him to break which on a certain occasion he had poured out on my head the vials of his wrath.

He had conquered four desperate men, had done it in as calm a manner as he would have eaten his dinner.

Verily, he was a mysterious being.

In thinking of him afterward, it seemed to me as if his path and mine were always crossing, for it was due to him that Woglom and his pal and myself were placed in our horrible fix.

The gentleman who lived in this place had been visited one evening by a mulatto.

"A mulatto—a negro?" he said, when the girl told him that such a person wished to see him. "What does he want?"

"I don't know, sir. He jist showed me a bit of paper wid 'I want to see the master of the house' on it."

"Take him into the library."

As the reader will readily suppose, the mulatto was Shadow.

It will be remembered that Woglom and his pal were connected with the sugar-house gang.

Woglom was "down on his luck" so badly as to have been obliged to dispose of his burglarious implements. He had visited Cap to be supplied with some tools.

Cap demanded to know what Woglom was going to do with them, and what were the chances of his success, before lending him what he wanted—for a good round consideration.

Thus, while in concealment in the passage under the junk pile, Shadow had learned the particulars of this "job."

"You wished to see me?" said the master of the house, as he entered the library, where Shadow had been shown.

The detective bowed, pointed to the open desk, then took paper and pencil and wrote:

"A plan has been formed to rob your house."

Reading this, the gentleman gave a start of surprise, then looked more closely at Shadow.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A detective," Shadow replied, in writing.

In terms as brief as possible he outlined the case, spoke of the tramp they had given food and a day's work to, and told him he would find that the fastenings of the cellar windows had been tampered with.

Having warned the gentleman, Shadow retired, refusing either pay or refreshment tendered him.

At once the owner of the house had prepared his trap and the spring guns, while Shadow went back to the city to continue the discouraging search for a criminal to whose identity he had only the faintest possible clew.

Like a very shadow he was, as he silently stole hither and thither, and glided in and out of the haunts of vice, searching for the man who had done him a great wrong and had aroused his enmity.

And then, ere night, his lips involuntarily parted, and the long silence was unconsciously broken, as he fervently exclaimed:

"Thank Heaven!"

His keen gaze rested on a man whom he felt an inward conviction was the individual whom he had for so long in vain endeavored to discover. And, with eyes beginning to flame, the mysterious detective gradually drew nearer to the individual, while one hand rested on his revolver.

Was the hour of his vengeance at hand?