The Silent Death

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THE lights of uptown Manhattan cast a vivid, fantastic glow when viewed from the window of the little office high in the towering Brinton Building. But the man who stood within the darkness of that thirtieth-floor room was not concerned with the spectacle of man-made brilliance. His eyes were focused upon the top stories of a huge apartment building across the street.

The apartment structure was capped by a penthouse, from which a few lights gleamed. One corner of the penthouse, which rose flush with the sheer wall of the building, was the spot which this unseen observer found most interesting.

A match glimmered in a cupped hand. As the flame ignited a cigarette, it showed a rough, hardened face.

The match went out, and the watcher puffed his cigarette. As the glowing tip descended from his lips, the man emitted an evil snarl that went well with his countenance.

A rap at the door. The man by the window flicked his cigarette through the opening. He closed the window and drew the shade. He hurried to the door and switched on the light just as a second furtive rap was given. The man within the room opened the door, to admit a hasty visitor.

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