"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 015 - Green Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

GREEN EYES
Maxwell Grant
? CHAPTER I. THE MARK OF DEATH
? CHAPTER II. THE FACE FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER IV. LING SOO
? CHAPTER V. CLEVE WORKS ALONE
? CHAPTER VI. THE WU-FAN MEETS
? CHAPTER VII. CLEVE SEES THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VIII. DARLEY OFFERS ADVICE
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW LAUGHS
? CHAPTER X. THE CHINESE THEATER
? CHAPTER XI. CLEVE PLAYS THE SPY
? CHAPTER XII. A SHOT FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIII. GREEN EYES SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SUBTLETY OF LING SOO
? CHAPTER XV. GREEN LIGHTS GLOW
? CHAPTER XVI. MOY CHEN FAILS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE FATE OF A TRAITOR
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE HAND OF FOY
? CHAPTER XIX. THE CHINESE JUNK
? CHAPTER XX. ON THE TORTURE RACK
? CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE ON THE JUNK
? CHAPTER XXII. GREEN EYES MEETS THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXIII. CLEVE GETS CREDIT
CHAPTER I. THE MARK OF DEATH
THE MOUNTAIN LIMITED was clicking slowly over the rails that trail through the highest and wildest
land in America - the western slope of the Rockies. Speed was cut down as the big special labored
toward the highest point on its line - nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.

Midnight had struck.

Outside, the gloomy mountains hung over the track; seemed about to close in on it, and wipe out the train
and all its passengers.

Within the club car of the train, only a handful of men remained in the comfortable chairs.

All of these were dozing away, with the exception of one who sat at the end of the car, puffing furiously
at a pipe that was no longer alight. His lips twitched, his eyes blinked furiously, and every time one of his
dozing companions stirred, he whirled around quickly, as though the sound had some hideous portent.

Pulling a watch from his pocket, he gave it a hurried glance, then allowed his eyes to wander around the
car. Satisfied that no one was observing him, he crossed quickly to the writing desk.

His hand shook, partly from nervousness and partly from the swaying of the train. Making no effort to
control the blotching of the pen, he pushed it rapidly across the paper. There was something furtive in his
haste.

Finally he signed his name - Stephen Laird - and blotted the letter. Just then one of the other men in the
car mumbled something drowsily, and Laird thrust the letter into his pocket. He leaned back and