At last even his own kind turned upon him; the underworld is like the upper in its fear and distrust of genius that flies alone.

But when they turned against him, they turned against a spook--a shadow.

A cold and bodiless laughter from a pit of darkness answered and mocked at their bungling gestures of hate--and went on, flouting Law and Lawless alike.
Where official trailer and private sleuth had failed, the newspapers might succeed--or so thought the disillusioned young men of the Fourth Estate--the tireless foxes, nose-down on the trail of news--the trackers, who never gave up until that news was run to earth.

Star reporter, leg-man, cub, veteran gray in the trade--one and all they tried to pin the Bat like a caught butterfly to the front page of their respective journals--soon or late each gave up, beaten.

He was news--bigger news each week--a thousand ticking typewriters clicked his adventures--the brief, staccato recital of his career in the morgues of the great dailies grew longer and more incredible each day.