The Mongol warrior that the Shadow has been trying to interrogate has just fallen to his death. Cut to Moe, reading a book titled Developing Your Psychic Ability.
MOE: I sense somebody's coming... SPLAT The warrior hits the sidewalk near Moe's cab.
At dinner with his uncle:
WAINWRIGHT: You know something, Lamont? It puzzles me how a man like yourself, who has absolutely nothing to do, can be late for every little engagement?
LAMONT: Practice, Uncle Wainwright. Lots and lots of practice.
When Margo is trying to convince Lamont to let her help:
MARGO: We need each other.
LAMONT: No, we don’t.
MARGO: We have a connection.
LAMONT: No, we don’t.
MARGO: Then how do you explain that I can read your thoughts?
LAMONT: My thoughts are hard to miss.
MARGO: And why is that?
LAMONT: Psychically, I’m very well endowed.
MARGO: (yeah right) I’ll bet you are.
The following exchange concerning dreams:
Margo Lane: Oh, God I dreamed. Lamont Cranston: So did I. What did you dream? Margo Lane: I was lying naked on a beach in the South Seas. The tide was coming up to my toes. The sun was beating down. My skin hot and cool at the same time. It was wonderful. What was yours? Lamont Cranston: I dreamed I tore all the skin off my face and was somebody else underneath. Margo Lane: You've got problems. Lamont Cranston: I'm aware of that.
(One of the villains has realized that a chance to murder someone is a trap set by the Shadow)
O'Hallihan cursed violently.
"Seventy-fifth Feather!" he began calling over and over into the instrument. "Seventy-fifth Feather! Important orders! Seventy-fifth Feather!" He kept that up fully five minutes, his voice growing squeaky with excitement.
"Will the Fifty-first Feather do?" a voice asked, nervously.
