Title: The Gray Phantom's Return
Author: Landon, Herman
Language: English
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THE GRAY PHANTOM'S RETURN

by

HERMAN LANDON

Author of "The Gray Phantom"



A. L. Burt Company
Publishers        New York

Published by arrangement with W. J. Watt & Company
Printed in U. S. A.

Copyright, 1922, by
W. J. Watt & Company

Printed in the United States of America



      To Pal



THE GRAY PHANTOM'S RETURN



CHAPTER I--FROM DYING LIPS


Patrolman Joshua Pinto, walking his beat at two o'clock in the morning,
hummed a joyless tune as he turned off the Bowery and swung into East
Houston Street. It was a wet night, with a raw wind sweeping around the
street corners, and Pinto walked along with an air of dogged
persistence, as if trying to make the best of a disagreeable duty. His
heavy and somewhat florid features were expressionless. For all that his
face indicated, he might have been thinking that it was a fine night for
a murder, or wishing that he was in plain clothes instead of uniform, or
picturing himself in his cozy home playing with his baby, whose lusty
"da-da's" and "goo-goo's" he was pleased to interpret as wonderful
linguistic achievements.

Perhaps it was nothing but instinct that caused him to slow down his
pace as he passed a squatty and rather dilapidated building in the
middle of the block. So far as appearances went, it did not differ
greatly from its drab and unprepossessing neighbors, yet Pinto cast a
sharp glance at the ground-floor window, which bore a lettered sign
proclaiming that the premises were occupied by Sylvanus Gage, dealer in
pipes, tobacco, and cigars. As if the building had cast a spell of gloom
upon him, the patrolman ceased his humming, and his lips were set in a
tight line as he proceeded down the block.

Being an ambitious and hard-working officer, Pinto made it a practice to
cultivate the acquaintance of as many as possible of the people living
along his beat. He knew Sylvanus Gage, a thin, stoop-shouldered man with
a flowing beard, a black cap adorning his bald skull, and mild blue eyes
that had a habit of gazing lugubriously at the world through thick
lenses rimmed with tarnished gold. Despite his patriarchal appearance,
he was reputed to be using his tobacco business as a cloak for a
flourishing traffic in stolen goods. So deftly did the old man manage
his illicit enterprises that the police, though morally certain of their
facts, had never been able to produce any evidence against him. Little
was known of his housekeeper, a sour and sharp-tongued slattern of
uncertain age, but there were those who suspected that she was not
entirely innocent of complicity in her employer's clandestine
activities.

It may have been of this Pinto was thinking as he plodded along with the
measured gait of the seasoned patrolman. The soggy sidewalks glistened
in the light from the street-corner lamps, and here and there along the
pavement water was forming in little pools. Most of the windows were
dark and, save for an occasional shifty-eyed and furtively slinking
pedestrian, the streets were deserted. Pinto halted for a moment to look
at his watch, then quickened his steps, "pulled" the buff-colored box on
the corner, and trudged on again.

Once more he was humming a tune. Each of the scattered prowlers he met
was subjected to a critical scrutiny out of the corner of his eye. Now
and then he dodged into a dark doorway and tried a lock. From time to
time he glanced through the window of a store or shop. It was all a
matter of habit with Joshua Pinto. For seven years he had pursued the
same dull routine, varied only by an occasional transfer to another part
of the city, or by a change from night to day duty, or vice versa. He
had broken up a few nocturnal street brawls, now and then he had foiled
the designs of a second-story artisan, and on two or three occasions he
had caught a safe-blower red-handed, but nothing very exciting had ever
happened to him.

On this particular night, however, an acute observer might have noticed
an air of disquietude about Officer Pinto. There was the merest hint of
uneasiness in the way he twirled his nightstick as he walked along, in
the intensified alertness with which he inspected the occasional
passers-by, in the quick and somewhat nervous glances he cast up and
down the shabby streets. Likely as not the rain and the wind, together
with the gloom pervading the district, were responsible for his state of
mind, and possibly his physical discomfort was aggravated by a
premonition--though Pinto himself would have called it a "hunch"--that a
tragic event was soon to enliven the tedium of his existence.

Again his footsteps dragged as once more he strolled past the
establishment of Sylvanus Gage. The building was dark and still, like
most of the others in the block, yet something prompted Pinto to cast a
suspicious glance at the door and windows, as if he sensed an omen in
the shadows clinging to the wall.

He stopped abruptly as a door slammed and a shrill feminine voice called
his name. A woman, scantily dressed and with loosened hair fluttering in
the wind, was hurrying toward him with excited gestures.

"Officer!" She clutched his sleeve and pointed toward the tobacco shop.
"There--hurry!"

The patrolman's eyes followed her pointing finger. A second-story window
opened above their heads and a frowsy person, disturbed by the woman's
harsh voice, looked down into the street. Pinto regarded the speaker
with apparent unconcern, recognizing the housekeeper of Sylvanus Gage.
Another window opened across the street, and a second face looked down
on them.

Officer Pinto, schooled by previous experiences with overexcited
females, casually inquired what might be the matter.

"Matter!" retorted the woman. "Murder--that's what's the matter. Why
don't you get a move on?"

Pinto permitted himself to be led along. The driver of a milk wagon
halted his nag to watch the commotion. The woman, jabbering and
shivering, opened the door of the tobacco store, pushed the officer
inside and switched on the light above the counter.

"There!" She pointed at a door in the rear of the dingy shop. "He--Mr.
Gage--sleeps back there."

"Well, what of it?" An impatient look cloaked Pinto's real feelings.
"He's got to sleep some place, ain't he?"

The woman's eyes blazed. "You stand there handing out sass while he--he
may be dying back there." Trying to steady herself, she gathered up the
folds of the tattered robe she wore. "My room's right above his," she
explained. "A few moments ago I jumped out of bed, thinking I'd heard a
sound."

"A sound, eh? This town is chockfull of them things." Pinto leveled an
uneasy glance at the door in the rear. "What kind of sound was it you
thought you heard?"

"What kind of sound! You ain't paid for asking fool questions, Officer
Pinto. All day long I felt in my bones that something awful was going to
happen, and when that noise woke me up I was scared stiff. I grabbed a
few clothes and ran down here, but the door to Mr. Gage's room was
bolted on the inside. He always shoots the bolt before he goes to bed. I
knocked, but not a sound came from the inside. Then I shouted loud
enough to raise the dead, but----"

"Your boss is hard of hearing, ain't he?"

"A little. Say, why don't you do something?"

Pinto walked to the outer door, shooed away a knot of curious
spectators, then sauntered back to where the woman stood. There was a
supercilious grin on his lips, but deep in his eyes lurked an uneasy
gleam.

"So you've been feeling in your bones that something awful was going to
happen," he gibingly observed. "Then you hear a noise, and right away
you yell murder. You've got _some_ imagination, you have. I ain't going
to break in on a sleeping man just because your bones feel funny. Mine
do, too, once in a while, but I don't make any fuss about it. No,
sir-ee! You might as well trot back to bed."

The woman pulled at the folds of her robe. "I haven't told you all yet."
She spoke fast and low, gazing fixedly at the door in the rear.
"Yesterday afternoon Mr. Gage got a letter from--from a party he's got
good reason to be scared of. He hadn't heard from him in years, and he'd
been hoping he was rid of him for good. Well, I was watching him while
he read the letter, and I saw him turn white as a sheet. Later, while he
was out to lunch, I went to his desk and read the letter. I was just
that curious. It told Mr. Gage that the writer would call on him inside
forty-eight hours."

"Was that all?"

"All but the name at the bottom--and the name was the main thing."

"Eh?"

"It was the name of the man Mr. Gage has been afraid of all these years.
When I saw that name at the bottom of the note I felt a chill all over.
Say," raising her voice, "why don't you break in that door?"

Pinto stroked his chin, as if strongly impressed by what the woman had
told him. Another group of spectators had gathered at the entrance, and
he gruffly ordered them to disperse. Then he faced the inner door,
turned the knob, pushed. The door did not yield, and he looked back over
his shoulder.

"Whose name was signed to the note?" he demanded.

A look of awe crossed the housekeeper's face. She raised a bony arm and
steadied herself against the counter. A grayish pallor had suffused her
shriveled features.

"I--I can't tell you," she whispered. "I mustn't. Hurry--for Heaven's
sake!"

Something of her excitement seemed to have been communicated to Pinto,
but even now he appeared loath to attack the door.

"If your boss was so all-fired scared of the guy that sent him the note,
why didn't he call up the police?" he queried suspiciously. Then a look
of comprehension dawned in his face. "I guess, though, that he wasn't
very anxious to have the department butt into his affairs, and maybe he
thought the other fellow's bite was worse'n his bark. Well, here goes."

He stepped back a few paces, squared his shoulders for action, then
hurled his massive figure against the door. The woman stood rigid,
straining forward a little, yet holding her hands before her face as if
dreading the sight that might meet her eyes. Again and again Pinto flung
his body against the door, and finally, with a crash and a long
splintering sound, it flew open, precipitating him headlong into the
inner room.

A queer sound rose in the woman's throat and she lowered her hands. She
made as if to follow the policeman, but something held her back. From
where she stood, staring through the doorway, she could see that the
inner room was dark, and she heard the policeman's grunts and mutterings
as he struggled to regain his feet. Then came an interval of silence,
broken only by groping footfalls, and presently a light appeared in the
rear. Pinto had found the electric switch.

The housekeeper shuddered as an exclamation issued from the other room.
Evidently the officer had discovered something. Crouching in front of
the counter, she strained her ears, listening. Pinto was speaking in
low, quick accents, but she could not make out the words, and she heard
no answering voice.

Finally, Pinto came out. His face was a little white and his lips were
set in a tight line.

"He's dead," he declared.

The woman shrank back against the counter. "Murdered?"

The officer bawled a command to the neck-craning group at the entrance
to stand back. Without answering the housekeeper's question, he looked
quickly about the store till he spied a telephone on a shelf behind the
counter. The woman listened abstractedly as he called a number and spoke
a few words into the transmitter. Then he stepped out from behind the
counter and faced her.

"Your boss is lying on the floor in there," he announced, jerking his
huge head toward the inner room, "with a knife wound in his chest. He
was breathing his last just as I got to him."

The housekeeper jerked herself up, a look of sullen passion in her
blanched face. "Breathing his last, was he?" Her voice was loud and
shrill. "Then he wasn't dead yet! If you'd hurried, as I told you to, we
might have saved his life. I'll report you for this, Officer Pinto."

"Cut that stuff! Nothing could have saved him. He was too far gone.
Say," and Pinto bored his sharp eyes into her twitching face, "what name
was signed to that letter?"

Twice she opened her lips to speak, but no words came.

"Out with it! You've got to tell me now."

The woman swallowed. "Why do you want to know?" she asked faintly.

"I've got a reason. Just as Gage was drawing his last breath, I got down
beside him and asked him if he could tell me who stabbed him. I guess he
read my lips; anyhow, he was able to whisper a name. I want to know if
it jibes with the name signed to the letter Gage got yesterday."

"Well, then"--she pressed her hands against her breast--"the name on the
letter was the Gray Phantom's."

Pinto ejaculated hoarsely.

"It jibes, all right!" he declared.



CHAPTER II--THE MISSING BAUBLE


Just then a youngish man with a slouching gait and a dead cigar between
his teeth pushed through the little knot of spectators at the entrance
and leveled a mildly inquisitive glance at Pinto and the housekeeper.

The patrolman, after introducing the new arrival as Lieutenant Culligore
of the detective bureau, told briefly what he had discovered.

Culligore doffed his dripping raincoat and banged his soggy slouch hat
against the counter. His dull face and sluggish manners gave the
impression that he was never quite awake, but now and then a furtive
little gleam in his cinnamon-colored eyes betrayed a saving sense of
humor. He seemed unimpressed until Pinto reached that point in his story
where the dying man had told the name of his assailant. Then Culligore
curled up his lip against the tip of his nose, as was his habit when
interested in something, and motioned the patrolman to follow him into
the inner room.

There was an indefinable air about the chamber that vaguely suggested
the abode of one whose life is hidden from the world. The ragged carpet
and the ancient wall paper were of neutral tones, and the atmosphere was
stale and oppressive, as if seldom freshened by sun or wind. Lieutenant
Culligore's drowsily blinking eyes traveled over the scene, yet he
appeared to see nothing. The safe in a corner seemed rather too large
for the modest requirements of a tobacconist. Near by stood an
ink-stained writing desk and a chair. The clothing on the narrow iron
cot looked as though the occupant, suddenly disturbed in his sleep, had
sprung from it in a hurry.

In the center of the room lay a curiously twisted figure, garbed in
pajamas of pink flannel. Over the heart was a dull stain, and the right
arm lay across the chest in a manner hinting that the dead man had used
his last ounce of strength to ward off a blow. One of the legs was drawn
up almost to the abdomen, and the eyes were fixed on the ceiling in a
glassy stare.

"Well, Pinto?" Culligore looked as though he expected the patrolman to
do the necessary thinking.

"The corpse told me the Gray Phantom did it," said Pinto in a tone of
finality. "Don't you think we'd better start a general alarm, sir?"

"Corpses are sometimes mistaken, Pinto." The lieutenant fumbled for a
match and slowly kindled his cigar. "I'll bet a pair of pink socks that
the Phantom had nothing to do with this. The Phantom always fought
clean. I'd hate like blue blazes to think that he pulled off this job."

Pinto scowled a little, as if he couldn't quite understand why Culligore
should reject an easy solution of the mystery when it came to him
ready-made.

"By the way," and Culligore fixed an indolent eye on the electric
fixture above the desk, "was the light on or off when you broke in?"

"It was off, sir. I turned it on myself."

Culligore thought for a moment. "Well, that doesn't mean much. The
murderer might have switched it off before he made his get-away, or the
room might have been dark all the time. I'd give a good smoke to know
whether the murder was done in the light or the dark."

Pinto's eyes widened inquiringly.

"You see, Pinto, if the light was on we can take it for granted Gage saw
the murderer's face. If the room was dark, then he was just guessing
when he told you it was the Phantom. It would have been a natural guess,
too, for he would be very apt to suppose that the murderer was the man
who had sent him the threatening letter. Since we can't know whether
Gage was stabbed in the light or the dark, we'd better forget what he
told you and take a fresh start." His eyes flitted about the room, and a
flicker of interest appeared in their depths. "How do you suppose the
murderer got out, Pinto?"

The patrolman looked significantly at the single window in the room.
Culligore took a spiral tape measure from the little black box he always
carried when at work on a homicide case and measured the width of the
narrow sash.

"Too small," he declared. "You'd have to yank in your belt several
notches before you could crawl through a window of this size, Pinto.
Anyhow, it's latched from the inside."

A look of perplexity in his reddish face, Pinto turned to the door. He
looked a bit dazed as he noticed the damage he had wrought in forcing
it. One of the panels was cracked in the center, and the slot in which
the bolt had rested had been torn out of the frame.

"You see, Pinto." There was a grin on Culligore's lips. "The murderer
couldn't have got out of the window, because it's much too small, and he
couldn't have walked out through the door, because it was bolted from
the inside. There's no transom, so he could not have adjusted the bolt
from the other side. Nobody has yet figured out a way of passing through
a door or window and leaving it bolted on the inside."

Pinto stared at the door, at the window, and finally at Culligore. The
problem seemed beyond him. Then he took his baton and, tapping as he
went, explored every square foot of floor and walls, but no hollow
sounds betrayed the presence of a hidden opening. He shook his head in a
flabbergasted way.

"It's possible, of course," suggested the lieutenant, "that the murderer
was still in the room when you broke in. He might have made his get-away
in the dark while you were hunting for the light switch."

"The housekeeper would have seen him," Pinto pointed out. "She was
standing just outside. And there was a crowd at the entrance. Say," and
a startled look crossed his face, "do you suppose Gage killed himself?"

"That would be an easy solution, all right. But, if he did, what was his
idea in telling you that the Phantom had done it? And I don't see any
knife around. Gage wouldn't have had the strength to pull it out of the
wound, and, even if he had, how did he dispose of it? No, Pinto, Gage
was murdered, and--hang it all!--it's beginning to look as though the
Phantom did it."

"But you just said----"

"All I'm saying now is that it's beginning to look as if the Phantom had
had a hand in it. Things aren't always what they seem, you know. I'm not
taking much stock in what Gage told you just before he died. There are
other reasons. One of them is the size of that window. Another is the
fact that the door was bolted on the inside. Together they show that the
man who committed this murder accomplished something of a miracle in
getting out of the room. The Phantom is the only man I know who can do
that sort of thing."

He grinned sheepishly, as if conscious of having said something that
sounded extravagant.

"Stunts like that are the Phantom's long suit," he went on. "He likes to
throw dust in the eyes of the police and keep everybody guessing. But he
was always a gentlemanly rascal, and it takes something besides a bolted
door and a window latched on the inside to make me believe he has gotten
down to dirty work. Wish the medical examiner would hurry up."

He took a cover from the cot and threw it over the upper part of the
body. A chance glance toward the door made him pause. Just across the
threshold, with hands clasped across her breast and eyes fixed rigidly
on the lifeless heap on the floor, stood the housekeeper. She awoke with
a start from her reverie as she felt the lieutenant's steady gaze on her
face, and she shrank back a step. With a puckering of the brows,
Culligore turned away. His eyes fell on the safe.

A pull at the knob told him it was locked. He took a magnifying lens
from his kit and carefully examined the surface. Then, with a shake of
the head signifying he had found no finger prints, he crooked his index
finger at the housekeeper. She advanced reluctantly, and Culligore
studied her with a sidelong glance.

"You needn't talk unless you want to," he said gently. "The department
isn't offering you any immunity. We've known for some time that Gage was
running a fence, though we never got the goods on him."

The woman, standing in a crouching attitude and studiously avoiding
Culligore's gaze, swept a tress of moist gray hair from her forehead.

"We've also suspected that you have been in cahoots with him," continued
the lieutenant in casual tones. "Oh, don't get scared. We won't go into
that just now. All I want is that we understand each other."

The woman raised her head and looked straight at Officer Pinto, and
there was a hint of dread in her eyes as their glances met. A puzzled
frown crossed Culligore's face as he noticed the strange exchange of
glances; then he pointed to the safe.

"Know how to open it?"

The housekeeper shook her head. "Mr. Gage kept only cheap junk in it,
anyhow. All he used it for was a blind."

"A blind?"

"He had to keep a lot of valuables in the house all the time, and he was
always afraid of burglars. He kept a lot of phony stuff in the safe,
thinking if burglars found it they might be fooled and not look any
further."

"Ah! Not a bad idea. Where did he keep the real stuff?"

The woman hesitated for a moment; then, with a quick gesture, she
pointed to the old writing desk.

"Gage was a shrewd one," observed the lieutenant. "With a safe in the
room, nobody would think of looking for valuables in a broken-down desk.
Now," drawing a little closer to the woman and trying to catch her
shifty eyes, "I wish you would tell us who killed him. I think you
know."

A tremor passed over the woman's ashen face, and she fixed Pinto with a
look that caused the lieutenant to lift his brows in perplexity.
Finally, she pointed a finger at the patrolman.

"You heard what he said, didn't you? Mr. Gage told him the Gray Phantom
did it. Isn't that enough?"

Culligore regarded her narrowly, as if sensing an attempt at evasion in
what she had just said. Then he nodded and seemed to be searching his
memory.

"Let me see--Gage and the Phantom had some kind of row a few years
back?"

The housekeeper's "Yes" was scarcely audible.

"What was it about?"

Her lips curled in scorn. "That's what I could never understand. They
were quarreling like two overgrown boys over a piece of green rock.
Imitation jade was what Mr. Gage called it. I never got the story
straight, but it seems the Phantom had been carrying it around as a kind
of keepsake for years. He lost it finally, and somehow it got into Mr.
Gage's hands. The Phantom wanted it back, but Mr. Gage was just stubborn
enough to hang on to it. They had an awful rumpus, and I think the
Phantom threatened to get Mr. Gage some day."

"All that fuss about a piece of phony jade? The Phantom must have had
some particular reason for wanting it back. What was it shaped like?"

"It was a funny kind of cross, with eight tips to it."

"A Maltese cross, maybe." Lieutenant Culligore whistled softly. "The
Phantom's a queer cuss. Likely as not he thought more of that piece of
imitation jade than most people would of a thousand dollars. What I
don't see is why Gage wouldn't give it up. Unless," he added with a
shrewd grin, "he knew how badly the Phantom wanted it and hoped to make
him cough up some real dough for it. Wasn't that it?"

A shrug was the housekeeper's only response.

"And the Phantom, of course, balked at the idea of paying good money for
his own property. But it seems Gage would have given it up when he saw
that it was putting his life in danger. I suppose, though, he thought
the Phantom was only bluffing. He didn't believe anybody would commit a
murder over a thing that could be bought for a few cents."

Again the housekeeper shot Pinto a queer glance. "If you don't want me
any more, I think I'll----"

"Just a moment," interrupted Culligore. "I want you to show me the
letter Gage got yesterday."

With a sullen gesture she stepped to the desk, fumbled for a few moments
among the drawers, then drew forth a letter and handed it to the
lieutenant. Culligore examined the envelope and the superscription under
the light, then pulled out the enclosure.

"'The Gray Phantom neither forgives nor forgets,'" he read aloud. "Short
and to the point. Now let's have a look at the Maltese cross. But
wait--here's the medical examiner. You're late, doc."

"Car broke down." The examiner, a thickset, bearded, crisp-mannered
individual, put a few questions to Culligore and Pinto, then uncovered
the body, explored the region of the wound with an expert touch, and
finally jotted down a few notes in a red-covered book. As he rose from
his kneeling position, the lieutenant gave him a signal out of the
corner of his eye, and the two men left the room together.

"Just one question, doc." Culligore spoke in low tones, as if anxious
that Pinto and the housekeeper should not hear. "About that wound. How
long did Gage live after he was stabbed?"

"Not very long."

"Long enough to tell Pinto the name of the man who stabbed him?"

The examiner looked startled. "Yes, in all probability. Say, you don't
suspect that cop in there of----"

"Not after what you've told me." Culligore wheeled on his heels and
re-entered the inner room. His upper lip brushed the tip of his nose,
signifying he had learned something interesting. Pinto was replacing the
cover over the body, while the housekeeper, standing a few paces away,
was regarding him with a fixed, inscrutable look.

"Now let's see the Maltese cross," directed the lieutenant.

The woman jerked herself up. Her eyes held a defiant gleam, but it died
away quickly. With evident reluctance she approached the desk and
pointed.

"There's a hidden drawer back there in the corner," she announced. "I
don't know how to open it. You'll have to find that out for yourself."

Culligore, after looking in vain for a concealed spring, took a small
tool from his kit. To locate the drawer without the woman's help would
have been a difficult task, for it was ingeniously hidden in an
apparently solid portion of the desk. With a few deft twists and jerks
he forced it open and poured out the contents, consisting of a great
number of small objects wrapped in tissue paper. Each of the little wads
contained a diamond. Unwrapping one after another, Culligore gathered
them in a glittering heap on the desk. The stones varied in size and
brilliancy. Occasionally he raised one of them to the light and
inspected it keenly, satisfying himself of its genuineness.

"Some eye-teasers!" he muttered. "But where's the Maltese cross?"

The housekeeper's face went blank. She stared at the diamonds, then at
the empty drawer.

"It was there day before yesterday," she declared. "Mr. Gage showed it
to me."

There was an odd tension in the lieutenant's manner. "Did the Phantom
know about the secret drawer and how to open it?"

The woman, one hand clutching the edge of the desk, seemed to ponder. "I
don't know. He might have. The Phantom called on Mr. Gage several times
after they started quarreling. But----"

"Well, it doesn't matter." There was a strain of suppressed
disappointment in Culligore's tones, and his face hinted that an
illusion was slipping away from him. "It looks as though the thing was
settled. The Gray Phantom is the only man I know who would pass up some
fifty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds after taking the trouble to
steal a gewgaw worth about two bits."

With dragging gait he left the room, stepped behind the counter outside,
and spoke into the telephone. In a few moments now the alarm would go
out and a thousand eyes would be searching for the Gray Phantom.
Culligore, tarrying for a little after he had hung up the receiver,
looked as though he were in a mood to quarrel with his duty and with the
facts staring him in the face. Then he shrugged, as if to banish regrets
of which he was half ashamed, and his face bore a look of dogged
determination when he stepped back into the bedroom.

"We'll get him," he announced with grim assurance. "Inside fifteen
minutes there'll be a net thrown around this old town so tight a mouse
couldn't wriggle through."

He picked up his hat and kit, and just then his eyes fell on the
housekeeper's face. In vain he exercised his wits to interpret the sly
gaze with which she was fixing Patrolman Pinto.

Did it mean fear, suspicion, horror, hate, or all four?



CHAPTER III--BLUE OR GRAY?


Cuthbert Vanardy was conscious of a disquieting tension in the air. The
long shadows cast by the trees that stood in clusters on the lawn of
Sea-Glimpse impressed him as sinister harbingers of coming events. The
wind had a raw edge, and it produced a dolorous melody as it went
moaning over the landscape. Vanardy recognized the vague sense of
depression and foreboding he experienced as he walked down the path that
wound in and out among flower beds and parterres of shrubbery. He had
noticed it often in the past, and always on the eve of some tragic
event.

He could not understand, for of late his life had fallen into serene and
humdrum lines, and there had been no hint of disturbing occurrences. His
horticultural experiments had kept him well occupied, and he had derived
a great deal of satisfaction from the favorable comments which the
products of his gardens had created among experts at the horticultural
expositions in New York and Boston, as well as from the speculations
aroused concerning the identity of the anonymous exhibitor, who for
private reasons preferred to remain unknown. Nothing of an exciting
nature had happened in several months, and, but for his intangible
misgivings, there was no sign of an interruption to his tranquil life.

On the veranda he stopped and looked back into the gathering dusk. The
trees and shrubs, colored and distorted by his restless imagination,
took on weird contours and seemed to assume life and motion. No doubt,
he told himself, the premonitions he had felt of late were also the
products of his fancy. They could be nothing else, for he had severed
all the links connecting him with the old life. Time had quieted all the
dreams and impulses of his former self. He smiled as it occurred to him
that his highest ambition at the present moment was to produce a gray
orchid.

It was only a whim, a diversion from more serious work, but the novelty
of the experiment, as well as the difficulties in the way, appealed to
him. By intricate cross-breeding he was gradually developing an orchid
of a dim, mystic gray, his favorite color. When once evolved, the hybrid
should be known as the Phantom Orchid. It would be the living symbol of
whatever had been good in his other self, the Gray Phantom.

His thoughts went back to those other days when he had gone, like a
swaggering Robin Hood, from one stupendous adventure to another. Even
his bitterest enemies, and there had been many of them, had never
accused the Gray Phantom of being actuated by considerations of sordid
gain. The public had gasped and the police muttered maledictions as he
gratified his thirst for thrills and excitement, always playing the game
in strict accord with his code and invariably planning his exploits so
that his victims were villains of a far blacker dye than he. Always his
left hand had tossed away what his right hand had plucked. Hospitals,
orphan asylums and other philanthropic organizations became the
recipients of donations that were never traced to their source. Princely
and mysterious gifts poured into garrets and hovels in a way that caused
simple-minded people to believe in a return of the day of miracles.

The Gray Phantom, through it all, maintained an elusiveness that
completely baffled the police and clothed his identity in a glamorous
haze. So astounding were his performances that there were those who
asked themselves whether he was not practicing black magic. Once, in the
early days of his career, he fell into the clutches of the police,
satisfying the superstitious ones that he was really a being of flesh
and blood, but an amazing escape a few days later revived the gossip of
a rogue who was in collusion with evil spirits. The Phantom was greatly
amused, and spurred his energies to even more dizzying flights, but
there were times when a softer mood came upon him, and then he wondered
why his restless spirit could not have found a different outlet. Perhaps
the reason was to be found in the remote and dimly remembered past when,
friendless and homeless, he had derived his philosophy of life from
thieving urchins and night-prowling gangsters.

The years passed, and the Gray Phantom's adventures made his sobriquet
known from coast to coast, but gradually the life he was leading began
to pall on him. His exploits no longer gave him the thrills he craved,
and he began to search, at first blindly and haltingly, for a more
satisfying way of unleashing his boundless energies. There came long
lapses between his adventures, and finally it began to be rumored that
the Gray Phantom had gone into retirement with his accumulated
treasures, for no one guessed that he had flung away his spoils as fast
as he garnered them in. Nobody understood the true reason for the change
that had come over him, and the Phantom least of all.

He often wondered at the obscure impulses that had impelled him to seek
seclusion at Sea-Glimpse, a narrow stretch of wooded land surrounded on
three sides by jagged coast line and in the rear by forest and farm
land. He could not understand them, except that his new mode of life
gave him a sense of pleasing remoteness from things he wished to forget,
and at times he thought he would be content to spend the rest of his
days in this secluded nook, secure from intrusion and free to devote
himself to his hobby and his books.

But to-night a vague unrest was upon him. He peered into the shadows,
constantly growing longer and darker, and it seemed as if the ghostly
figures of his past were reaching out for him. Perhaps, there was still
a forgotten link or two that bound him to the old life. He shrugged, as
if to banish disquieting thoughts, and entered the house. Stepping into
the library, he lighted his reading lamp and took a work on horticulture
from the shelf. There was a problem in connection with the gray orchid
that he had not yet been able to work out satisfactorily. He sat down
and opened the book, but the print danced and blurred beneath his eyes.
A woman's face appeared out of nowhere, the same face that had haunted
him in idle moments for months. His mental picture was dim and
fragmentary, and he could not distinctly remember even the color of the
hair or whether the eyes were blue or gray, but the vision pursued him
with the persistence of a haunting scent or a strain from an old
familiar song.

Helen Hardwick and he had shared several adventures and perils together.
Only a few months had elapsed since he rescued her from the clutches of
the mysterious "Mr. Shei," the leader of an arch-conspiracy which the
Phantom had frustrated. About a year before that he had emerged from his
retreat for long enough to restore to her father, curator of the
Cosmopolitan Museum, a collection of Assyrian antiques that Hardwick had
spent the best years of his life in gathering, and which had been stolen
by a criminal organization headed by the Phantom's old-time enemy and
rival, "The Duke." To Vanardy the achievement had meant little more than
a pleasing diversion and an opportunity to humiliate a man whose
personality and methods he abhorred, and Helen Hardwick's gratitude had
made him feel that she was giving him the accolade of an undeserved
knightship. She had come to Sea-Glimpse to thank him, and her parting
glance and smile were still vivid in his recollection. He often glanced
dreamily at the spot where she had stood when for an instant her hand
lingered within his. With the blood pounding against his temples, he had
exerted all his power of will to restrain himself from calling her back.
There were times when he regretted having let her go like that, without
hope of seeing her again, but in his soberer moments he saw the
inevitableness of the outcome. In the eyes of the world he was still an
outlaw, and too great a gulf separated the Gray Phantom and Helen
Hardwick. The memory of her eyes, warm, frank and bright, would be with
him always. He had her to thank for the finest emotions he had ever
experienced, and he would try to be content with that.

She seemed little more than a dream to him now, and even the dream was
fragmentary. Again he thought it strange that he could not remember the
color of her eyes or hair, and that little remained with him save a
misty and tantalizing vision of loveliness.

He closed the book and passed to the window. The moon had risen, bathing
the narrow strip of water visible between the birches and hemlocks in a
white mist. The house, which Vanardy had restored from the dilapidated
condition in which he had found it, was silent save for an occasional
creaking of old timbers. Clifford Wade, once his chief lieutenant and
now the major-domo of his little household, had gone to the village for
the mail. The Phantom stood lost in reflections, his deep gray eyes soft
and luminous. On occasion they could sting and stab like points of
steel, but in repose they were the eyes of a dreamer. The nostrils were
full and sensitive, and the arch of the lips was partly obscured by a
short-cropped beard that would have made him hard to recognize from his
photograph in a revolving case at police headquarters.

He turned as a knock sounded on the door. A fat man stepped through the
door, groaning and puffing as if the task of carrying his huge body
through life were the bane of his existence. Wade, the ostensible owner
of Sea-Glimpse--for its real master was seldom seen beyond the
boundaries of the estate--placed a bundle of mail on the table, gave his
master a long-suffering look, and withdrew.

With a listless air Vanardy glanced at the mail and began to unfold the
newspapers. He ran his eyes over the headlines, and a caption, blacker
and larger than the rest, caught his languid attention. He stared at it
for moments, as if his brain were unable to absorb its meaning. Slowly
and dazedly he mumbled the words:

                   DYING MAN ACCUSES THE GRAY PHANTOM

Presently his quickening eye was running down the column of type. It was
a lurid and highly colored account of the murder of Sylvanus Gage, a
crime said by the police to be one of the strangest on record.
Headquarters detectives confessed themselves baffled by several of the
circumstances, and especially by the fact that the murderer seemed to
have accomplished the apparently impossible feat of making his escape
through a door which had been found bolted on the inside when the police
reached the scene.

The murder, it was stated, would probably have gone down in the annals
of crime as an unsolved mystery but for the fact that the dying man had
whispered the name of his assailant to Patrolman Pinto, who had been
summoned to the scene by the housekeeper, Mrs. Mary Trippe, after the
latter had been disturbed by a mysterious sound. The name mentioned by
the victim was that of Cuthbert Vanardy, known internationally as the
Gray Phantom and regarded by the police as one of the most ingenious
criminals of modern times.

However, the account went on, the Gray Phantom's guilt would have been
clearly established even without his victim's dying statement. It had
been learned that for some years a feud had existed between the two men
and that the Gray Phantom had threatened to take his enemy's life. The
total absence of finger prints and other tangible clews strongly
suggested that the deed could have been perpetrated only by a criminal
in the Phantom's class. The perplexing features added further proof of
the Phantom's guilt. Who else could have made his escape in such an
inexplicable manner? Who but the Gray Phantom, who was known to be
pursuing a criminal career for pleasure and excitement rather than for
the profits he derived from it, would have left behind him a small
fortune in perfect stones, taking nothing but a worthless curio?

These and other details Vanardy read with interest. He smiled as he
reached the concluding paragraph, stating that a countrywide search for
the murderer was in progress and that the police confidently expected to
make an arrest within twenty-four hours. He glanced at the accompanying
likeness of himself, made from a photograph taken in the early stages of
his career.

"What drivel!" he exclaimed, tossing the paper aside. Then, one by one,
he glanced through the other early editions of the New York evening
newspapers. All featured the Gage murder on the first page, and all the
accounts agreed in regard to essential details. In _The Evening
Sphere's_ story of the crime, however, he detected a subtle difference.
It presented the same array of damning facts, pointing straight to the
inevitable conclusion of the Phantom's guilt, yet, between the lines, he
sensed an elusive quality that differentiated it from the others. He
read it again, more slowly this time; and here and there, in an oddly
twisted sentence or an ambiguous phrase, he caught a hint that the
writer of the _Sphere's_ article entertained a secret doubt of the
Phantom's guilt.

The suggestion was so feeble, however, that a casual reader would
scarcely have noticed it, and whatever doubts the writer may have felt
were smothered under a mass of evidence pointing in the opposite
direction. He threw the paper down with an air of disdain. Here, in this
sheltered retreat, what the world thought of him was of no account.
Serene in his seclusion, he could snap his fingers at its opinions and
suspicions. He sat down at the piano, and a moment later his finely
tapering fingers were flashing over the keys.

Suddenly, in the midst of one of his favorite arias, his hands began to
falter. For a time he sat motionless, with lips tightening, gazing
narrowly at the point where Helen Hardwick had stood at the moment when
he held her hand. His face was grim and troubled, as if a disturbing
thought had just occurred to him. He got up and with long strides passed
to the desk, where he pressed a button.

"Wade," he crisply announced when the fat man reappeared, "I am going to
New York in the morning."

Wade sat down, drawing a squeaky protest from an unoffending chair. "To
New--New York?" he stammered.

"Exactly. Tell Dullah to pack my grip. I shall leave early, about the
time you are getting your beauty sleep."

Wade blinked his little eyes. "But why, boss?"

"Here's the reason." Vanardy handed him one of the papers he had been
perusing, watching with an amused smile the flabbergasted look that came
into the fat man's face as he read. As he approached the end of the
article, wheezy gasps and indignant mutters punctuated the reading.

"Rot!" he commented emphatically. "If I wasn't a fat man I'd lick the
editor of this sheet within an inch of his life. Why, you always played
the game according to the code, boss. You never killed a man in all your
life."

"No, never."

"And you were right here at Sea-Glimpse at the time the murder was
done."

"True enough. But I might have some difficulty proving it. Your own
testimony wouldn't be particularly impressive. Besides, there's just
enough of truth in the police theory to give color to the lies. It is
true Gage and I quarreled, and I believe I once threatened to give the
old skinflint a beating. It was a foolish wrangle, involving nothing but
a cross made of imitation jade. I'd been wearing it attached to a chain
around my neck as far back as I could remember. Who put it there I don't
know. Perhaps----"

"Your mother--maybe," suggested Wade, slanting a searching gaze at
Vanardy.

"I don't know, Wade. You may be right. I remember neither father nor
mother. All I know is that the cross seemed to be the only connecting
link between my present and the past I couldn't remember. I fought like
mad when the street urchins and gangsters tried to take it away from me,
and somehow, through thick and thin, I managed to cling to it. Then, one
day about six years ago, I lost it. Probably the chain parted. Anyhow,
in some mysterious manner the cross fell into Gage's possession. I went
to Gage and demanded it. He must have seen how anxious I was to recover
it, for he put a stiff price on it. I was willing to pay--would have
paid almost anything--but each time I began to count out the money Gage
doubled his price. So it went on for years, and I admit I sometimes felt
like strangling the old miser. But I never threatened to kill him and I
never wrote the letter mentioned in the papers."

"Somebody's been doing some tall lying," declared Wade irately. "If I
wasn't so fat I'd make the fellow that wrote this article eat his own
words. But you should worry, boss. They can't get away with it."

"I am not so sure, Wade. Seems to me they've made out a fairly complete
case against the Gray Phantom. The motive is substantial enough. There
are enough mysterious circumstances to suggest that only the Phantom
could have committed the crime. The fact that the murderer stole a cheap
trinket and left fifty thousand dollars' worth of real diamonds behind
him is rather impressive. And you mustn't forget that a little evidence
against the Gray Phantom will go a long way with a jury."

Wade, a picture of ponderous wrath, crumpled the newspaper in his huge
fist. The fretful look in the small round eyes signified that his mind
was grappling with a problem.

"The letter Gage got the day before the murder must have been forged,"
he ventured at last.

"Of course; but it may have been done skillfully enough to deceive all
but the keenest eye. Handwriting experts have been known to disagree in
matters of that kind."

The fat man reflected heavily. "Why didn't Gage beat it for the tall
woods when he got the letter?"

"Because the tall woods are full of ambushes. Likely as not the letter
gave him a jolt at first. Then, upon giving it a sober second thought,
he cooled down. His principal consideration was that the Gray Phantom
had never been known to commit a murder, and that consequently the
letter was either a joke or a bluff."

"But he told the cop it was the Gray Phantom that stabbed him."

"Naturally. A wound in the chest isn't conducive to clear thinking. We
may assume that the murderer approached his victim by stealth and that
Gage never saw the man who struck him down. Under the circumstances it
was natural enough for him to suppose that, after all, the Gray Phantom
had carried out his threat. What else was he to think?"

An ominous rumble sounded in Wade's expansive chest. "You've been
framed, boss."

Vanardy nodded. "And it doesn't require a great deal of brilliance to
figure out who engineered the frame-up. The Duke has the reputation of
being a good hater."

The fat man seemed startled. "But the Duke's in stir," he argued. "You
sent him there yourself."

"So I did." A pleased smile lighted Vanardy's features. "But two or
three members of his gang were not present at the round-up, and I have
received tips to the effect that they have been organizing a new crowd.
I suppose the Duke has been communicating with them through underground
channels and instructing them in regard to this frame-up. The Duke has
sworn to get me, and undoubtedly this is his method of accomplishing his
aim. He chose the mode of revenge which he thought would hurt me most."

"If I wasn't a fat man I would--" began Wade.

"Save your threats. The Duke is a crafty rascal, just as clever as he's
vindictive. That kind of a man makes a bad enemy. The only way to queer
his game is to track down the man who did the crime. That's why I am
going to New York in the morning. The police will never find the
culprit, for they are wasting their time and energies looking for the
Gray Phantom. Therefore it's up to me."

A scowl deepened in Wade's rubicund face. "The world must be coming to
an end when the Gray Phantom turns detective. It's the maddest, craziest
thing you ever did yet, boss."

"It will be quite an adventure." Vanardy's eyes twinkled.

"It's too risky, boss. Why, every dick and harness bull and amateur
sleuth on the American continent is on the lookout for you."

"Very likely."

"The police have enough on you to send you to the jug for a million
years, even without the Sylvanus Gage job. And you can just bet the
Duke's gang will have their eyes peeled, watching their chance to lead
you into a trap."

"I suppose so."

The fat man sighed. He knew from long experience that his chief, once
his mind was made up, was impervious to pleas and arguments.

"Why don't you just sit tight?" was his final attempt. "I don't see what
you're worrying about. They'll never find you here. Nobody knows where
to look for you. You're safe."

"Sure of that?" Vanardy smiled queerly. "There's one person who knows
where to find me."

A look of startled comprehension came into Wade's face. "You mean the
little queen who was so heart-broken because the Duke had stolen a lot
of old Assyrian junk from her dad?"

"I mean Miss Helen Hardwick," declared Vanardy stiffly. "I was fortunate
in being able to recover the collection from the Duke and restore it to
Mr. Hardwick."

"She was sure easy on the eyes!" rhapsodized Wade, unrebuked. "But you
let her slip away from you, after you'd stirred up most of the earth to
dry her tears. I never got you on that deal boss. Why, if I hadn't been
a fat man----" He sighed and rolled wistful eyes at the ceiling.

Vanardy scowled, then laughed.

"Chuck the sentiment, you old clod-hopping hippo. As far as I know, Miss
Hardwick is the only living person, outside our own circle, who is aware
of my whereabouts."

"Will she give you away?"

"It depends," murmured Vanardy. "If she believes me guilty of murder she
may consider it her duty to inform the police, and she would be
absolutely right in doing so. But that's neither here nor there. I'm
starting for New York in a few hours to track down the murderer of
Sylvanus Gage."

Admiration clashed with anxiety in Wade's face. "I get you, boss. You
want to keep the Gray Phantom's record clean. You don't want any
bloodstains on his name. You don't want the world to think that you've
committed a murder."

An odd smile played about the Phantom's lips. "Wrong, Wade. It goes
against the grain to have a foul murder linked to one's name, but it
isn't that. I'm not lying awake nights worrying about the world's
opinion. The only thing that troubles me is----" He broke off, and his
eyes sought the spot where Helen Hardwick had stood.

"You needn't say it, boss." Wade's voice was a trifle thick as he
struggled out of the chair and gripped the other's hand. "If I wasn't a
fat man I'd tag right along, but I guess I'd only be in the way. Good
luck--and give my regards to the little wren."

With slow, trundling strides he left the room. A moment later the door
had closed behind him, and the Gray Phantom was alone. Once more, as he
paced the floor, his eyes were soft and luminous. Suddenly he paused and
bent a reverential look on the rug at his feet, as if he were standing
in a hallowed spot.

"Blue or gray?" he mumbled.



CHAPTER IV--MR. ADAIR, OF BOSTON


"Roland Adair, Boston, Massachusetts." It was thus the Gray Phantom
inscribed the register at Hotel Pyramidion, while an affable clerk
beamed approval on his athletic and well-groomed figure.

"What do you require, Mr. Adair?"

"Parlor, bedroom, and bath, with southern exposure, preferably above the
sixth floor."

The clerk, intuitively sensing that the new arrival was one accustomed
to having his wishes complied with, glanced at his card index. "We have
exactly what you want, Mr. Adair."

"Good! I wish breakfast and the morning newspapers sent to my apartment
at once."

"It shall be done, Mr. Adair." The clerk bowed debonairly, little
suspecting that the new guest, who so unmistakably presented all the
earmarks of a cultured and leisurely gentleman, was at this moment the
most "wanted" man on the North American continent. The guest himself
grinned in his short black beard while an elevator carried him to the
ninth floor, and an acute observer would have gained the impression that
he was bent upon an adventure hugely to his liking.

He ate his breakfast slowly and with keen relish, meanwhile glancing
over the newspapers, which were still featuring the East Houston Street
murder as the chief sensation. Nothing had as yet been discovered which
threw the faintest light on the peculiar manner in which the slayer had
left the scene of his crime, and it was regarded as doubtful whether
this mysterious phase of the case would be cleared up until after the
Gray Phantom's arrest. It had been ascertained that the notorious
criminal was not aboard any of the vessels that had sailed for foreign
ports since the murder, so it was thought probable that the fugitive was
still in the country, and it was confidently declared by police
officials that the dragnet would gather him in before long.

The accounts in the various papers were substantially similar, but again
the Phantom detected a faintly dissenting note in the _Sphere's_
article. It was so slight as to be scarcely discernible, but to the
Phantom it signified a lurking doubt in the writer's mind, and a
suggestion that the _Sphere's_ reporter sensed a weak link in the chain
of evidence.

"I'll have a talk with the fellow," he decided. "I might ask him to take
dinner with me this evening. He may prove interesting."

He finished his coffee and lighted a long, thin cigar, then passed to
the window and watched the procession below. After his long and
monotonous seclusion at Sea-Glimpse the life of the city acted as a
gentle electric stimulant on his nerves. He glowed and tingled with
sensations that had lain dormant during long months of tedium, and the
strongest and raciest of these was a feeling of ever present danger.

The Gray Phantom did not deceive himself. His present adventure was by
far the most hazardous of his career. On the one hand he was threatened
by the nimble-witted man hunters of the police department, and on the
other by the henchmen of the Duke. His only hope of safety lay in his
subtler intelligence, which had seldom failed him in moments of danger,
and the temporary protection afforded by his beard.

Luckily, the only photograph of him in existence, the one the newspapers
had displayed on their front pages the morning after the murder, showed
him smooth shaven. The beard, giving him a maturer and somewhat more
professional appearance, afforded a thin and yet fairly satisfactory
disguise, but it would be of scant use if by the slightest misstep or
careless move he should attract suspicion to himself. In such an event,
certain records filed away in the archives of the police would quickly
establish his identity as the Gray Phantom. Nevertheless, he was pleased
that the descriptions carried by the newspapers had made no mention of a
beard.

There was a measure of safety, too, in the sheer audacity with which he
was proceeding. The man hunters might look everywhere else, but they
would scarcely expect to find their quarry living sumptuously at a
first-class hotel. His free and easy mode of conduct, unmarked by the
slightest effort at concealment, afforded a protection which he could
not have found in the shabbiest hovel and under the most elaborate
disguise.

Yet, despite all the safeguards his brain could invent, the situation
was perilous enough to give the Gray Phantom all the excitement his
nature craved. His pulses throbbed, and there was a keen sparkle in his
eyes as he left the hotel and went out on the streets. The very air
seemed charged with a quality that held him in a state of piquant
suspense. The policemen appeared more alert than usual, and now and then
snatches of conversation reached his ears from little groups at street
corners and in doorways who were avidly discussing the Gage murder and
the chances of the Gray Phantom being caught. At each subway entrance
and elevated stairway loitered a seemingly slothful and impassive
character whom his trained eye easily identified as a detective.

Chuckling softly in his beard, the Phantom walked on. No one seemed to
suspect that the striking and faultlessly garbed figure that sauntered
down the streets with such a carefree and easy stride, looking for all
the world like a leisurely gentleman out for his morning constitutional,
might be the object of one of the most thorough and far-reaching man
hunts ever undertaken by the police. Occasionally he paused to inspect a
window display, incidentally listening to a discussion in which his name
was frequently mentioned. The East Houston Street murder, which under
ordinary circumstances would have attracted but passing notice, had
become a tremendous sensation because of the Gray Phantom's supposed
connection with it.

Gradually he veered off the crowded thoroughfares and entered into a
maze of crooked, narrow, and squalid streets where housewives and
children with dirt-streaked faces viewed his imposing figure with frank
curiosity. After a glance at a corner sign he turned east, quickening
his pace a little and scanning the numbers over the doorways as he
proceeded. One of the buildings, a murky brick front with a funeral
wreath hanging on the door and a tobacconist's sign lettered across the
ground-floor window, he regarded with more than casual interest.

"Sylvanus Gage, Dealer in Pipes, Tobacco, and Cigars," he read in
passing; then, after a moment's hesitation, he pursued his eastward
course, a thoughtful pucker between his eyes. He was trying to outline a
course of procedure, a matter to which hitherto he had given scant
attention, for the Phantom was the veriest tyro in the science of
criminal investigation. It occurred to him that one of his first steps
should be an inspection of the scene of the murder.

A few blocks farther east he turned into a once famous restaurant and
ordered luncheon. He dallied over the dishes, smoked a cigar while he
drank his coffee, and it was after three o'clock when he left the place
and headed in the direction of the tobacco store. This time he paused in
front of the establishment, looked through the window, and finding the
interior deserted, resolutely rang the bell. Some time passed before the
side door was opened by a flat-chested woman with sharp features and
unkempt gray hair.

"What do you want?" she demanded sulkily, regarding the caller with
oddly piercing eyes. "Can't you see the store's closed?"

The Phantom lifted his hat and smiled urbanely. "Sorry to intrude," he
murmured. "You are Mrs. Trippe, I believe?"

"Well, suppose I am?"

"The late Mr. Gage's housekeeper?"

"What's that to you?"

"I am Mr. Adair, of Boston," explained the Phantom, unruffled by her
churlish demeanor. He and the woman had met once or twice during his
stormy interviews with Gage, but he felt sure she did not recognize him.
"You may have heard of me as an amateur investigator of crime," he went
on easily. "I have established a modest reputation in that line. This
morning I happened to read an account of Mr. Gage's tragic death, and
some of the circumstances impressed me as interesting. Could I trouble
you to show me the room in which the crime was committed?"

His hand was in the act of extracting a bank note from his pocket, but
he checked it in time, a sixth sense warning him that Mrs. Trippe might
resent an attempt to grease her palm.

"I don't see what you want to pester me for," she muttered sullenly,
fixing him with a look of obvious suspicion. "The police have almost
worried the life out of me with their fool questions and carryings-on.
The case is settled and there's nothing more to investigate."

"Sure of that, Mrs. Trippe?" He had detected a faint hesitancy in her
speech and manner, and he was quick to take advantage of it.
Incidentally he noticed that she had aged a great deal since he last saw
her, and he doubted whether he should have recognized her if they had
met by chance. "What about the murder's manner of escape?" he added. "I
understand that hasn't been explained yet."

"Well, he escaped, didn't he? I don't see that it makes any difference
_how_ he did it. The Gray Phantom always did things his own way. But,"
after a few moments' wavering, "you can come in and look around."

Her abrupt acquiescence surprised him, and he guessed it was not wholly
due to a desire to be obliging. He wondered, as he followed her through
the store, whether her decision to admit him was not prompted by a wish
to see what deductions he would make after inspecting the scene of the
crime.

She opened the inner door, remarking that the damage wrought by Officer
Pinto had been repaired a few hours after the murder and that the police
department's seal had been removed only a short while ago. The Phantom
passed into the narrow chamber, only slightly altered in appearance
since the time of his last visit. The realization that he was viewing
the scene of a crime supposed to have been perpetrated by himself
appealed strongly to his dramatic instinct, and the thought that at this
moment the police were searching for him with a fine-toothed comb lent a
touch of humor to the situation.

The woman stepped to the small window in the rear and raised the shade,
then stationed herself at the door, peering at him out of wary,
narrow-lidded eyes, as if intent on his slightest move. The Phantom
glanced at the rickety desk at which Gage had sat while haggling over
petty sums and figuring percentages to the fraction of a cent.

"I see one of the drawers has been forced open," he remarked.

"Lieutenant Culligore did that," explained the woman. "That was the
drawer where Mr. Gage kept most of his valuables."

"Including the Maltese cross," the Phantom smilingly put in.

Mrs. Trippe nodded. "There's a spring somewhere that opens and shuts it,
but none of us could find it, and so Lieutenant Culligore had to break
the drawer open."

"Yet the cross was gone," observed the Phantom, "and the drawer was
intact when Lieutenant Culligore found it. That would seem to indicate
that the murderer knew how to operate the spring."

"Well, hasn't the Phantom proved that he knows just about all there is
to know?"

"I am sure the Phantom would feel highly complimented if he could hear
you say that." He smiled discreetly, realizing that here was another
item of proof, for he was willing to wager that, though he had never
seen Gage work the spring, he could have opened the drawer without
laying violent hands upon it. He turned to the window, carefully
examined the catch, then raised the lower half and endeavored to thrust
his shoulders through the opening. The attempt satisfied him that even a
smaller man than himself would have found it impossible to squeeze
through.

That left only the door as a means of egress and ingress, and the door
had been bolted on the inside when Officer Pinto arrived, which
circumstance seemed to render it flatly impossible for the murderer to
have escaped that way. He tried the lock and examined the stout bolt,
then stepped through to the other side, closing the door behind him. A
wrinkle of perplexity appeared above his eyes. Even the Phantom's nimble
wits could not devise a way of passing through the door and leaving it
bolted on the inside. The feat did not seem feasible, and yet the
murderer must have accomplished it. His face wore a frown as he
reëntered the little chamber.

"Can't figger it out, eh?" The housekeeper seemed to have read his mind.
"Well, you needn't try. The police did, and they had to give it up as a
bad job. The Phantom has a cute little way with him, doing things so
they can't be explained."

"And yet," facing her squarely, "you don't think the Phantom committed
the murder?"

A scarcely perceptible shiver ran through her shrunken figure. "What
else can I think?" she parried.

He shrugged his shoulders. The impression haunted him that she was not
so sure of the Phantom's guilt as she appeared. He ran his eyes over the
floor, the walls, and the murky ceiling.

"And you needn't try to find any hidden openings, either," she told him,
again reading his unspoken thoughts. "A bunch of headquarters detectives
spent half a day tapping the walls and the ceiling and ripping up boards
in the floor. The Phantom----"

The jangle of the bell at the outer door interrupted her, and she looked
scowlingly toward the front of the store. "I guess that's Officer
Pinto," she muttered. "He's on night duty, but he's been prowling around
here most of the time since the murder, asking silly questions when he
ought to be in bed."

A hard, wary glitter appeared in the Phantom's eyes as she left the
room. In an instant he had scented danger.



CHAPTER V--DANGER


Coolly, though every nerve and muscle in his body were on the alert, the
Phantom took a case from his pocket and lighted a cigarette. He stood
face to face with a peril of a tangible and definite kind. The
protecting beard was dependable only so long as he did not attract the
attention of the police and invite a closer scrutiny. It would not for
long deceive an officer whose training had made him habitually
suspicious of appearances and who had been drilled in the art of seeing
through disguises.

Voices came from the outer room, Mrs. Trippe's surly tones clashing with
the gruff accents of Officer Pinto. The Phantom felt a tingle of
suspense. It was the kind of situation he would have thoroughly enjoyed
but for the fact that in this instance he could not jeopardize his
liberty without also endangering his purpose.

Footsteps approached, and presently a stocky figure, with the
housekeeper hovering behind, stood framed in the doorway. The Phantom,
smiling serenely, felt instant relief the moment he glanced at the heavy
and somewhat reddish features, with the unimpressive jaw and the stolid
look in the eyes. Pinto might be a faithful plodder and a dangerous
adversary in a physical encounter, but it was plain that he possessed
only ordinary intelligence.

"Well, who're _you_?" bluntly demanded the officer.

It was the housekeeper who answered. "He says he is Mr.----What did you
say your name was?"

"Mr. Adair, of Boston," replied the Phantom with an air of superb
tranquillity, adding the explanation he had already invented for Mrs.
Trippe's benefit. "Hope I'm not intruding," he concluded.

Pinto stepped inside, his eyes fixed on the Phantom's face in a hard
stare. Then, by slow degrees, the churlish expression left his features
and a slightly contemptuous grin took its place.

"You're welcome," he declared. "Go as far as you like. I s'pose you're
trying to dope out how the Phantom got out of the room. Well, believe
me, you'll have to do some tall thinking."

The Phantom chuckled affably. Evidently Pinto had classified him as one
of the harmless cranks who flock in the wake of the police whenever a
mysterious crime has taken place.

"I was just discussing the problem with Mrs. Trippe," he announced
easily. "It's a fascinating riddle. I infer it has gripped you, too,
since you come here in civilian clothes while not on duty."

"Well, I've been kidding myself along, thinking maybe I would find the
solution." Pinto's face bore a sheepish look. "There's got to be a
solution somewhere, you know, and----"

"And it would be a feather in your cap if you were the one who found it
first," put in the Phantom genially. "Perhaps it would mean promotion,
too--who knows? But has it occurred to you that the murderer's exit is
no more mysterious than his entrance? If he accomplished a miracle
getting out, he also accomplished a miracle getting in."

"The Phantom's strong for the miracle stuff, all right. But it's
possible Gage himself let the murderer in. Maybe he expected somebody to
call. Anyhow, we know the villain got in somehow. What I'd like to know
is how he got out."

The Phantom's eyes had been on the floor, near the point where,
according to the newspaper articles he had read, Gage's body must have
been found. Of a sudden he looked up, and the gaze he surprised in
Pinto's slyly peering eyes sent a tingle of apprehension through his
body. He wondered whether the patrolman was as obtuse as he seemed.

"I understand," he said without a tremor in his voice, "that you found
the room dark upon breaking in. Couldn't the murderer have slipped out
while you were looking for the light switch?"

"Huh!" The contemptuous snort came from Mrs. Trippe, who, with arms
crossed over her chest, stood in the rear of the room. "How could he,
I'd like to know, with me standing right outside the door and a crowd of
rubbernecks at the main entrance?"

The Phantom seemed to ponder. The theory he had just suggested did not
seem at all plausible, and his only purpose in mentioning it had been to
turn Pinto's thoughts in a new direction.

"I'd swear the rascal wasn't in the room when I broke in," declared the
patrolman with emphasis.

"And he couldn't have got out before," remarked the Phantom, with a
grin. At the same moment he felt Mrs. Trippe's eyes on his face. She was
gazing at him as if his last remark had made a profound impression upon
her. He sensed a new and baffling quality in the situation, something
that just eluded his mental grasp, and he began to wonder whether the
housekeeper did not know or suspect something which she had not yet
told.

"The Phantom's a devil," observed Pinto, again slanting a queer glance
at the other man. "Nobody of flesh and bone could pull off a stunt like
this. Maybe some day he'll tell us how he did it. He'll be roped in
before long. Say," with a forced laugh, "wouldn't it be funny if he
should get caught right here, in this room? They say a murderer always
comes back to the scene of his crime."

All the Phantom's self-control was required to repress a start. Pinto's
remark, though uttered in bantering tones, was entirely too pointed to
have been casual, and the gleam in his eyes testified that his
suspicions were aroused.

"I think the Phantom's talents have been grossly overestimated. When he
is caught we shall probably find that he is quite an ordinary mortal.
Don't you think so, Mrs. Trippe?"

The woman started, then mumbled something unintelligible under her
breath.

"Well, maybe," said Pinto. "I've got a feeling in my elbow that says
he'll be caught before night, and then we'll see. He may be an ordinary
mortal, but I'll be mighty interested to know how he got out of this
room. Got any ideas on the subject, Mr. Adair?"

The Phantom's frown masked the swift working of his mind. "Yes, but you
will laugh when I tell you what they are. My frank opinion is that the
Phantom had nothing whatever to do with this murder."

Mrs. Trippe stared at the Phantom as if expecting an astounding
revelation to fall from his lips.

Patrolman Pinto, too, seemed taken aback. A little of the color fled
from his face, and for an instant his eyes held an uneasy gleam. In a
moment, however, he had steadied himself, and a raucous chuckle voiced
his opinion of the Phantom's last statement.

"Say, you amateur dicks make me laugh. The Phantom had nothing to do
with it, eh? Well, if he didn't commit this murder, maybe you'll tell us
who did."

The Phantom, quiveringly alert, strolled across the floor and back
again. There was a bland smile on his lips and the amused twinkle in his
eyes concealed the tension under which his mind was laboring.

"That's asking a lot of an amateur detective, isn't it?" he suavely
inquired. "Maybe it will help you, however, to know how the situation
looks to a lay-man. You say you are willing to swear that the murderer
was not in the room when you broke in. It is almost equally certain,
viewing the matter in the natural order of things, that he could not
have left the room between the commission of the crime and your forcible
entrance. Therefore----"

He broke off, feeling a violent rush of blood to the head. He had been
talking against time, hoping to find a way of diverting Pinto's
suspicions from himself. Suddenly it struck him that his rambling
discourse had led him straight to the solution of the mystery. The
revelation flashed through his mind like a swift, blinding glare. To
hide his agitation he lighted a cigarette. Through the spinning rings of
smoke he saw the housekeeper's ashen face, mouth gaping and eyes staring
with fierce intensity.

"Well?" prompted Pinto. His voice was a trifle shaky.

The Phantom was himself again. "Well, as I was about to say, if the
murderer was not in the room when you broke in, then the circumstances
point straight to you, Mr. Pinto, as the murderer of Sylvanus Gage."

For a time the room was utterly still. The policeman seemed torn between
astonishment and a nervous fear. The housekeeper held her breath, her
features twisted into a smile that rendered her expression ghastly.

"I knew it!" she cried. "I knew it all the time!"

"You must be crazy," muttered Pinto, at last finding his voice.

"Not at all. But for the fact that you are an officer in good standing,
you would have been suspected immediately. In the light of all the
circumstances, it stands to reason that the man who broke through the
door was the man who murdered Gage. No one else could have done it. Mrs.
Trippe, do you remember how long Pinto was alone in the room after
forcing his way in?"

The housekeeper seemed to search her memory. "It took him several
moments to find the electric light switch," she mumbled haltingly.
"After that--well, he was in there for some time before he came out.
Maybe two minutes, maybe five--I can't be sure."

"At any rate, long enough to drive a knife into Gage's chest." There was
an exultant throb in the Phantom's tones, the eagerness of the hunter
who is tracking down his quarry. "Gage, we may assume, was awakened by
the noise when the door crashed in, and sprang from his bed. You
probably grappled in the dark. Then----"

Pinto interrupted with a harsh, strident laugh. "Some cock-and-bull
story you're handing us! If I killed Gage, then Mrs. Trippe here must
have been in on the job. It was she who called me and told me to force
the door."

The Phantom waved his hand airily. "Because she had heard a mysterious
noise. That noise may have been prearranged to give you a chance to
knife Gage. I don't pretend to understand all the minor details yet, but
the essentials are clear as day. You must have committed the murder, for
the simple reason that nobody else could have done it."

"Yeh?" There was a vicious sneer in Pinto's face. "Maybe you'll tell me,
then, why Gage thought the Phantom was the one who knifed him."

"Because of the forged letter he had received the day before. Besides,
Pinto, we don't know that Gage thought anything of the kind. We have
nothing but your word for it. You were the only witness to the
declaration you say Gage made. A man who will commit a cowardly murder
is also capable of telling a lie."

Great bluish veins stood out on Pinto's forehead. "You're doing fine for
an amateur dick," he jeered. "All you've got to do now is to figger out
a motive, and the case will be complete."

"Motive? Ah, yes! The Duke has a habit of recruiting his men in queer
places. Once he had an assistant district attorney on his staff; at
another time an associate professor of philosophy with a penchant for
forbidden things. Why shouldn't he have a hard-working patrolman?"

Pinto's figure squirmed beneath his gaze.

"Such a man would prove useful to the Duke, especially if he wanted to
frame an enemy," pursued the Phantom. "Nobody suspects a policeman. A
man in uniform is beyond reproach. Even if the circumstances of a crime
point straight to him as the perpetrator, it is always easier to suspect
somebody else, particularly someone who has a criminal record. I guess
you banked on that, Pinto."

His tones bespoke a free and easy confidence, but he felt none of it. He
believed that the murderer of Sylvanus Gage stood before him, but his
only reason for thinking so was that, so far as appearances went, no one
else could have committed the crime. He was poignantly aware that his
theory would be laughed at and derided, and that he himself would be
subjected to the hollow farce of a trial which must inevitably result in
his conviction. Once in the clutches of the police, his chances of
clearing himself would be extremely slender. "Well, Pinto, what about
it?" His tones were clear and faintly taunting, giving no hint of the
swift play of his wits. "Did you take the precaution of arranging an
alibi?"

"No, I didn't." The policeman spoke defiantly. For an instant he fumbled
about his pockets, as if searching for something. Evidently the object
he wanted was not to be found about his civilian garb. "I didn't have to
fix up an alibi. Say, Mr. Adair----"

He paused for a moment and came a step closer to the Phantom.

"Say," he went on, "while you're telling us so much, maybe you'll tell
us how long the Gray Phantom has been wearing a beard."

Momentarily startled by the verbal thrust, the Phantom was unprepared
for the physical attack that instantly followed. He felt the sudden
impact of the policeman's ponderous body, precipitating him against the
farther wall of the chamber. In a moment, with unexpected agility, the
officer had seized Mrs. Trippe by the arm and hurried her from the room.

Then a door slammed and a key turned gratingly in the lock. The Gray
Phantom was alone, a prisoner.



CHAPTER VI--THE WAY OUT


Dusk was falling, and the little room was almost dark. The sudden
attack, all the more surprising because of Pinto's previous air of
stolidity, had left the Phantom a trifle dazed, but in a twinkling he
realized the full seriousness of his dilemma. The door had no sooner
slammed than he was on his feet, regaining his breath and flexing his
muscles for action.

With a spring agile as a panther's he threw himself against the door.
Once it had succumbed to the superior weight of Patrolman Pinto's body,
but the Phantom's leaner and nimbler figure was no match for its solid
resistance. After thrice hurling himself against the obstruction, he saw
that he was only wasting time and strength.

Hurriedly he switched on the light. From his pocket he took a box
containing an assortment of small tools which on several occasions had
stood him in good stead. In vain he tried to manipulate the lock,
finding that it was too solidly imbedded in the wood. Next he tried the
hinges, but the flaps were fastened on the other side of the door and
therefore inaccessible. He cudgeled his wits, but to no avail; evidently
the door was an impassable barrier. It seemed by far the most
substantial part of the room, suggesting that Gage might have had it
specially constructed as a protection against burglars.

He sprang to the window, then recalled that he had already ascertained
that it was too narrow to permit him to crawl through. Another
precaution of the wily Sylvanus Gage, he grimly reflected. His eyes,
quick and crafty, darted over floor, ceiling, and walls, but nowhere
could he see a sign of a movable panel or a hidden passage, and he
remembered Mrs. Trippe's statement that headquarters detectives had
spent half a day searching for a secret exit. Though he worked his wits
at furious speed, the situation baffled his ingenuity.

The Phantom perceived he was trapped. The amazing luck that had attended
him in the past had made him reckless and indiscreet, and now it seemed
to have deserted him like a fickle charmer. He supposed that Pinto, too
shrewd to attempt to deal single-handed with such a slippery and
dangerous adversary as the Gray Phantom, was already in communication
with headquarters, summoning reënforcements. In a few minutes he would
be hemmed in on all sides and pounced upon by overwhelming numbers of
policemen, and in a little while the newspapers would shriek the
sensation that at last the Gray Phantom had been captured.

It surprised him that he could view the end of his career with
philosophical calm, unaffected by vain regrets. He had always suspected
that some day an overbold play on his part would result in his undoing,
and he had trained himself to look upon his ultimate defeat with the
indifference of a cynic and fatalist, but he had never guessed that the
crisis would come like this. He smiled faintly as it dawned on him that
the disaster which now stared him in the face was the direct result of
his determination to vindicate himself in the eyes of a woman. He had
played for high stakes in the past, but Helen Hardwick's faith in him
was the highest of them all.

His smile faded as quickly as it had come. There was a sting in the
realization that his boldest and biggest game was foredoomed to failure.
Only a few more minutes of liberty remained, and after that all chance
of exculpating himself would be gone. Officer Pinto, having become
famous of a sudden as the Gray Phantom's captor, would now, more than
ever before, be beyond suspicion, and he could be depended upon to make
the most of his advantage. The Phantom, whose hands had never been
sullied by contact with blood, would be an object of horror and loathing
as the perpetrator of a vile and sordid murder. Helen Hardwick, like all
the rest, would shudder at mention of his name.

The dismal thoughts went like flashes through his mind. Only a few
minutes had passed since the door slammed. The thought of Helen Hardwick
caused a sudden stiffening of his figure and imbued him with a fierce
desire for freedom. He refused to believe that his star had set and that
this was the end. Many a time he had wriggled out of corners seemingly
as tight and unescapable as the present one, chuckling at the
discomfiture of the police and the bedevilment of his foes. Why could he
not achieve another of the astounding feats that had made his name
famous?

He spurred his wits to furious effort, repeatedly telling himself that
somewhere there must be a way out. It was hard to believe that a man
like Sylvanus Gage, living in constant danger of a surprise visit by the
police, had not provided himself with an emergency exit. Despite the
failure of the detectives to find it, there must be a concealed door or
secret passage somewhere, though without doubt it was hidden in a way
worthy of Gage's foxlike cunning.

He ran to the door and shot the bolt. The police would be forced to
break their way in, and this would give him a few moments' respite.
Again, as several times before in the last few minutes, his eyes strayed
to the window. Though he knew it was far too narrow to afford a means of
escape, it kept attracting his gaze and tantalizing his imagination.
Deciding to make a second attempt, he hastened across the floor, pushed
up the lower sash, and edged his shoulder into the opening. Writhe and
wriggle as he might, he could not squeeze through. Even a man of Gage's
scrawny build would have become wedged in the frame had he attempted it.

Outside the house a gong clanged, signaling the arrival of the police
patrol. From the front came sharp commands and excited voices. Already,
the Phantom guessed, a cordon was being thrown around the block,
ensnaring him like a fish in a net. Precious moments passed, and still
he was unable to take his eyes from the window. A vague and
unaccountable instinct told him that his only hope of safety lay in that
direction.

He raised the shade a little and looked out upon a court disfigured by
ramshackle sheds and heaps of refuse. Several temporary hiding places
awaited him out there, if he could only get through the window. Even an
extra inch or two added to its width would enable him to wriggle out of
the trap. But how----

The answer came to him with sudden, blinding force. Yet it was simple
and obvious enough; in fact, the only reason he had not thought of it
before was that his mind had been searching for something more intricate
and remote. It had not occurred to him that the extra inch or two that
he needed could be provided by the simple expedient of dislodging the
window frame.

Already his fingers were tearing and tugging at the woodwork. He noticed
that the casements were thick, so that the removal of the frame would
give him considerable additional space, yet he had been at work only a
few moments when he discovered that his plan was far more difficult of
execution than he had expected. The frame, at first glance, ill-fitting
and insecurely fastened, resisted all his efforts. His nails were torn
and there were bleeding scratches on his fingers. He looked about him
for something that he could use as a lever.

Someone was trying the lock, then came a loud pounding on the door.

"Open!" commanded a voice.

The Phantom, failing to find any implement that would serve his purpose,
inserted his fingers beneath the sill and tugged with all his strength.

"Come and get me!" was the taunt he flung back over his shoulder. Then
he pulled again, but the sill did not yield. He straightened his body
and attacked the perpendicular frame to the right but again he
encountered nothing but solid resistance.

"The game's up, Phantom," said the voice outside the door. "Might as
well give in. If you don't we'll bust the door."

The Phantom worked with frantic strength. His knuckles were bruised, his
muscles ached, and sweat poured from his forehead.

"I'll drill a hole through the first man who enters this room," he cried
loudly, hoping that the threat would cause the men outside to hesitate
for a few moments longer before battering down the door. Then, placing
his feet on the sill, he centered his efforts on the horizontal bar at
the top.

A quick glance through the window revealed a broad-shouldered man in
uniform standing with his back to a shed. Evidently the cordon was
tightening. Even if he succeeded in getting through the window, he would
have to fight his way through a human barrier. The outlook was almost
hopeless, but he persisted with the tenacity that comes of despair. He
sprang from the sill, turned the electric light switch, plunging the
room into darkness and hiding his movements from the eyes of the man
outside, then leaped back to his former position and tugged frenziedly
at the horizontal piece.

Of a sudden his hand slipped and a metallic protuberance scratched his
wrist. With habitual attention to detail, he wound his handkerchief
around the injured surface, stopping the flow of blood. If by a miracle
he should succeed in getting out, he did not care to leave behind any
clews to his movements. Another sharp glance through the window
satisfied him that the man at the shed was not looking in his direction.
Then he ran his fingers along the horizontal frame, found the object
that had wounded him, and discovered that it was a nail.

The hubbub outside the door had ceased momentarily. Suddenly there came
a loud crash, as if a heavy body had dashed against the door. The
Phantom, a suspicion awakening amid the jumble of his racing thoughts,
fingered the nail, twisting it hither and thither. It occurred to him in
a twinkling that it was an odd place for a nail, since it could serve no
apparent purpose. In a calmer moment he would have thought nothing of
it, but his mind was keyed to that tremendous pitch where minor details
are magnified.

Another crash sounded, accompanied by an ominous squeaking of cracking
timber. He bent the nail to one side, noticing that its resistance to
pressure was elastic, differing from the inert feel of objects firmly
imbedded in solid wood. An inspiration came to him out of the stress of
the moment. He twisted the nail in various directions, at the same time
tugging energetically at a corner of the frame.

Once more a smashing force was hurled against the door, followed by a
portentous, splintering crack. Quivering with suspense, his mind fixed
with desperate intentness on a dim, tantalizing hope, the Phantom
continued to bend and twist the nail at all possible angles. He knew
that at any moment the door was likely to collapse, and then----

He uttered a hoarse cry of elation. Of a sudden, as he bent the nail in
a new direction, it gave a quick rebound, and in the same instant the
frame yielded to his steady pull, as if swinging on a hinge, revealing
an opening in the side of the uncommonly massive wall. For a moment his
discovery dazed him, then a terrific crash at the door caused him to
pull himself together, and in a moment he had squeezed his figure into
the aperture.

He drew a long breath and wiped the blinding, smarting perspiration from
his face. Thanks to an accidental scratch on the wrist, he had
discovered Sylvanus Gage's emergency exit. And none too soon, for
already, with a splitting crash, the door had collapsed under the
repeated onslaughts of the men outside, and several shadowy forms were
bursting headlong into the room.

The Phantom, wedged in the narrow opening, seized the side of the
revolving frame and drew it to. A little click signified that a spring
had caught it and was holding it in place. Excited voices, muffled by
the intervening obstruction, reached his ears. He smiled as he pictured
the consternation of the detectives upon discovering that once more the
Gray Phantom had lived up to his name and achieved another of the
amazing escapes that had made him feared and secretly admired by the
keenest sleuths in the country.

He had no fear that the police would follow him, for his discovery of
the secret exit had been partly accidental and partly due to the
accelerated nimbleness of mind that comes to one laboring under
tremendous pressure. To the police the nail on the top of the window
frame would be nothing but a nail. It is the hunted, not the hunter,
whose mind clutches at straws, and they would never guess that the nail
was a lever in disguise. The Phantom, as he contemplated the ingenious
arrangement, found his respect for the dead man's inventiveness rising
several notches.

From the other side of the wall came loud curses, mingling with dazed
exclamations, baffled shouts and expressions of incredulity. With a
laugh at the discomfiture of his pursuers, who but a few moments ago had
thought him inextricably trapped, the Phantom moved a little farther
into the opening. It appeared to be slanting slowly into the ground, and
it was so narrow that each wriggling and writhing movement bruised some
portion of his body. Inch by inch he worked his way downward, wondering
whither the passage might lead. Now the voices in the room were almost
beyond earshot, and he could hear nothing but a low, confused din.

Presently he felt solid ground at his feet, and at this point the
passage turned in a horizontal direction. There was a slight current of
dank air in the tunnel, suggesting that its opposite terminus might be a
cellar or other subterranean compartment. Limbs aching, he moved
forward, with slow twists and coilings of the body. He estimated that he
had already covered half a dozen yards, and he wondered how much farther
the passage might reach. One thing puzzled him as he writhed onward. Why
had Gage not made use of the secret exit on the night of the murder? Was
it, perhaps, because the murderer had come upon him so suddenly that he
had not had time to reach the hidden opening?

He dismissed the question as too speculative. A few more twists and
jerks, and he found himself in an open space where he could stand
upright and move about freely. For a few moments he fumbled around in
the inky darkness, finally encountering a stairway. He ascended as
quietly as he could, taking pains that the squeakings of the decaying
stairs should not disturb the occupants above. Reaching the top, he
listened intently while his hand searched for a doorknob. Slowly and
with infinite caution he pushed the door open. Again he stopped and
listened. The room was dark and still, and he could distinguish no
objects, yet his alert mind sensed a presence, and he felt a pair of
sharp eyes gazing at him through the shadows.

Then, out of the gloom and silence came a voice:

"Don't move!"

The words were a bit theatrical, but the voice caused him to start
sharply. A few paces ahead of him he saw a blurry shape. His hand darted
to his hip pocket; then he remembered that he had left his pistol in the
grip at his hotel, for when he started out he had not expected that his
enterprise would so soon take a critical turn.

"Hold up your hands," commanded the voice, and again an odd quiver shot
through the Phantom.

Nonchalantly he found his case and thrust a cigarette between his lips.
Then he struck a match, advanced a few paces, gazed sharply ahead as the
fluttering flame illuminated the scene, and came to a dead stop.

He was looking straight into the muzzle of a pistol, and directly behind
the bluishly gleaming barrel he saw the face of Helen Hardwick.



CHAPTER VII--DOCTOR BIMBLE'S LABORATORY


She was the last person the Gray Phantom had expected to see at that
moment, and this was the last place where he would have dreamed of
finding her. He stared into her face until the flame of the match bit
his fingers.

"You!" He dropped the stub and trampled it under his foot. She stood
rigid in the shadows, and the wan glint of the pistol barrel told that
she was still pointing the weapon at him. Her breath came fast, with
little soblike gasps, as if she were trying to stifle a violent emotion.

"How did you get here?" she demanded, her voice scarcely above a
whisper.

"By a tight squeeze," he said lightly. "I must be a sight."

"You came through the--tunnel?"

"I did as a matter of fact, though I don't see how you guessed it."

Staring at her through the dusk, the Phantom was conscious that his
statement had exerted a profound effect upon her. She drew a long
breath, and her figure, scarcely distinguishable in the gloom, seemed to
shrink away from him.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, an odd throb in her voice. "Then you did it!"

"Did what?"

"Murdered Sylvanus Gage."

The Phantom shook his head. "You deduce I am a murderer from the fact
that I got here through a tunnel. Well, that may be very good feminine
logic, but----"

"It is excellent logic, my friend," interrupted a voice somewhere in the
darkness; and in the same moment there came a click, and a bright
electric light flooded the scene. The Phantom had a brief glimpse of a
ludicrous little man with an oversized head, a round protuberance of
stomach, and short, thin legs encased in tightly fitting trousers; then
he turned to Helen Hardwick and gazed intently into her large,
misty-bright eyes.

"Oh, they're brown, I see," he murmured. "I had a notion they were
either blue or gray. Queer how one forgets."

The girl looked as though utterly unable to understand his levity, for
as such she evidently construed his remark. The thin-legged man stepped
away from the door through which he had entered and approached them
slowly, giving the Phantom a gravely appraising look over the rims of
his glasses. The Phantom had eyes only for Helen Hardwick. He studied
her closely, almost reverentially, noticing that her eyes, which upon
his entrance had been steady and cool, were now strangely agitated,
radiating a dread that seemed to dominate her entire being. The hand
that clutched the pistol trembled a trifle, and there were signs of an
extreme tension in the poise of the strong, slender figure, in the
quivering nostrils, and in the pallor that suffused the smooth oval of
her face.

"Remarkable!" murmured the spectacled individual, drawing a few steps
closer to obtain a clearer view of the Phantom. "The young lady and
myself are covering you with our pistols, and yet you exhibit no fear
whatever. Most remarkable! May I feel your pulse, sir?"

The Phantom's lips twitched at the corners as he looked at the speaker.
The latter's automatic, pointed at a somewhat indefinite part of the
Phantom's body, seemed ludicrously large in contrast with the slight
stature of the man himself.

"My name, sir," declared the little man with an air of vast importance,
"is Doctor Tyson Bimble. You may have heard of me. I have written
several treatises on the subject of criminal anthropology, and my
professional services have occasionally been enlisted by the police. Not
that such work interests me," he added quickly. "The solution of crime
mysteries and the capture of criminals are the pastimes of inferior
minds. As a man of science, I am interested solely in the criminal
himself, his mental and physical characteristics and the congenital
traits that distinguish him. Again I ask you if I may feel your pulse."

Smiling, the Phantom extended his hand. Admonishing Miss Hardwick to
keep a steady aim, Doctor Bimble pocketed his own weapon and took out
his watch.

"Perfectly normal," he declared when the examination was finished. "At
first I thought that at least a part of your superb coolness was
simulated. It is all the more remarkable in view of the fact that at
this very moment you are surrounded on all sides by the police. They
have thrown a cordon around the block and every house is being
systematically searched."

The Phantom stiffened. His abrupt and unexpected meeting with Helen
Hardwick had momentarily blunted his sense of caution, causing him to
forget that he was still in imminent danger. He threw her a quick glance
noticing a look of alarm in her face. He made a rapid appraisal of the
situation. His flight through the tunnel could not have taken him more
than twelve or fifteen yards from the rear of the Gage establishment,
and he was almost certain that the passage had extended in a straight
southerly direction. Consequently the place in which he now found
himself must be one of the shed-like structures he had seen from the
window of Gage's bedroom.

His eyes opened wide as he looked around. Whatever the place might look
like from the outside, the interior certainly did not have the
appearance of a shed. It was a strange setting, and it seemed all the
stranger because he had found Helen Hardwick in it. At one end was a
long bench covered with bottles, glass jars, tubes, and a queer-looking
assortment of chemical apparatus. The walls were lined with rows of tall
cabinets with glass doors, each containing a skeleton, and above these
was a frieze of photographs and X-ray prints in black frames.

He wondered how Miss Hardwick happened to be in such strange
surroundings. Her large, long-lashed eyes avoided him, and her right
hand, cramped about the handle of the pistol, wavered a trifle. She had
changed since their last meeting, he noticed. She had seemed half child
and half woman then, a vivacious young creature with a mixture of
reckless audacity, demure wistfulness and adorable shyness whose
bewildering contradictions had enhanced a loveliness that had gone to
the Phantom's head like foaming wine. In the course of a few months she
had acquired the subtle and indefinable something that differentiates
girlhood from womanhood. Her face--he had liked to think of it as
heart-shaped--had sobered a little, and the graceful lines of chin and
throat seemed firmer. Faintly penciled shadows at the corners of her
lips hinted that a touch of somberness had crept into her mood, but even
such a trifling detail as a few wisps of loosened hair dangling
sportively against her cheeks seemed to go a long way toward upsetting
this effect.

Doctor Bimble's thin and rasping voice startled the Phantom out of his
reverie.

"My laboratory, sir," he explained with a comprehensive wave of the
hand. "What you see here is probably the most remarkable collection of
its kind in the world. Each of these skeletons represents a distinct
criminal type. Here, for instance are the bones of Raschenell, the
famous apache. They are supposed to be buried in a cemetery in Paris,
but a certain French official for whom I once did a favor was obliging.
In my private rogues' gallery you see photographs of some of the most
notorious criminals the world has ever known, and these X-ray pictures
illustrate various pathological conditions usually associated with
criminal tendencies. Quite remarkable, you will admit."

 "Quite," said the Phantom a little absently, as if his mind were
occupied with more pressing matters than the bones of notorious
malefactors.

"You may feel perfectly at ease, my friend." The little doctor, noticing
the Phantom's abstraction, spoke soothingly. "I think I have already
made it clear that the pursuit and capture of criminals don't interest
me. Without doubt we shall arrive at some amicable understanding that
will insure your safety."

"Understanding?" echoed the Phantom, having detected a slight but
significant emphasis on the word.

"Yes; why not? You have interested me for some time, Mr.--ahem. Let me
see--I believe your real name is Cuthbert Vanardy?"

The Phantom nodded.

"Making due allowance for the exaggerations of stupid newspaper writers,
I have long recognized that you are a remarkable individual. Yes,
remarkable. You do not belong to any of the types mentioned by Prichard,
Pinel, and Lombroso, but you are a type of your own. Naturally you
arouse my scientific curiosity. Nothing would please me more than to add
you to my collection."

The Phantom glanced at the grisly contents of the cabinets. A
serio-comic grin wrinkled his face. "Aren't you a bit hasty, doctor? I
am not dead yet, you know."

"True--quite true. But a man like you leads a precarious existence. If
he doesn't break his neck in some rash adventure the electric chair is
always a menacing possibility. The chances are that I shall outlive you
by a score of years. Promise that you will give the matter due
consideration."

The Phantom blinked his eyes. Doctor Bimble seemed amiable enough, yet
the man was scarcely human. His whole being was wrapped up in his
science and his entire world was composed of anthropological specimens
and fine-spun theories.

"You wish me to make arrangements to have my body turned over to you
after my death?"

"Precisely, Mr. Vanardy. That is what my friend and neighbor, Sylvanus
Gage, did. An inferior personality, yet he had his points of interest. I
am obliged to you for hastening his demise."

A tremulous gasp sounded in the room. The Phantom turned, and his brow
clouded as he noticed the expression of anguish that had crossed Helen's
face at the doctor's words.

"You're mistaken, Bimble," he declared sharply; "I didn't kill Gage. If
I had done so, I should scarcely be here at the present moment."

Doctor Bimble shrugged his shoulders. "The matter is of little
consequence, my dear sir. Whether or not you killed Gage is not of the
slightest interest to me. However," with a significant glance at
Vanardy's mud-streaked clothing and begrimed features, "I am strongly of
the opinion that you did. The only thing that perplexes me is that you
are taking the trouble to deny it. Did I hear you say that you came here
through the tunnel?"

"I did." As he spoke the two words, the Phantom felt Helen's eyes
searching his face.

"Enough." The anthropologist made a gesture expressive of finality.
"Your admission that you came through the tunnel is an admission that
you killed Gage. I perceive you do not follow me. Well, then, the
circumstances of the crime prove conclusively that it was committed by
someone who was aware of the existence of the tunnel. What the foolish
newspapers refer to as astounding and miraculous is simplicity itself.
The murderer entered Gage's bedchamber by way of the underground passage
and made his escape by the same route. Nothing could be simpler."

The Phantom laughed mirthlessly. The doctor's theory, though at first
glance shallow and far-fetched, impressed him uncomfortably, instilling
in his mind an idea that had not occurred to him until now. Helen,
standing a few paces away, was regarding him intently.

"To-day, I infer, you returned to the scene of your crime," continued
the doctor, speaking in the dry tones of one developing a thesis.
"Criminals often do, but why you, a superior type, should exhibit the
same failing is beyond me. Some time in the near future I shall write a
monograph on the subject, with particular reference to your individual
case. However, the fact remains that you returned to the scene of your
crime. I take it that by some blunder or careless move you betrayed your
presence. At any rate, you found yourself trapped in Gage's bedchamber.
What more natural than that, for the second time within a week, you
should use the tunnel as a means of escape?"

The Phantom was silent for a moment. Helen Hardwick seemed to be
searching his soul with eyes that gave him a distressing impression of
doubt, suspicion, and reproach.

"You're mistaken." He was addressing the doctor, but the effect of his
words was intended for the girl. "I went to Gage's house this afternoon,
hoping to find some clew to the murderer."

"Ah!" The doctor's chuckle expressed amusement. "You were acting on the
idea that it takes a crook to catch a crook, I suppose. Go on. Your
ingenious explanations are diverting."

"I found myself cornered," continued the Phantom, stifling his
resentment. "With the house surrounded and the police pounding on the
door, I had only a few moments in which to find a way out. I used the
tunnel, but I discovered the opening by merest accident."

"Impossible--flatly impossible! Yes, I see your wrist is scratched, but
that proves nothing. That opening, my dear sir, could never have been
discovered by accident."

"You seem to know something about it yourself," remarked the Phantom
pointedly.

"I do," admitted the anthropologist, with a broad grin.

"And the tunnel runs into the cellar of your house."

"So it does." The doctor seemed not at all disturbed by Vanardy's sharp
gaze. "Years ago, when I was looking for an inconspicuous and
out-of-the-way place in which to pursue my studies in quiet, I leased
the house to which this laboratory forms an extension. I saw Gage now
and then, and the man interested me. Even before we became confidential
I had noticed phrenological manifestations that seemed to classify him
as belonging to one of the types described by Lombroso. Step by step I
became familiar with his history and mode of life. I learned that he was
conducting an extensive traffic in stolen goods, and that he had a broad
circle of acquaintances in the underworld. Gage proved useful,
introducing me to criminals whom I wished to study at close range, and,
in addition to that, the man himself interested me. I saw traits and
peculiarities in him that were strangely contradictory. And so, when one
day he confided to me that he was living in constant fear of the police,
who were likely to raid his premises at any time and confiscate his
valuables, I made a proposition to him."

"You offered to help on the condition that he sign his body over to you
for dissecting purposes," guessed the Phantom.

"Exactly, my friend." Bimble rubbed his hands in glee. "I offered to
invent an avenue of escape that would be absolutely safe and proof
against detection. Gage accepted, and I set to work fulfilling my part
of the bargain. The result, if I may bestow compliments on myself, was a
work of genius."

The Phantom gazed in frank astonishment at the versatile anthropologist.
"The police have a nasty name for that sort of thing," he observed.

"The police and I are friends. I help them on occasions, when the spirit
moves me and the case interests me. And a scientific man, my dear sir,
cannot afford to have moral scruples. The ends of science justify all
other things, even assisting a criminal to escape. Incidentally I
derived a lot of entertainment out of the planning of the tunnel. In the
first place, the window was purposely built so small that no one would
consider it for a moment as a possible means of escape. Still less would
any one think of looking for an exit hidden behind the frame of such a
window. You noticed the nail, of course. A lot of psychology is centered
around that nail."

"So it's a psychological nail, eh?" The Phantom looked at the scratch on
his wrist.

"I knew, from my observations of the workings of the human mind, that
not one person in ten million would give a second thought to that nail.
Even if, by remote chance, someone should touch it, he would never
suspect that it was a part of a mechanism. If, by a still remoter
chance, he would investigate more closely, he would not know how to
operate it. So, you see, there is not one chance in a billion that a
stranger would find the tunnel. Do you blame me for doubting your
statement that you found it by accident?"

The Phantom looked at Miss Hardwick. Doctor Bimble's explanation seemed
to have impressed her strongly. He did not wonder at this, for he knew
there was logic in the anthropologist's argument. Nothing but his firm
belief that Gage had provided himself with an emergency exit of some
sort had prompted the Phantom to give the nail a closer scrutiny.

Doctor Bimble gave him a mildly amused look.

"You agree with me--don't you, Vanardy? I think my logic holds together.
Only a person familiar with the tunnel could have committed the murder.
Conversely, a person betraying a knowledge of the tunnel is a worthy
object of suspicion."

"Haven't you forgotten something?" The Phantom suddenly called to mind
his own theory of the crime. "One other person could have committed the
murder without a knowledge of the tunnel."

"Yes, I know," said the doctor wearily. "You are thinking of Officer
Pinto. The possibility that he might be the guilty one occurred to me as
soon as I saw the newspaper account, but the probabilities of the case
controverted that view. Officer Pinto is an honest, dull-witted,
conscientious soul--nothing else. That kind of man doesn't com----"

The jangling of a bell in front of the house interrupted him. There was
a humorous twinkle in his eyes as he looked at the Phantom over the rims
of his spectacles. Helen inhaled sharply.

"The police have come to search the house, I think," Doctor Bimble
murmured languidly. "My man Jerome--an estimable fellow, by the way--is
already admitting them. In a few moments they will be coming this way.
Of course, if I tell them that I have seen nothing of a fugitive, they
will go away without making an extended search."

Vanardy stiffened. His head went up and his eyes narrowed; then he
glanced quizzically at the doctor. It seemed to him that Bimble had
stressed the word if, as though a condition were implied.

"Well, Vanardy?" The anthropologist's tone was light and playful. Sounds
of distant footfalls reached their ears. The Phantom's darting eyes
rested for an instant on one of the skeletons, and in a twinkling he
understood. He laughed shortly, for the idea impressed him as
grotesquely humorous.

"I see," he said quickly. "You'll say the necessary word to the police
if I agree to dedicate my earthly remains to your private hall of fame."

"You grasp my meaning exactly. But the time is short and I sha'n't press
you for a definite promise. Only give me your word that you will
consider the proposition."

"Very well; I'll consider it," promised the Phantom. "But I warn you
that I have no burning ambition to become a skeleton for some time yet."

A pleased grin wrinkled the doctor's face. The footfalls, mingling with
gruff voices, were coming closer, signifying that the searchers were
rapidly approaching the laboratory.

"This way, Vanardy." The doctor beckoned the Phantom to follow as he
started toward the door. Approaching footsteps caused him to draw back.
A look of bewilderment came into his face.

"We have wasted too much time," he said complainingly; then, as he
looked about the room, his face brightened. "But this will do for a
hiding place. Better come along, Miss Hardwick. It may save you
embarrassing questions."

He stepped hurriedly to one side of the room, opened a door and motioned
them into a narrow closet. A moment later they heard a key turn in the
lock.



CHAPTER VIII--LOGIC VERSUS HEART THROBS


A vague misgiving assailed the Phantom as the door closed. The hiding
place chosen for them by the genial Doctor Bimble seemed not quite
adequate to the emergency. There had been no time for argument, however,
and nothing for the Phantom to do but follow instructions. The versatile
anthropologist knew best, he had thought, and very likely the police
would take Bimble's word for it that nobody was concealed in the
laboratory.

The closet was so dark that, but for a faint fragrance and the
occasional scraping of a foot, he might have thought himself alone. From
the other side of the door came subdued sounds, and he pictured the
tubby little doctor protesting against the intrusion on his sacred
privacy. Of Helen he could see nothing but the pallid glint of her face
in the gloom, but her quick, nervous breathing told him that she was
keyed up to a high tension. There was a medley of questions in his mind,
but he found it hard to put them into words.

"Hel--Miss Hardwick," he whispered.

"Yes?".

"Logic is silly rot."

A moment's pause. "I don't believe I understand."

"According to the learned doctor's logic, I am the murderer of Sylvanus
Gage. He made out quite a convincing case, and I could see you were
impressed. Yet, deep down in your heart, you know he was talking piffle.
You don't believe I killed Gage."

She stood silent for a time. He pressed closer to the wall and fumbled
for her hand. It was cold, and the pulsations at the wrist made him
think of a frightened, fluttering bird.

"I wish I could believe you didn't," she murmured, freeing her hand.

"Thank you." Her candor had given him a little thrill of faint and
indefinable hope. "Would it surprise you very much if I told you that my
only reason for leaving Sea-Glimpse was to convince you of my
innocence?"

"Convince _me_?" She gave a low, incredulous laugh. "Why?"

"I'm not sure I can tell you that. From a practical point of view it was
a foolish move, wasn't it? By the way, you knew that the police were
hunting high and low for me. You alone knew where I was to be found, and
yet you didn't tell. I wonder why."

She meditated for a little; then, in a whisper: "I don't know."

He laughed softly. "It seems neither one of us is very practical. We
don't understand our own motives. Can you tell me what you are doing in
this gallery of skeletons?"

"I am not sure, but I will try. The morning after the murder of Gage, I
read the accounts in all the papers. I can't tell you how I felt. It was
as if a great illusion had been shattered. I remember how I cried one
day when I fell and broke my first doll. My feelings after reading the
papers were something like that, only more poignant."

"I understand," he murmured. "You had placed the Gray Phantom on a
pedestal. When he fell and broke to bits, just like common clay, you
were disappointed."

"Yes, it was something like that. I had placed your better self on a
pedestal. I didn't want to believe it had fallen or that it was just
common clay. I read the papers very carefully; hoping to find a weak
point in the evidence against you, but it seemed complete and conclusive
down to the tiniest detail. One of the articles puzzled me a little,
though."

"Oh--the _Sphere's_! Yes, I noticed it, too."

"It read as though the writer were not quite sure that you were the
guilty one. After thinking it over for a while I called up the _Sphere_
and asked for the reporter who had written the article. They had some
little trouble finding him, and when he finally came to the 'phone he
acted as if he were not quite sober. I tried to question him about the
case, but he gruffly told me he had nothing to tell aside from what he
had put into his story. If I had a personal interest in the matter, he
said, the best thing I could do was go and consult Doctor Bimble."

"And you adopted the suggestion?"

"I had never heard of Doctor Bimble, but the reporter told me he was the
cleverest investigator of criminal cases in town. He warned me that
Doctor Bimble might refuse to help me, since he accepted nothing but
cases of unusual interest, but the fact that the murdered man was a
friend and neighbor might make a difference. Yesterday I called on the
doctor, but at first he would talk of nothing but his skeletons. The
murder didn't seem to interest him in the least. He said the Phantom's
guilt was clear and that all that remained was to catch him. Then, when
he saw how earnest I was, he told me about the tunnel."

"The doctor is a queer duck," murmured the Phantom musingly. "The
ordinary man wouldn't take strangers into his confidence about such
things. The eccentricity of genius, I suppose."

"The whole affair seemed to bore him immensely. He told me the man who
killed Gage must have used the tunnel, since he could not have left the
room any other way. He thought it possible the murderer was still hiding
there, lying low until the excitement should die down, and if I didn't
have anything better to do I might watch for him at this end. As for
himself, he said he wasn't at all concerned in the apprehension and
punishment of criminals, but he gave me his revolver and told me I might
watch the door leading from the laboratory, since the murderer, if he
were still in the tunnel, had to come out that way. I think my interest
in the case amused the doctor. I suspected he was chuckling at me most
of the time.

"I watched the door till late last night, all the time hoping that, if
anyone came out of the tunnel, it would not be you. Shortly before
midnight I persuaded the doctor to let his man take my place. You see,
if the murderer proved to be anyone but you, I wanted him caught,
because then your innocence would be established. Early this morning I
went back to my post. When I heard steps on the stairs my heart stood
still for a moment. As the door opened I felt like shrieking. And
then----"

She broke off with a gasp. From above came the sounds of footsteps and
doors slamming, indicating that the police were searching the upper part
of the house.

"And when you saw me," the Phantom put in, "you immediately jumped to
the conclusion that I was guilty. Well, I suppose it was good logic.
What can I do or say to convince you that I didn't kill Gage?"

"Nothing," she said, a hysterical catch in her throat. Of a sudden she
seemed cold and distant, as if realizing that in telling her story she
had betrayed too much of her feelings. "I fear there is nothing more to
be said."

The Phantom drew a deep breath. "I don't blame you," he said gently.
"There are several black chapters in my past. But some day I'll prove to
you that I had nothing to do with this murder. I admit that just now the
evidence weighs heavily against me. It is true there was something of a
feud between me and Gage once upon a time and----"

"And the threatening letter," she interrupted. "Why did you send it if
you didn't mean to kill him?"

"It was a forgery. I never wrote it."

"Handwriting experts say you did."

"I know." He remembered having read in the newspapers that three experts
had compared the letter with samples of his handwriting on file in the
bureau of criminal identification, and that two of them had declared
that the Phantom had written it. "That only goes to show that it was an
exceptionally clever forgery, and experts have been known to differ
before."

"But Gage told the officer that it was you who stabbed him." She spoke
as if determined to hear his explanation of the damning bits of evidence
even though every word hurt her.

"True enough. But Gage didn't see me. He had the threatening letter in
mind when he said that."

"Nothing but the Maltese cross was missing, and you had had a quarrel
with Gage about that."

"True, too." The Phantom chuckled bitterly. "If I had committed the
murder I should have taken pains to carry away a lot of other things for
a blind." She was silent for a few moments. Footsteps were coming down
the stairs, and the Phantom knew that the searchers would soon be in the
laboratory. Again he found her hand, but she quickly drew it away.

"You knew about the tunnel," she reminded him, her shaky accents
betraying the struggle going on within her.

"I swear that I found it by accident."

He could not see her face, but he sensed that she doubted him and that
the remnant of faith in her heart was unable to withstand the corroding
effect of a growing suspicion. The footsteps were drawing closer, and
now they could hear voices outside the door. He recognized the rasping
accents of Doctor Bimble.

"I tell you, my dear sir, that the closet contains nothing but chemicals
which I use in my laboratory work. Some of them are very valuable.
That's why I keep them under lock and key."

Tensing every muscle as if preparing for an attack, the Phantom stepped
in front of the girl. She made no protest as he took her pistol, which
she had been holding all the time and which now hung limply from her
fingers.

"I don't doubt your word," answered a gruff voice outside, "but orders
are to search everywhere and make a good job of it. Hate to trouble you,
but it's got to be done."

The doctor, evidently sparring for time, insisted that he had been in
his laboratory all day and that nobody could have slipped into the
closet unnoticed by him; but the other was obdurate.

"Very well, then," finally grumbled the anthropologist, "but I shall
make complaint to Inspector Wadham. Jerome, where are my keys?" Despite
the suspense under which he was laboring, the Phantom grinned. He
strongly suspected that Bimble was working a ruse in order to gain time.
Yet he wondered what the outcome was to be, for unless the keys were
promptly produced the officers would undoubtedly force the door.

His next sensation was one of astonishment. A curious calm appeared to
have fallen over the group outside, for moment after moment passed
without a word being spoken. The Phantom wondered what it could mean. It
seemed as though the speakers had been suddenly stricken dumb. After
what seemed a long period of silence, somebody uttered an exclamation of
astonishment, then a laugh sounded, and next footsteps moved away from
the closet door. A minute or so passed, then someone fumbled with the
lock, and presently the door was opened by Doctor Bimble. He was smiling
blandly, but the Phantom thought he detected an uneasy gleam behind the
spectacles.

 "What's happened?" he inquired, looking about him dazedly and noticing
that the girl and himself were alone with the doctor.

The anthropologist waved a hand toward the front of the house. "Listen!"

From the streets came loud and raucous shouts, and a blank look crossed
the Phantom's face as he made out the words:

"Uxtra! Gray Phantom capchured! All 'bout the big pinch! Uxtra!"



CHAPTER IX--THE PHANTOM IS MYSTIFIED


For a time the little group in the laboratory stood as if turned into
inanimate shapes, their senses under the spell of the hoarse shouts in
the street. The Phantom felt a curious churning in his head. The
anthropologist was still smiling, but the smile was gradually growing
thin and hard. Helen fixed the Phantom with a stony look.

"It appears a mistake of some kind has been made," muttered the doctor
at length. "It was a fortunate one for you, my friends, for the officers
were becoming quite insistent. Luckily the cries diverted their
attention from the closet, and they went away apologizing after
telephoning headquarters and verifying the report."

The Phantom, still feeling Helen's gaze on his face, pocketed the pistol
he had been holding. The newsboys' cries had given him a jolt that left
him a little dazed and caused his mind to turn to trivial things. He
found himself admiring Helen's simple little hat and plain but tasteful
dress, noticing that they seemed as much a part of her as her hair and
her complexion. He saw that she tried to be brave despite a crushing
disaster to her illusions, and somehow he felt sorry for her.

Doctor Bimble turned on him with a frown.

"Sir," he demanded, "are you the Gray Phantom or merely a clumsy
impostor?"

The question seemed so ludicrous that the Phantom could only chuckle.

"It has long been my desire to meet the Gray Phantom," pursued the
doctor, still scowling darkly. "I should dislike to think I have been
imposed upon. But that can't be, unless"--with another suspicious
look--"you are acting as a foil for the Phantom. Well, we shall see
presently, I suppose. In the meantime, you may consider yourself at home
under my roof."

Without knowing why, the Phantom hesitated before accepting the
invitation. To take advantage of the doctor's hospitality was clearly
the proper thing to do. In a little while the police would learn they
had blundered, and then the man hunt would be resumed with redoubled
vigor. To venture forth on the streets after that would be little short
of madness. The Phantom, conquering his misgivings--which, after all,
were nothing more than a vague doubt in regard to the doctor--murmured
his appreciation.

Bimble's manservant, a lanky, thin-faced individual with a gloomy
expression and wary eye, entered with a copy of the extras. The Phantom
gave him a quick and keenly searching glance, and again he felt
strangely bewildered. The man looked innocent enough, and it was nothing
but an intangible something in his gait and his manner of carrying
himself that caused the Phantom to look twice.

Doctor Bimble took the damp sheet, still redolent of ink, and read aloud
the triple-leaded article under the scare head. During the perusal Helen
regarded him with strange, expressionless eyes, while now and then the
servant shot the Phantom a stealthy glance which the latter found hard
to interpret.

Evidently the extra had been hurriedly prepared, for the article
contained only a few pithy facts. It seemed that the Phantom, with an
audacity and a recklessness characteristic of him, had for some
unaccountable purpose visited the East Houston Street establishment in
which the murder of Sylvanus Gage had been perpetrated. Wearing no other
disguise than a black beard, which he had evidently grown since his last
appearance in public, he had approached the housekeeper, introduced
himself as Mr. Adair, of Boston, a criminal investigator, and requested
to inspect the scene of the murder. The unsuspecting housekeeper had
admitted him, little guessing that her visitor was one of the most
celebrated criminals of the age.

The Gray Phantom had been in the room only a few minutes when Officer
Joshua Pinto appeared on the scene. With laudable perspicacity the
officer recognized the Phantom almost immediately, despite the
disguising beard, and by clever maneuvering managed to lock him in the
room, standing guard outside the door while the housekeeper telephoned
headquarters. In a few moments an impenetrable cordon had been thrown
around the house, and the capture of the Phantom seemed an absolute
certainty. Yet, when the door was battered down, the astonished officers
saw that the room was empty and that the notorious rogue had achieved
another of his miraculous escapes.

Apparently, so the article stated, the Phantom had accomplished the
impossible, but then the Phantom's entire career had been a series of
incredible accomplishments. How he had managed to leave the room and
elude the cordon of police would probably remain a mystery forever
unless the criminal himself should divulge the secret. His capture,
which had taken place while the police were making a systematic search
of the houses in the block, had been due to one of the strange
aberrations which seize even the astutest criminals. A brawl had
occurred in a "blind pig" in Bleecker Street, and the commotion had
attracted the attention of a passing sergeant. After sending in a hurry
call for help the sergeant had raided the place, and among the prisoners
taken was one who was almost instantly recognized as the Gray Phantom.
The identification was rendered all the easier by the fact that he had
removed his beard after making his sensational escape from the East
Houston Street establishment. The belief was expressed that the prisoner
would be induced to make a statement as soon as he had recovered from
the effects of the raw whiskey he had consumed in the dive, presumably
in celebration of his latest coup.

"Rot!" ejaculated the doctor, throwing the paper down with a gesture of
disgust. "A fool would know that a man of the Gray Phantom's
temperament, whatever other folly he might commit, would not get
intoxicated at a critical moment like this. This proves--But what's
become of Miss Hardwick?"

The Phantom looked up with a start. The girl was gone. Evidently she had
taken advantage of the other's absorption in the newspaper article to
slip out unnoticed. Jerome, a crestfallen look on his long face, hastily
left the laboratory, returning in a few moments with the report that
Miss Hardwick was nowhere in sight. The Phantom imagined that there was
an expression of sharp reproach in the doctor's eyes as they rested on
the servant, but the impression was fleeting.

"The young lady has probably gone home," ventured the anthropologist.
"She must have been tired, and in a measure her task was accomplished.
The question is, can you rely on her not to communicate what she knows
to the police?"

The Phantom looked a trifle doubtful. He had perceived that the impulses
of her heart had been swamped by logic. It was possible she had gone
away hating him, firmly convinced he was a murderer, and in that event
her sense of duty might easily overcome everything else.

"Frankly, I don't know," he declared. "At any rate, I am about as safe
here as anywhere for the present. I should like a bath, if I may presume
on your hospitality."

"By all means. And as soon as you have rested a bit we shall dine. Dear
me, it is almost nine o'clock! Jerome!"

He instructed the servant, and the Phantom followed the silent and
soft-footed man to the bathroom. As he splashed about in the tub, he
tried to forget the bitter ache which Helen's words had left in his
heart. Her frigid attitude and her abrupt going away had merely
strengthened his determination to convince her of his innocence. He saw
that he must act quickly and take advantage of the comparative security
which he could enjoy until the police discovered that they had arrested
the wrong man.

His mind was at work on a plan while he hurried into his clothes, which
Jerome had brushed and pressed while he was in the tub. A question that
troubled him greatly was how far he could safely take Bimble into his
confidence. The sharp-witted anthropologist, with his keen insight into
human nature, would prove a valuable ally, but the Phantom felt a great
deal of mystification in his presence. There was something about the man
which his senses could not quite grasp. Likely as not, it was only the
scientific temperament, which gave him an appearance of secretiveness
and dissimulation, but of this the Phantom could not be sure.

The dinner, which he ate in the doctor's company, was excellent, and
Jerome served them in a faultless manner, proving that the
anthropologist's devotion to his science had not blunted his taste for
physical comforts. The host discoursed learnedly and brilliantly on
Lucchini's theory in regard to the responsibility of the criminal, and
it was not until the servant had withdrawn and they had reached their
coffee and cigars that he mentioned the subject on the Phantom's mind.

The dining room, furnished with an approach to elegance that one would
scarcely have expected to find on such a shabby street, was lighted by a
heavily shaded electrolier. The lights and shadows playing across
Bimble's face as he gesticulated with his head gave him an added touch
of mystery and accentuated the general air of inscrutability that
hovered about his person. He broached the subject of Gage's death while
lighting his cigar.

"Come now, Vanardy, let us be confidential. It was you who murdered
Gage. Why deny it?"

Smiling faintly, the Phantom shook his head.

Bimble regarded him curiously. "The only thing about the crime that
interests me is your denial. But I think I understand. In some criminals
there is an æsthetic sense which revolts against the vulgar and sordid.
Having, on the impulse of the moment, committed a sordid crime, your
æsthetic sense reasserts itself, and you want to forget the ugly affair
as quickly as possible. Am I right?"

The Phantom laughed. "You clothe the thing in such attractive phrasing
that I almost wish I could plead guilty. But I didn't kill Gage, and
that's all there is to it."

"You still insist that Pinto did?"

"Until two or three hours ago I was firmly convinced of it."

"Ah! Now we are getting down to facts. Until two or three hours ago you
were certain Pinto was the murderer. Why?"

"Because at the time I felt sure that no one else could have committed
the crime. The mysterious circumstances could be explained in no other
way than on the assumption that Pinto was the perpetrator."

"Exactly. Your logic was not at all bad. But I infer that within the
last three hours you have changed your mind."

"Not quite; I have merely modified my opinion. I am no longer positively
certain that Pinto committed the murder."

"Why?" A shrewd grin twisted the anthropologist's lips. "What has caused
you to modify your view--the tunnel?"

"Yes, the tunnel. The existence of the tunnel makes it possible for
someone other than Pinto to have committed the murder. It suggests
another hypothesis, in the light of which all the circumstances are
explainable. Without the tunnel I should be morally certain of Pinto's
guilt; with it in existence I am no longer sure."

"Bravo, my friend! You are doing very well for an amateur detective.
Your idea is that the murderer entered Gage's bedchamber by way of the
tunnel and took his departure the same way. Do you know," with a broad
grin, "that I thoroughly agree with you? The only point of difference
between us is the identity of the human mole."

The Phantom's face darkened a trifle. "I advanced the idea only as a
hypothesis," he declared a little testily, "and as yet I am not at all
sure that it has any value. For instance, in order to reach Gage's
bedroom by way of the tunnel, the murderer had to go through your house
and get down in the cellar."

"Which could easily be done. Both Jerome and myself are sound sleepers
and the house has no burglar protection."

"But that isn't all. After traversing the tunnel, the murderer had to
enter the bedroom. In order to do so he had to work the mechanism which
controls the revolving window frame. From the inside of the chamber it
is worked by the nail. Can it be manipulated from the outside as well?"

"Dear me!" exclaimed the doctor, almost jumping out of the chair. "I
never thought of that."

The Phantom eyed him keenly, though he seemed wholly absorbed in
contemplation of the salt shaker. The exclamation, he thought, had not
sounded quite natural.

"You invented the contraption," he pointed out. "Surely you ought to
know whether the mechanism can be worked by a man approaching the room
by way of the tunnel."

"So I thought. An inventor ought to know the children of his brain." He
gave a forced chuckle, as if fencing for time in which to frame an
answer. "The fact of the matter is that the contrivance was intended to
be an emergency exit and nothing else. The spring by which the mechanism
is operated can't be reached by a man approaching the room by way of the
tunnel. But that," with a grin which wrinkled his whole face, "does not
exclude the possibility of a man getting through by the use of force.
For instance, the frame could be budged by prying."

"Perhaps. As matters stand, the whole question hinges on whether the
room can be entered from the tunnel. If it can't, then it is certain
that Pinto committed the murder. If it can, there is a possibility that
someone else did it, though the preponderance of evidence still points
in Pinto's direction, for it is extremely unlikely that the murderer was
aware of the existence of the tunnel. However----"

He checked himself, deciding to let the thought remain unspoken. The
anthropologist, having recovered from his temporary embarrassment, gave
a hearty laugh.

"You are incorrigible, my friend. You are willing to admit almost any
theory but the plain and obvious one, which is that the Gray Phantom
committed the murder. Reminds me of Pinel's excellent treatise on the
psychology of the criminal. But you must be tired. Please excuse me
while I make a telephone call."

The Phantom regarded him narrowly as he trundled from the room and
closed the door behind him. The doctor intrigued and baffled him. He was
almost certain that Bimble had been guilty of equivocation in regard to
the tunnel and the revolving frame. On the other hand, this and other
peculiarities might be due to an erratic temperament. His stubborn
insistence on the Phantom's guilt could be the result of mental laziness
and a disinclination to exert himself over a case which did not interest
him. Yet, after making all due allowances, the Phantom could not feel
wholly at ease.

The doctor, smiling placidly and without a sign of guile in his face,
interrupted his reflections.

"I've just had my friend Inspector Wadhane on the wire," he announced.
"It has been decided to let the prisoner sleep off the effects of his
debauch. He will not be questioned until along toward morning. So, my
friend, you can sleep in peace. Shall I show you to your room?"

The Phantom, blinking his eyes drowsily, expressed a desire to retire at
once. Doctor Bimble conducted him to a pleasant bedroom with two large
windows facing the street, saw that everything was in order, and wished
his guest a hearty good night. Even before he was out of the room the
Phantom had started to remove his clothes.

Yet, no sooner had the door closed than he hurried back into the
garments. Though only a few moments ago he had showed signs of great
drowsiness, he was now fully awake, and his springy motions and the
twinkle in his eyes hinted that sleep was farthest from his mind.



CHAPTER X--IN THE TUNNEL


The Phantom waited for fifteen minutes, then he quietly opened the door
and looked down the hall. The lights were turned low and not a sound
broke the stillness. Apparently the anthropologist and the manservant
had retired. Stepping inside the room, he took from an inside pocket the
little metal box he always carried, examined the snugly packed tools it
contained, and made sure that each was in good condition. Finally, he
switched off the light, noiselessly closed the door behind him, and
tiptoed down the stairs.

Stealing down a corridor through the main part of the house, he reached
the extension formed by the laboratory. He stopped at the door, tilted
his ear to the keyhole, and listened carefully. It had occurred to him
that Doctor Bimble might be at work, and an encounter with his host
would have proved embarrassing. His keen ears detected no sounds,
however, and in another moment he had passed through the door and was
groping his way across the floor of the laboratory.

Of a sudden he stopped. A faint sound seemed to come from the direction
where the skeletons stood in their glass-framed cages. He strained his
ears to catch a repetition, but none came. Evidently he had been
mistaken. He knew how sounds are magnified at night, and what he had
heard was probably nothing but the rattling of a windowpane or the
creaking of a board under his foot. He proceeded to the opposite wall,
darting swift glances to left and right, as if half suspecting that
someone was lurking in the shadows. Again a door swung noiselessly on
its hinges, and the Phantom glided down the stairs leading to the
cellar. From his hip pocket he took a small electric flash and let its
beam play over the floor while he looked for the entrance to the tunnel.

For a time he searched in vain, traversing the length of the murky brick
walls and carefully scanning each square foot of space without finding a
trace of the opening. The mouth of the passage seemed to have
disappeared in the three or four hours that had passed since he emerged
from the subterranean tube. He tried to locate it by tracing backward
the course he had followed in reaching the stairs, but it proved a
difficult task, for he had floundered about in total darkness, not
daring to use his flash for fear of attracting attention. He had a hazy
impression, however, that the opening was in a diagonal line with the
foot of the stairway.

The gleam of his flash leaped over the grimy bricks, and presently he
detected a narrow fissure in the wall. It extended in a quadrangular
course and was barely wide enough to admit a match or a nail. Inserting
one of the sharp-nosed tools from his metal case, he pried outward, and
a narrow portion of the wall swung open. He saw now that the little
fissures constituted the boundaries of a door. It was composed of bricks
threaded on iron rods and resembling in color and general appearance
those in the surrounding wall, and it was so deftly concealed that only
a careful search would reveal its existence. Evidently it had stood open
when the Phantom crawled out of the tunnel, which explained why he had
not noticed it. He suspected that the thoughtful anthropologist, not
caring to have too many outsiders discover the tunnel, had closed it
while the officers were searching the front of the house.

The Phantom waited for a few minutes while a little of the dank air in
the cellar found its way into the passage. He did not relish the task
ahead of him, but he was determined to settle a point on which the
doctor had been singularly evasive. The problem he had set out to solve
would be simplified to a great extent, and he would save himself
needless efforts and loss of valuable time by ascertaining whether the
bedchamber of the late Sylvanus Gage could be entered by way of the
tunnel.

Having buttoned his coat tightly and made certain that his instrument
case was within easy reach, he inserted head and shoulders in the
opening and began the weary crawl toward the other end. His progress was
painfully slow, and the smell of the moist earth gave him a sense of
oppression which he found hard to shake off. The air, dank and
insufficient, was almost stifling, and the walls of the narrow passage,
bruising his body at each twist and turn, seemed to exude a sepulchral
atmosphere that insinuated itself into body and mind.

At length he reached the point where the tunnel slanted upward into the
wall, and here his progress became even more difficult. Time and again
he slipped, and he could maintain a footing only by bracing the tips of
his shoes against rough spots along the sides. He was puffing from
exertion when finally he struck a solid obstruction which told him he
had reached the end of the passage.

Finding a precarious foothold, he took out his flash and closely
scrutinized his surroundings. On two sides were walls of brick, while
directly in front of him was the flank of the window frame. He pushed
against the latter with all his strength, but it presented a firm and
solid resistance to his efforts. Next he went over it inch by inch,
looking for a hidden lever or spring, but the most careful search
revealed nothing that suggested a means of operating the mechanism.
Finally he took out one of his tools and, inserting it in the tiny rift
between the wall and the edge of the frame, began to pry steadily. After
several minutes of constant effort he gave up the task as hopeless.

He leaned back against the wall and bent the full force of his wits to
the task of finding a way through the obstruction. Evidently there was
none. He had tapped every inch of the surface and looked everywhere for
a concealed knob or wire by which the mechanism might be operated. A
larger and heavier tool than the instrument in his metal case would have
been of no avail, for in those narrow quarters he could not have
obtained leverage. His search, though thorough and infinitely
painstaking, had netted nothing.

The conclusion was clear. The revolving door could not be operated from
the outside; hence the murderer of Sylvanus Gage could not have entered
the room through the tunnel. Again the Phantom's mind reverted to the
inevitable deduction that no one but Officer Pinto could have committed
the crime.

His lungs, which had been straining for air for the last quarter of an
hour, felt as though they were on the point of bursting, and he was
about to release his foothold and start back through the tunnel when a
faint tapping sound caught his ears. He could not tell how long it had
been going on, for until now his whole attention had been focused on the
problem before him. For all he knew it might just have begun, or it
might have started long before he entered the tunnel.

He pressed his ear against the side of the frame and listened. The
sounds, quick and sharp, were coming in rapid succession, and at first
he wondered whether someone was trying to attract his attention. Then he
noticed that the sounds skipped and jumped, as if the tapping covered a
considerable area, and his next surmise was that the person on the other
side was making a systematic search for something.

"For what?" he wondered; and in the next moment the answer flashed
through his mind. He remembered how, while he was imprisoned in the
bedroom, momentarily expecting the police to force the door and pounce
upon him, he had looked to the window as the only possible means of
escape, and how finally he had discovered the nail that proved his
salvation. Evidently the person on the other side was now doing the very
thing the Phantom himself had been doing a few hours ago.

But who could it be? As far as he knew, no one but Helen, Doctor Bimble
and himself was aware of the existence of the revolving door, and the
tunnel. It did not seem likely that anyone should be searching at random
for an opening. And who could be prowling about the Gage house at such
an hour? Again he put his ear to the frame. The tapping had ceased, but
now he heard another and different sound that caused him to quiver with
excitement. A slight metallic noise, like that produced by the contact
of two objects of steel, told him that the person on the inside had
found the nail.

In a twinkling he had forgotten his cramped position, the dank air and
the sickening smell of moist earth. All his senses were centered on the
sounds coming from the other side, so slight that his keen ears could
scarcely detect them. Something told him that in a few minutes he would
make a discovery of tremendous importance in relation to the Gage murder
mystery. Everything depended upon whether the person on the other side
would give the nail the proper twist.

Minutes dragged by on leaden feet. The Phantom felt his heart pound
chokingly against his ribs, its loud beats almost drowning the slight
metallic sounds coming from the other side. After what seemed hours of
nerve-racking suspense, a sharp and sudden click caused him to start
violently, and he almost lost his insecure footing.

Then the window frame began to turn. A glare of light struck his eyes as
the opening wedge widened. With great, eager gulps he drank in the air
coming from the aperture. A minute passed, and then a face, strained and
ashen, was thrust into the opening.

It was Mrs. Trippe, the housekeeper. For an instant she stared into the
Phantom's startled eyes.

"He's killing me!" she cried. "He's afraid I'll tell! He locked me
in----"

She jerked her head to one side. Slight though she was, she almost
filled the narrow opening, and he could see only a small strip of the
room at her back. Suddenly a shiver coursed down her spine. A hand was
projected beyond the wall, and he caught a glimpse of steel flashing in
the light. Then, in quick succession, came a scream and a thud, and the
woman slid from the window sill.

It had happened so quickly that the Phantom had not time to utter a word
or raise a hand. Now, before he could move a muscle, the window frame
slammed shut. He heard a click, signifying that the frame was caught in
the steel clutches of the mechanism. He pressed his shoulders against
it, but to no avail, and he knew from his previous attempt that the
effort was useless. Filled with horror at what he had just seen, he slid
down the incline between the walls and began to work back toward the
cellar.

Finally, after endless jerks and twistings, he reached the end of the
tunnel--and there a fresh shock awaited him. His feet brought up against
a solid obstruction. Shove against it as he might, the little door would
not yield to his frenzied pressure. For a little he laid still on his
back, thinking. His mind was heavy and his thoughts flitted about in
circles, but finally it came to him that while he was at the other end
of the tunnel someone must have placed a heavy weight against the door.

He was trapped.



CHAPTER XI--A BLOW FROM BEHIND


Only one thought stood out clearly in the Phantom's mind as he lay on
his back in the tunnel breathing the suffocating fumes of the damp
earth, and surrounded by a silence and a darkness so profound that he
felt as if a vast void was separating him from the world of the living.
His senses were numbed and his brain had ceased to function, but somehow
his mind grasped the realization that this was the end of the Gray
Phantom's career.

The fate awaiting him seemed as inexorable as the darkness that
surrounded him. He had faced great dangers and had found himself in
fearful predicaments before, but never had death appeared as certain and
inevitable as now. Through his dazed consciousness filtered a resolution
to meet death, even in this hideous form, with the same unconcern and
stoicism with which he had accepted the favors destiny had strewn in his
path. The thought brought a feeble smile to his lips, and he hoped the
end would come before the thought faded away. He wanted the world in
general and Helen Hardwick in particular to know he had died smiling.

Something, he did not know what, stirred faintly in his mind.
Instinctively his thoughts groped for a memory that seemed dim and far
away, a memory that caused his body to vibrate with a reawakening desire
to live. Slowly, out of the whirling chaos in his mind, it came to him.
He could not--must not--die! He could not pass out into oblivion with a
foul crime staining his name. He must live in order to revive and
vindicate the faith Helen Hardwick had once reposed in him.

The resolve buoyed him a little, causing his body to throb with a
renascent life impulse. Already his mind felt a little clearer, and his
nerves and sinews were beginning to respond to the driving force of his
will. If his parched lungs could only get a little air!

Again he placed his feet against the door and pushed with all the
strength he could summon. He might as well have tried to dislodge a
mountain. The implements in his pocket case had helped him out of many a
tight dilemma in the past, but they were of no avail now. He still had
the pistol he had taken from Helen's hand while they stood in the
closet, and for an instant it occurred to him that the report of a shot
might penetrate the roof of the tunnel and bring him assistance. A
moment later he reconsidered bitterly. If the shot were heard, it would
more likely bring the police; besides, the fumes released by the
explosion might smother him to death in a few minutes.

With a great effort he crawled away from the door thinking the air might
be not so stifling toward the center of the tunnel. He moved only two or
three paces when the terrific pounding of his heart and the protest of
his tortured lungs forced him to lie still and rest. For several minutes
he lay motionless, save for the heaving of his chest, matching his wits
against the hardest problem he had ever faced.

Of a sudden something chill and wet fell upon his face. It was a mere
drop of moisture, but it felt like ice to his parched skin, causing
every nerve to quiver. The contact acted like an electric stimulant on
his mind. He lay rigid, expectant, wondering why the trivial occurrence
should affect him so strangely, and presently another drop of moisture
splashed against his forehead, sending an icy shiver down his spine.

Suddenly he jerked up his head, striking it against the roof of the
tunnel. In a twinkling he had grasped the significance of the dropping
moisture. There must be a leak in the vault of the passage, and the soil
above was probably soft and porous, enabling the tiny globules of water
to percolate.

The deduction jolted the last remnant of stupor out of his body. He was
still weak, but the play of his wits kindled his nervous energy. He ran
his hand along the roof, locating the point where the moisture was
seeping through. The arched vault was supported by boards running in a
longitudinal direction and braced at intervals by diagonal props. He
gave a hoarse shout of elation as he noticed that the boards were
rotting from infiltration of moisture.

He had forgotten the agonized straining of his lungs for air. His
exploring fingers found a point where the ends of two boards came
together. Taking a tool from the metal case, he inserted it in the joint
and pried. After a few vigorous wrenches the board bent downward. Now he
gripped its edges with his fingers and, lifting himself from the floor
of the tunnel, forced it down by the sheer weight of his body. It
snapped, and he pushed it down the passage, then attacked the next
board. It gave more easily than the first, and now he began to claw and
scratch his way through the damp earth. Remembering the length of the
incline at the farther end of the passage, he judged that the layer of
soil could not be more than four or five feet deep.

More than once he felt on the point of utter exhaustion, but the
prospect of ultimate release fortified him. Clump after clump of dirt
fell at his feet, and now and then he struck a stratum of gravelly soil
that yielded more easily to his efforts. From time to time he had to
stop digging and brush aside the accumulation at his feet. A wall of
dirt was gradually forming on each side of him, cutting down the scant
supply of humid air that had so far sustained him, but he kept at his
work with the frenzied persistence of one battling for his life. There
was a dull roaring in his head and a burning torment in his lungs, and
there came moments of despair when he wondered whether his strength
would last until he had clawed through the remaining layer of earth.

Then, after what seemed hours of agonizing toil, a cascade of small
stones and loose dirt tumbled down over his head and shoulders.
Momentarily blinded, he could scarcely realize that his hand had thrust
through the obstruction and was now clutching at empty air.

The suspense over, he felt suddenly limp and shaky. His legs doubled up
under him and he sank back against the wall of the tunnel, greedily
sucking in the fresh air that poured down through the opening. For a
time he was content to do nothing but rest his racked limbs and drink in
huge lungfuls of air.

Through the rift overhead he caught a glimpse of leaden sky. A myriad of
strident noises told that the city was awakening. The discordant sounds
were like jubilant music in his ears, for a while ago he had thought he
would never see the light of another day. After his terrifying
experience in the subterranean passage it was hard to realize that he
was again one of the living. He struggled to his feet, lurched dizzily
hither and thither, and rubbed the dirt out of his eyes. Then, steadying
himself with one hand, he cautiously pushed his head through the
opening. No one being in sight, he scrambled to the surface.

He stood in the center of the narrow space between Doctor Bimble's
laboratory and the rear of the Gage establishment. On the other sides of
the inclosure were a squatty structure that might have been a laundry
and a slightly taller building that, judging from the barrels and boxes
piled against the wall, was probably a grocery. Evidently the stores and
shops had not yet opened, for there was no sign of life in either
direction.

The Phantom took a few steps forward, then stopped abruptly, his eyes
fixed on the small window in the rear of the cigar store. A recollection
sent a shiver through his body. He remembered the hand that had appeared
so suddenly in the narrow opening, the swift, murderous stroke and the
groan that had died so quickly. There was an air of peace and
tranquillity about the building that struck him as weirdly incongruous,
in view of the scene that had been enacted within.

He was about to turn away when a quick, light step sounded behind him.
Before he could move, two sinewy hands had gripped him about the throat,
forcing him down. He tried to resist, but he was still too weak to exert
much physical effort. A sickeningly sweetish smell assailed his
nostrils, he felt his body grow limp, there was a roaring in his head
that sounded like a distant waterfall, and then he had a sensation of
sinking--sinking.



CHAPTER XII--THE PHANTOM HAS AN INSPIRATION


"Remarkable, sir; most remarkable! May I feel your pulse?"

The Gray Phantom knew, even before he opened his eyes, that the speaker
was Doctor Tyson Bimble. He was lying in bed, undressed, in the same
room his host had assigned him the night before. The lights were on, so
he must have slept through the day, and he felt correspondingly
refreshed.

The anthropologist, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was timing his
pulse beats. The doctor's thin legs were wrapped in the same tight
trousers he had worn on their first meeting, and an acid-stained coat
was tightly buttoned across his plump stomach.

"Normal," he declared admiringly, pocketing his watch. "You possess
extraordinary recuperative powers, my friend. What a constitution!"

The Phantom's lips tightened. Scraps of recollection were coming to him.
He gazed narrowly into the doctor's guileless face.

"A little chloroform goes a long way even with a constitution like
mine," he remarked pointedly.

"Ah, but you were utterly exhausted, my friend. Otherwise my excellent
Jerome would not have had quite such an easy time with you. A little
strong-arm play and a whiff or two of chloroform were all that was
necessary. The effect soon wore off, and you lapsed into a natural and
invigorating sleep."

"So, it was Jerome. I guessed as much." The Phantom looked perplexedly
at the doctor. "But wasn't it a rather rough way of putting a man to
bed?"

"It was the only safe way of dealing with an impulsive and strong-headed
man like you. But for the timely appearance of my admirable Jerome, you
would undoubtedly have walked straight into the arms of the police."

The argument sounded plausible enough. The Phantom realized that the
reaction following his escape from the tunnel might have caused him to
do several foolish things.

An astute grin creased the doctor's face. "Even the Gray Phantom is at
times very transparent. Last night, when you started removing your
clothes in my presence, I knew that you had no intention of going to
bed. However, I reasoned that you were an intelligent man and could be
trusted to take care of yourself. I woke up at an early hour this
morning and stepped to your door. You had not returned. Greatly alarmed,
I told Jerome to look for you. The estimable fellow found you shortly
after you had dug your way out of the tunnel. You ought to feel deeply
indebted to him, sir."

"I do," with a faint trace of sarcasm. "But I should like to wring the
neck of the practical joker who blockaded this end of the passage while
I was at the other."

The words were no sooner spoken than the doctor's face underwent a
startling transformation. The affable smile vanished, giving way to a
look of such violent wrath that even the Phantom felt a little awed.

"The hound shall get his just deserts, sir," declared the doctor in
snarling tones. Then, as if regretting his display of temper, he laughed
easily. "Provided, of course, we learn who perpetrated the outrage."

Again the Phantom was puzzled. He was certain the anthropologist's
ferocious outburst had been genuine. It had been far too real and
convincing to be feigned even by a clever actor. Yet he sensed a
contradiction. Whoever was responsible for the blockaded door must have
traversed the doctor's house on his way to the cellar. It did not seem
likely that strangers could be taking such liberties in a private
residence without the knowledge of its occupant.

"I really ought to have new locks put on the doors," observed Bimble,
addressing himself rather than his guest. "That collection of mine is
too valuable to be left unprotected."

It sounded convincing, and the casual tone went a long way toward
quieting the Phantom's misgivings. He knew that an unduly suspicious
nature is as bad as a gullible one. Hadn't he been too prone to put the
wrong construction on the eccentricities of a scientist? Everything
considered, the doctor's actions had certainly been friendly. Had his
intentions been hostile, he could easily have turned his guest over to
the police.

The Phantom shifted the subject. "Well, at any rate, I proved to my
satisfaction that Gage's bedchamber can't be entered by way of the
tunnel."

The twinkle behind the lenses expressed doubt and amusement. "And so you
have convinced yourself that Pinto committed the murder?"

"That nobody else could have committed it," corrected the Phantom.

"Which means precisely the same thing. Even if we grant that you are
being frank with me--which I strongly doubt, by the way--you seem to
have a passion for drawing obvious inferences. From the fact that you
were unable to operate the mechanism from the outside you deduce that
the murderer could not have entered the room via the tunnel. That, my
friend, is very superficial reasoning. For instance, Gage himself might
have admitted the murderer through the revolving frame."

The Phantom's brows went up. The possibility suggested by the doctor had
not occurred to him. The next moment he grinned at the sheer
preposterousness of the idea. "But few men are obliging enough to
welcome their murderers with open arms."

"Not if they come as murderers." The doctor gave him a keen, searching
look. "But suppose they come in the guise of friends? That's only a
random suggestion, but you will admit the possibility exists." He
shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject. "Jerome has
repaired the damage you wrought in the tunnel last night, covering up
all traces of your little adventure, so there is no danger of the police
tracing you here."

"Thoughtful," murmured the Phantom a little absently.

"Which reminds me," added the anthropologist, "that you are again a
hunted man. The police have seen their mistake and the prisoner was
released this morning. He bears a superficial resemblance to you, but
comparison of his finger prints with those of the Gray Phantom proved
conclusively he was not the man they wanted, and he seems to have given
a satisfactory account of himself in every way."

"What else?" asked the Phantom, deeply interested.

Doctor Bimble laughed merrily. "Every newspaper in town is poking fun at
the stupid police--and well they might. The prisoner proved to be a
reporter employed by the _Sphere_, whose only offense is an inclination
to forget that these are dry times. A reporter, of all persons! It's
delicious!"

"A reporter--on the _Sphere_!" echoed the Phantom, sensing a possible
significance in the combination. "Not, by any chance, the one who
reported the Gage murder?"

"The same. That's what lends an extra touch of humor to the silly
blunder. Imagine a journalist, confronted with a scarcity of news, going
out and committing a murder in order to have something to write about!"

The Phantom joined in the doctor's laughter, but his face sobered
quickly. "Is this unfortunate journalist wearing a beard?"

"No; but I understand your photograph in the rogues' gallery shows you
smooth shaven, so the absence of a beard really enhances the resemblance
to the pictures published."

The Phantom was silent for a time. There was a hint of deep thought in
the lines around his eyes. His hand passed slowly across his beard,
still gritty and tangled from his experience in the tunnel. Suddenly the
muscles of his face twitched.

"Anything else in the papers, doctor?"

"Only the usual silly doings of a silly world."

"I mean in connection with the murder. No new developments?"

"None whatever, except that the search for the Gray Phantom has been
renewed with increased vigor. There is an interview with the police
commissioner, in which that optimistic soul declares the rascal cannot
have left New York and that he will surely be captured within the next
few hours."

The Phantom smiled amusedly, but there was a fog in his mind. Was it
possible no one had yet discovered that a second murder had been
perpetrated in the Sylvanus Gage house? With his own eyes the Phantom
had seen the housekeeper's face fade into the ashen hue of death, and it
seemed incredible that the body had not been found.

"By the way," remarked Doctor Bimble, as if carrying out the other's
train of thought, "I wonder what has become of Gage's housekeeper. I
walked over there this morning to see if I could do anything for the
poor lady. The front door was unlocked, but Mrs. Trippe wasn't about."

It required a little effort on the Phantom's part to keep his voice
steady. "H'm. She has had quite a shock. Perhaps she is lying ill and
helpless in some part of the house."

"The same thing occurred to me, and so I looked in every room in the
house. The lady was nowhere in sight, however. Naturally she found it
unpleasant to live alone in the place after the murder. She may have
gone away for a visit."

"Yes, quite likely." It was on the Phantom's tongue to tell what he had
seen, but for a reason not quite clear to himself he desisted. Doctor
Bimble's revelation was somewhat staggering, and the disappearance of
the housekeeper's body was a poser that baffled the Phantom's
astuteness. The mystery seemed to grow more tangled and intricate with
every passing hour, and he felt that, so far, his progress had been
dishearteningly slow. Yet, with the whole city and its environs
converted into a vast man trap, what could he do?

"Dear me!" The anthropologist jumped up with the abruptness of a rabbit.
"I sit here babbling like a garrulous old woman while you must be
famishing. I shall have Jerome bring you some food at once. I suppose,"
stopping on his way to the door and regarding the Phantom with a
serio-comic expression, "it isn't necessary to warn you that it would be
unwise to go out on the streets a night like this."

A grin masked the Phantom's searching look. "You seem deeply concerned
in my welfare, doctor."

"Naturally." Bimble drew himself up. "With me a bargain is always a
bargain. I hope you haven't forgotten our understanding."

"I see," the Gray Phantom replied. "You want my skeleton to come to you
intact. Yes, doctor, I'm aware of the inclemency of the weather. You
needn't worry on my account."

The doctor tarried a moment longer, cleared his throat as if about to
say something else, then swung around on his heels and left the room.
The Phantom looked about him. On a chair near the bed hung his clothes,
neatly brushed and pressed, and on the dresser, laid out in an orderly
row, were the contents of his pockets, including pistol, metal case, and
watch. The Phantom slipped out of bed and examined the articles. Nothing
was missing and nothing had been disturbed. Evidently Doctor Bimble
trusted to his guest's good sense to keep him indoors.

And well he might, was the Phantom's grim thought. There were excellent
reasons why he should remain under the anthropologist's roof--reasons
which only a fool or a desperado would ignore. The police, goaded by
ridicule and incensed at the way they had been made game of, were
undoubtedly exerting every effort and using every trick and stratagem to
ensnare their quarry. There were pitfalls at every crossing, traps in
every block, prying eyes in a thousand places. To defy such dangers
would be sheer madness.

Yet there were equally urgent reasons why the Phantom should not remain
idle. One of them, and the most potent of them all, had to do with Helen
Hardwick. Another was the Phantom's irrepressible passion for flinging
his gauntlet in the face of danger. A third was the firm conviction that
he could rely on his mental and physical agility to see him through, no
matter what hazards he might encounter.

He sprang back into bed as a noise sounded at the door. The cat-footed
and tight-lipped manservant entered with a folding table, a stack of
newspapers, and a trayful of steaming dishes. The Phantom watched the
nimble play of his long, prehensile fingers as he set the table.

"You're quite a scrapper, Jerome," he observed good-naturedly.

"Yes, sir." The man's gloomy face was unreadable.

"You didn't give me much of a chance to use my fists on you."

"No, sir."

The Phantom attacked the hot and savory soup. "Pugilistic and culinary
talents are a rare combination, Jerome."

"Yes, sir."

"But you are not very much of a conversationalist."

"No, sir."

The man, standing with his back to the wall, apparently immovable save
when he unbent to pass a dish or replenish the water tumbler, piqued the
Phantom's curiosity. A grenadier turned to stone while standing at
attention could not be more rigid and impassive than Jerome, yet there
was a hint of constant alertness about the dull eyes and the lines at
the corners of his mouth.

"There are moments when silence is golden," observed the Phantom.
"Perhaps this is one of them."

"Perhaps, sir."

The Phantom finished the meal in silence. When Jerome had gone, he
turned to the newspapers, noticing that the front pages were largely
given over to himself. His own photograph was published side by side
with that of the _Sphere_ reporter, whose name appeared to be Thomas
Granger. Many thousands of dollars were being wagered on the outcome of
the contest between the Phantom and the police, with the odds slightly
in favor of the latter. A yellow journal was offering prizes to those of
its readers who furnished the best suggestions for the capture of the
famous outlaw. There were interviews with leading citizens in all walks
of life, expressing amazement and indignation over the murder of
Sylvanus Gage and the dilatory tactics of the officials. Even Wall
Street was disturbed, for who knew but what the celebrated rogue was
planning another of the stupendous raids that had rocked the financial
world on two or three occasions in the past?

The Phantom was amused, but also a trifle perturbed. The handicaps he
had to overcome if he were to accomplish his purpose were rather
staggering. But for the eccentric anthropologist's hospitality he might
even now be in the coils of the police. There was a troubled gleam in
his eyes as he tossed the papers aside. For several minutes he sat on
the edge of the bed, a thoughtful pucker between his eyes, abstractedly
gazing down at the papers on the floor.

Of a sudden he roused himself out of a brown study. While his thoughts
had been far away, his eyes had been steadily fixed on the two
photographs in the center of the page spread out at his feet. Now a
steely glitter appeared in his narrowing eyes and a smile spread slowly
from the corners of his lips.

In an instant he was on his feet, glancing at his watch. It was almost
ten o'clock. He hurried quietly to the door, listened at the keyhole for
a few moments, then shot the bolt. From now on his movements were
characterized by the brisk precision of one acting on an inspiration.
Taking a sharp-edged tool from his pocket case, he stepped to the wash
stand and mixed some lather. A few deft strokes and slashes, and his
beard was gone. Since Patrolman Pinto had recognized him in spite of it,
the beard was no longer useful, and the reddish and bristly mustache
which he took from a wrapper in his metal case and affixed to his lips
would serve fairly well as a temporary disguise. After a brief glance in
the mirror, he put on his clothes and pocketed the articles on the
dresser.

The Gray Phantom was ready for one of the maddest and most perilous
enterprises of his career.



CHAPTER XIII--KIDNAPED


Somewhere a clock was striking ten as the Phantom withdrew the bolt and,
silent as a cat, stepped out into the hall. He leaned over the
balustrade and looked down. From the rear came an occasional tinkle of
glassware. Doctor Bimble, never dreaming that his guest was foolhardy
enough to leave his secure retreat a second time, was evidently at work
in his laboratory. Noiselessly the Phantom stole down the stairs,
carefully testing each step before he intrusted his weight to it. The
door opened without a sound, and he darted a quick glance up and down
the street.

A fine drizzle was falling and the sidewalks glistened in the lights
from the street lamps and windows. There was a thin sprinkling of
pedestrians in the thoroughfare. Outside a pool room across the street
stood a group of loafers, and a band of gospel workers was addressing an
apathetic crowd on the nearest corner. The Phantom was about to step
away from the door when he saw something that caused him to press close
to the wall.

"Our friend Pinto," he mused as a thickset figure jogged past. "Seems a
bit distracted this evening. Wonder what's up."

The policeman passed on with only a perfunctory glance in the Phantom's
direction. There was something about his gait and the way he swung his
baton which suggested that his mind was not quite at ease. The Phantom
waited until he had turned the corner, then crept out of the doorway,
assuming an easy, swinging gait as he struck the sidewalk and turned
west.

The streets had their usual humdrum appearance, but beneath the calm on
the surface he sensed a tension and an air of repressed activity. It
might have been only imagination, but he thought people were regarding
each other with covert suspicion, as if friends and neighbors were no
longer to be trusted. The Phantom sauntering along as if he had not a
care in the world, turned into the Bowery and proceeded toward the
nearest station of the elevated railway. No taxicabs were in sight, but
he would be comparatively safe once he was aboard a train.

He whistled a merry little tune, but he was uncomfortably aware that the
cut and quality of his clothes were attracting attention in that squalid
neighborhood. Now he was only a few paces from the elevated stairs. The
space immediately in front of him was brightly illuminated by a corner
light, and each forward step was taken at great risk. He advanced with
an air of unconcern, glanced languidly at the papers and magazines
spread out on the news stall, and in another moment he would have been
starting up the stairs.

Just then he felt the sharp scrutiny of a pair of eyes. Their owner, he
fancied, was stationed in the dark doorway of an abandoned corner
saloon, only a few steps from the foot of the stairway, but he dared not
look back or sideways. In a second he had rallied his wits to the
emergency. To show the slightest nervousness or seem in a hurry would
instantly provoke a sharp command to halt. He purchased a newspaper,
glanced disdainfully at the headlines on the first page, and was
chuckling over a cartoon on the sporting page as he leisurely began to
ascend the stairs.

A loud rumbling told that a train was approaching. The Phantom pursued
his unhurried pace, conscious that the owner of the prying eyes had
stepped out of the doorway and was regarding him suspiciously. Suddenly,
as he reached a turn in the stairs, a cry rang out:

"Stop!"

The Phantom looked down with an air of idle curiosity, as if it were
unthinkable that the command could be meant for him, and climbed on. He
had almost reached the top when a second and more insistent cry sounded.

"Hey, there! I mean _you_!"

The Phantom climbed the remaining steps, reaching the ticket window just
as a train roared into the station. Three sharp taps sounded against the
sidewalk below, followed by a shrill blast of a police whistle. The
Phantom dropped his ticket in the chopper and stepped out on the
platform. The train gates were open and a few passengers were getting
aboard. For a moment he hesitated; then he hurried swiftly to the end of
the deserted platform and leaped out on the narrow walk used by track
workers.

The train rolled out of the station. The Phantom, lying flat, guessed
that the agent at the next stop had already been notified to hold it for
search, and it was this circumstance that had decided him against
getting aboard. From the street rose a great hubbub. He began to crawl
along the narrow span, screened from sight by a heavy beam. Each moment
was precious now, for soon the police would learn that the Phantom was
not on the train, and then they would guess that he was hiding somewhere
on the platform or the track.

He had crawled the length of half a block when he stopped and looked
down. The commotion at the corner had ceased, but as he glanced behind
him he saw that several dark forms were moving rapidly across the
platform, as if looking for someone. At the point where he lay the
street was dimly lighted and almost deserted. Agilely he swung his body
from the walk, clutched the beam with both hands until he could obtain a
foothold along one of the heavy iron pillars that supported the
structure, then slid quickly to the ground. Standing in the shadow of
the pillar, he looked about him. Apparently he had not been seen, but in
a few moments a dragnet would be thrown around the vicinity, and he
would have to exercise the utmost speed and caution if he was to escape.

Quickly he dodged into a side street. On the corner was a patrol box,
and, even as he glanced at it, the bulb at the top of the pole flashed
into a green brilliance. He knew what the signal meant. A general alarm
had been sent out, spreading the news that the Gray Phantom had been
seen. He hurried on, but he had not reached far when a patrolman
appeared around the opposite corner, forcing him to take refuge in a
dark cellarway. Luckily the green light had already attracted the
policeman's attention, and he hurried past the point where the Phantom
was hidden, and made for the box on the corner. While the bluecoat was
receiving his instructions from the station house the Phantom crawled
out of his retreat and, clinging close to the shadows along the walls,
hastened in the other direction.

He was very cautious now. Once out of the immediate neighborhood, the
greatest danger would be past, but for the present every step of the way
bristled with perils. A taxicab hove into sight as he reached an
intersection of streets, but the chauffeur showed no inclination to heed
his signal. The Phantom placed himself directly in the path of the
onrushing vehicle. It stopped with a grinding of brakes, accompanied
with a medley of oaths.

"What d'ye mean?" demanded the chauffeur. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Double fare," suggested the Phantom temptingly.

A sharp glance shot out from beneath the visor of the driver's cap.
"Where to?"

"South Ferry," said the Phantom, though his actual destination was a
good distance short of that point.

"All right," with a shrewd glance at his fare. "Get in."

He held the door open and the Phantom entered the cab. They had
proceeded only a short distance, however, when the passenger pinned a
bill to the cushion, cautiously stepped out on to the running board and
hopped off in the middle of a dark block. He had not quite approved of
the chauffeur's looks.

Just ahead of him lay the wholesale section of Broadway, at that time of
night as gloomy and lifeless a stretch of thoroughfare as can be found
in all New York. The Phantom walked briskly to the corner and was
turning south when he all but collided with a red-faced heavy-jowled
policeman.

"Pardon," he said lightly. Quickly he stuck a cigar between his lips,
tugging at his mustache with one hand and exploring his vest pocket with
the other. "By the way, officer, happen to have a match?"

The officer produced the desired article, and in return the Phantom
proffered a cigar while he lighted his own. With a hearty "Thank you,
sor," the policeman put the weed in his pocket and trudged on, deciding
he would smoke the affable stranger's cigar when he went off duty. He
didn't, however. After straightening out certain tangles in his mind and
arriving at certain conclusions, Officer McCloskey resolved to keep the
cigar as a souvenir of the occasion when he accommodated the Gray
Phantom with a match.

Chuckling at the happy circumstances that some policemen are more
gullible than others, the Phantom hurried forward in the shadows of tall
brick buildings. He thought he had left the zone of greatest danger
behind him, but the utmost caution was still needed; the crucial test
would not come until he reached his destination. As often before, he was
relying for success and safety on the fact that he was doing the very
thing a hunted man was least likely to do.

A hansom drawn by a scraggy nag came toward him and drew up at the curb
on his signal. He fixed an appraising look on the driver, a
despondent-looking individual in sadly dilapidated livery, whose sole
concern in his prospective passenger seemed to have to do with the
collecting of a generous fare.

"Drive me to the _Sphere_ office," directed the Phantom, satisfied with
his inspection of the man on the box.

He climbed in, and a crack of the whip startled the nag into activity.
The Phantom, tingling with a familiar sensation, leaned back against the
cushion and watched long rows of somber buildings stream past. He was
bent on a madcap adventure, and the details of his plan were still
vague, but if the scheme succeeded he would have gained an important
advantage. His task, besides being difficult and dangerous, was also
somewhat strange to him. Many sensational ventures embellished his past,
but he had never until now essayed a kidnaping, at least not under
circumstances like these.

The vista brightened. A short distance ahead loomed the Municipal
Building and the Woolworth Tower. Serenely the cab jogged into City Hall
Park, carrying its passenger into a brightly lighted square that even at
night stirred with activity and bristled with a thousand dangers. The
hansom stopped, and the Phantom gazed a trifle dubiously at a tall
building from which issued the clatter of linotype machines and the dull
rumble of presses.

"Here we are, sir," observed the jehu expectantly, speaking through the
trap over the passenger's head.

The Phantom did not move. The entrance of the _Sphere_ building was
brightly lighted and people were constantly passing in either direction.
On the corner, keenly scanning the face of each passer-by, stood a
lordly policeman. The Phantom counted his chances, knowing that much
more than his personal freedom was at stake. The mustache, his sole
disguise, seemed inadequate. He might be recognized by anyone in the
passing throng who chanced to give him a second glance, and he would
face another ticklish situation when he was inside the building.

"Didn't you say the _Sphere_, sir?" inquired the driver.

The Phantom was about to reply when fate unexpectedly stepped in and
solved his problem. A few vigorous expressions spoken in loud and
boisterous tones drew his attention to the doorway. A gaudily garbed
person who seemed to be in an advanced stage of inebriation was being
propelled through the door by a stocky man with a reddish and determined
face. As he caught a glimpse of the tipsy individual's features, the
Phantom started and wedged his figure into the farther corner of the
hansom.

From his well-filled wallet he took a bill and thrust it through the
trap. The jehu took it, stared for a moment at the numeral in the
corner, which was imposing enough to corrupt stancher souls than his,
then listened attentively to the instructions his fare was giving in low
and hurried tones.

"I get you, sir," was his comment. "Leave it to me."

In the meantime the stout person had given the tipsy one a final
departing shove, and now he stood aside, with thumbs crooked in the
armpits of his vest, his face glowing with the consciousness of a job
well performed. His victim picked himself up with great difficulty and
looked about him with groggy eyes while loudly proclaiming how he would
avenge the affront.

"Cab, sir?" invitingly inquired the jehu.

The inebriate one careened forward, blinked his eyes and, with head
wagging limply from side to side, gave the hansom a slanting look.
Evidently it met his approval, for he nodded and staggered closer. The
driver jumped from the box and obligingly assisted his new fare to the
seat. A moment later the cab was dashing away from the curb, followed by
the amused glances of several spectators.

The tipsy passenger, sprawling lumpishly in his seat, rolled a little to
one side as the conveyance turned a corner. To his amazement his head
struck someone's shoulder; then a firm, low voice spoke in his ear:

"Tommie Granger, you're just the person I have been looking for."



CHAPTER XIV--THOMAS GRANGER


Slowly and with difficulty the intoxicated man straightened himself and
looked unsteadily at his companion. They were in a dark street and their
faces were indistinct.

"Shay," demanded the tipsy one, "thish ish my cab. Get out!"

"Now, Granger," replied the Phantom with a chuckle, "you surely don't
mind giving a fellow a lift? By the way, where do you think you are
going?"

"Home, but----"

"You forgot to tell the driver your address."

"Dam' the driver! He ought to know enough--hic--to take a fellow home
when he's soused. Where elsh would I be going? Huh?"

"But your address----"

"Dam' my address! It's nobody'sh business. I live where I please--see?
I'm drunk. I get drunk when--hic--whenever I feel like it. Know where to
get the sh-stuff, too. Alwaysh carry a bottle on my hip. Want a drink?"

"Never touch it. Thanks, just the same. What was the matter back at the
office? They were treating you rather roughly."

Granger seemed to recall a grievance. He made an effort to draw himself
up. "I inshulted the city editor and--hic--he told the watchman to
bounce me. I alwaysh inshult people when I'm soused. Did I ever inshult
you?"

"Not yet, Granger."

"Maybe I will shome day. Shay, tell the cabby to turn back. I wanta go
back to the offish and clean out that bunch of stiffs."

"Now, Granger----"

"Lemme go! I'll show 'em they can't treat me that way. Lemme go, I tell
you! Hey, cabby, reversh the current."

Granger sprang from the seat, lurched against the side of the cab, and
would have hurled himself against the pavement had not the Phantom
jerked him back. The drunken man lunged out with arms and legs, but he
subsided quickly as he felt something hard pressing against his chest.

"Cut out the nonsense!" The Phantom spoke firmly and incisively. "I have
you covered, and I won't stand for any foolishness."

The touch of steel against his ribs seemed to have a sobering effect on
Granger. For a few moments he stared sulkily at his companion, then he
settled himself against the cushion, and his mind appeared to be groping
its way out of stupefying fumes. The cab was pursuing a zigzagging route
through crooked and dimly lighted streets, the jehu having been
instructed to drive at random until he received further orders. The
Phantom's mind worked quickly while he pressed the pistol against his
captive's chest. A new problem confronted him. He had kidnaped his man,
but where was he to take him? The logical answer was Sea-Glimpse, but
the trip would consume too much time, to say nothing of the risks
involved. Doctor Bimble's house? The Phantom shook his head even as the
idea occurred to him. The anthropologist was too erratic a man to
inspire confidence, and the Phantom needed someone whom he could trust
absolutely.

Presently he felt Granger's eyes on his face. The cool night air,
together with the steady pressure of the pistol, was rapidly driving the
alcoholic vapors from the reporter's brain, and now he was subjecting
his captor to a blinking, unsteady scrutiny, as if he were just
beginning to suspect that something was amiss.

"Is this a pinch?" he asked, his tones still a trifle thick.

The Phantom laughed. "No, Granger. I'm not an officer. Besides, why
should I be pinching you?"

"For being drunk and disorderly and carrying a bottle on my hip."

"Those heinous crimes don't interest me. Anyhow, I understand
journalists are more or less privileged persons. I am merely taking you
to a safe place, where you won't go around insulting people and getting
your head smashed."

Granger fell into a moody silence, and the Phantom thought he detected
signs of a growing uneasiness about his captive. Evidently the period of
depression that follows artificial stimulation was already setting in.
Because of the darkness and his befuddled state of mind, the reporter
had not yet recognized the man at his side, but his gaze was taking on a
keener edge and would soon penetrate the thin disguise afforded by the
mustache. The Phantom felt the need of a quick decision.

A clock struck one. In scrupulous obedience to his orders the jehu was
urging his nag over the darkest and most dismal streets he could find.
The Phantom looked out, and a glance at a corner sign told him that they
were crossing Mott Street and were not far from the heart of old
Chinatown. A recollection flashed through his mind, and in its wake came
an idea.

"Stop," he called through the trap. The hansom jolted to the curb and
halted. The street was silent and the sidewalks, as far as eyes could
reach, were deserted. There was a thin, lazy drizzle in the air and the
atmosphere was a trifle heavy.

"Listen, Granger," he spoke sharply. "We are getting out here, but I
intend to keep you covered every instant. The slightest sound or the
least false move will cost you your life. Is that clear?"

The reporter's response was surly, but the Phantom knew that his warning
had had the effect he desired. Holding the pistol with one hand, he took
out his wallet with the other and selected a bill. Then he stepped down
on the curb, ordering the reporter to follow.

"Here, cabby." He extended the bill, which, with the other the Phantom
had previously given him, was surely enough to make the jehu forget any
little irregularity he might have observed. With a fervent "Thank you,
sir," he whipped up the scrawny nag and drove away.

"Now, Granger." The Phantom spoke in low but commanding tones. "My life
depends on the success of this little undertaking. I'll shoot you the
instant you show the least intention to spoil my plan. Understand?"

Granger nodded, seemingly convinced that he was dealing with a desperate
man and that, for the time at least, it behooved him to obey orders and
ask no questions. The Phantom wound his arm about the other's back,
firmly jabbing the muzzle of the pistol against the fellow's armpit,
thus giving the appearance of steadying a slightly incapacitated friend.

They approached the center of Chinatown, keeping in the shadows whenever
possible. Granger was sullenly silent, and he seemed to be hoping and
watching for a sign of relaxing vigilance on his captor's part. The
Phantom understood, and as they left the shelter of darkness and turned
the corner at Pell Street, he pressed the pistol a little harder against
the reporter's armpit.

A slumberous gloom hung over the district, as if the famous old quarter
were brooding over memories of a lurid past, when terror stalked in
subterranean crypts and strange scenes were enacted under cover of
Oriental splendor. There were a few stragglers in the streets and some
of the shops and restaurants were lighted; but, on the whole, the
section presented a dull and lifeless appearance. The Phantom scanned
the signs and numbers as he hurried along with his captive, keeping the
latter close to his side, and constantly on the alert against lurking
dangers.

Finally he stopped before one of the smaller establishments and, after
descending a few steps, knocked on the basement door. Signs painted
across the window in Chinese and English announced that the place was
occupied by Peng Yuen, dealer in Oriental goods. Once, years ago, while
the district was ripped and rocked by one of its frequent tong wars, the
Phantom had chanced to do Peng Yuen a great favor, and the Chinaman had
sworn undying gratitude and promised to show his appreciation in a
practical way if the opportunity should ever come. A strange friendship
had developed, and Peng Yuen, though wily and rascally in his dealings
with others, had impressed the Phantom as a man whom he could safely
trust.

The front of the store was dark, but through an open door in the rear
came a shaft of light. As he waited, the Phantom threw an uneasy glance
up and down the street. Luck had been with him so far, but the tension
was beginning to tell on his nerves.

A puny figure crossed the path of light, then the door opened a few
inches, and the two arrivals were given a keen, slant-eyed scrutiny. The
Phantom knew a little Chinese, and a few words spoken in that tongue had
a magic effect on the man inside. With a curious obeisance, he drew back
and motioned them to enter. The Phantom, pushing his quarry ahead of him
through the door, spoke a few more words in Chinese, and their host
pointed invitingly to the door in the rear.

The three entered, and Peng Yuen, arrayed in straw-colored garments
embroidered with black bats, shot the bolt. His face was as impassive as
that of the image of Kuan-Yin _pu tze_ which stood on a shelf over a
lacquered teak-wood cabinet, and he was so slight of stature that it
seemed as though a puff of wind would have blown him to the land of his
ancestors. The air in the little den was heavy with scents of the East.

The light, filtering through shades of green and rose, gave Granger his
first clear view of the Phantom's face. With a start he fell back a step
and stared at his captor out of gradually widening eyes. The last signs
of stupor fled from his face, and a startled cry rose in his throat as
the Phantom smilingly snatched the false mustache from his lips.

The Chinaman, standing with arms folded across his chest, viewed the
scene with supreme indifference. Granger slowly ran his hand across his
forehead, as if wondering whether his senses were playing him tricks.
His lips came apart, and a startled gleam appeared in his bleary,
heavy-lidded eyes.

"The--the Gray Phantom!" he muttered shakily, wetting his lips and
falling back another step.

The Phantom looked amused. "Just think what a scoop you've missed,
Granger." He turned to the Chinaman. "Peng, you old heathen, I guess you
know they are accusing me of murder?"

"So?" said Peng Yuen in his slow, precise English. "I did not know. I
never read the newspapers."

"Then, of course, you are not aware that the police are conducting a
lively search for me?"

"My friend," said the Chinaman, unimpressed, "I have told you that I do
not read the papers."

The Phantom searched the almond-shaped eyes for a sign of a twinkle, but
found none.

"Peng Yuen, you are lying like a gentleman. It grieves me to shatter
such beautiful ignorance, but it must be done. I did not commit the
murder of which I am accused. For reasons of my own I desire to find the
murderer and hand him over to the police. I am seriously handicapped by
the interest the authorities are taking in me, which makes it unsafe for
me to move a single step. I have thought of a ruse by which that
obstacle may be removed."

The Chinaman lifted his brows inquiringly.

"This gentleman," continued the Phantom, indicating the inebriate, "is
Mr. Thomas Granger, a reporter on the _Sphere_. As you may have noticed,
he looks something like me. The police, deceived by the resemblance,
took it into their heads to arrest him. He was able to give a
satisfactory account of himself, of course, and his finger prints
quickly convinced the authorities they had made a mistake. They are not
likely to make that kind of mistake a second time. You follow me, Peng
Yuen?"

The ghost of a grin flickered across the Chinaman's face. "Your words,
my friend, have their roots in eternal wisdom."

"Thanks for that kind thought, Peng Yuen. I knew you would see the
point. Granger has seen it, too, though his mind is not functioning with
its usual brilliance to-night. He has consented to disappear for a few
days and has agreed to let me borrow his identity in the meantime. As
the Gray Phantom I can scarcely move a step. In the rôle of Thomas
Granger, newspaper reporter, I shall be able to move about unmolested.
What, Granger--not backing out of the bargain, I hope?"

A seemingly careless gesture with the pistol, together with a warning
look, quickly silenced the protests on Granger's lips. After a few
moments of fidgeting and indecision, he accepted the situation with a
good-natured grin, as if its humorous side had appealed to him.

"Excellent!" drawled the Phantom. "I knew you would be reasonable. Now
we strip."

He handed the pistol to Peng Yuen, placed his metal case on the table,
and began to remove his clothes. Granger followed his example, and in a
few minutes the two had exchanged garments. The reporter was addicted to
vivid hues and extreme designs. At first the Phantom felt a trifle
uncomfortable in the strange garb, but he knew it was necessary to the
rôle he was assuming. He studied the reporter carefully while he took a
number of tubes and vials from his case. Granger was a younger man, his
eyes were of a slightly different hue from the Phantom's, and there were
other differences which were easily discernible to the keen eye.

The Phantom, viewing himself in a cheval glass, daubed a dark tint over
the gray at his temples. With an occasional backward glance at the
reporter, he dappled his cheeks with a faintly chromatic powder, traced
a tiny line on each side of the mouth, poured a little oil on his hair
and patted it till it lay smooth and sleek against his head, performing
each touch with such a delicate skill that, though the resemblance was
greatly enhanced, there was scarcely a suggestion of make-up.

"What do you think, Peng Yuen?" he inquired, turning from the cheval
glass.

A look of admiration came into the Chinaman's usually woodenlike face.
Even the voice was Granger's. The expression around the mouth and the
eyes and the characteristic set of the shoulders were adroitly imitated,
and already the Phantom had picked up several of the reporter's
mannerisms.

"It is good," murmured Peng Yuen, putting the maximum of approval into
the minimum of words.

The Phantom was beginning to show signs of restlessness. He glanced at
his watch, then fixed the Chinaman with a penetrating look.

"Peng Yuen," he said, "in the good old days there were hiding places on
these premises where people could disappear."

"It may be so." The Chinaman's face was expressionless. "I do not
recollect."

But even as he spoke, a touch of his fingers produced an opening in the
wall. The Phantom motioned, and with a shrug of the shoulders the
reporter stepped through the aperture. A moment later a sliding panel
had shut him from view.

"The Phantom has disappeared," mumbled the Chinaman. "Except when I
bring him food and drink, I will forget that he exists. Going so soon,
Mr. Granger?" The bogus journalist grinned as he gripped Peng Yuen's
thin, weazened hand. He squeezed it until the Chinaman winced, then
hurried out into the dark, dripping night, turning his steps in the
direction of the house on East Houston Street.



CHAPTER XV--A WARNING FROM THE DUKE


The Phantom walked briskly, with an easy, carefree swagger, breathing
freely for the first time since the beginning of the strange events that
had attended his efforts to solve the mystery of the Gage murder. In the
rôle of an irresponsible journalist with a weakness for strong liquor he
could feel reasonably secure, for the police had been so cruelly nagged
and ridiculed that they would think twice before repeating their sad
blunder.

"Stop!" commanded a voice as he swung into Houston Street. The Phantom
halted and smiled impudently into the face of a plain-clothes man who
emerged from a dark doorway to look him over.

"Oh, Granger," muttered the officer disgustedly after a glance at his
showy attire and a sniff of the whisky with which the Phantom, making
use of the reporter's bottle, had prudently scented himself. "Sober for
a change, I see. Where do you get the stuff, anyhow?"

"That would be telling. Any news of the Phantom?"

"Naw! We thought we had him a while ago, over at a Third Avenue L
station, but he blew away. I s'pose you're out to nab him and get a
scoop for that yellow rag of yours."

"Maybe," said the Phantom cheerfully. "It would be quite an event in my
young life. I'll be on my way, if you're sure you don't want to take me
to headquarters and get another sample of my finger prints."

"Aw--beat it!" muttered the detective, touched in a sore spot. The
Phantom chuckled and moved on. His new rôle promised to be amusing as
well as profitable, and the ease with which he had passed the first test
gave him added confidence. Twice within the next fifteen minutes he was
stopped and questioned, only to be dismissed with a disgusted grunt or a
facetious remark.

As he crossed the Bowery a stocky figure in patrolman's uniform appeared
around the corner and moved down the street a few paces ahead of him.
After studying his gait and bearing for a few moments, the Phantom knew
it was Officer Pinto. He slackened his pace and followed, stepping
softly so as not to attract the policeman's attention.

Pinto's steps faltered as he approached the middle of the block, and he
walked with a shuffling and uncertain air. Finally he stopped, and the
Phantom thought he was gazing at a window directly in front of him. He
tiptoed a little closer, and now he saw that the building on which the
officer's attention was fixed so intently was none other than the murky
and silent structure that had been occupied by Gage and his housekeeper.

The policeman drew a little closer to the window, then stood rigid and
motionless, as if the building were exerting a peculiar fascination upon
him. At that moment the Phantom would have given a great deal to know
what was going on in the mind of the man he was watching. He could make
a guess, but guesses were unsatisfactory. At length the officer shrugged
his shoulders, as if to shake off something that oppressed him, then
tried the lock in matter-of-fact fashion and moved on down the street.

The Phantom hastened after him. He was no longer trying to avoid
detection, and his footfalls sounded clear and sharp in the quiet
street. The policeman stopped, looked back, and peered sharply at the
oncomer.

"Granger--huh!" he snorted after giving the Phantom a derisive
once-over. "Say, does your ma know you're out as late as this? Getting
all them glad rags mussed up in the rain, too! What's the idea?"

"The Phantom has got my goat," confessed the pseudo reporter. "It isn't
natural for a man to pop in and out the way he does without getting
caught."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" grumbled the patrolman,
resuming his walk.

The Phantom fell into step beside him, now and then casting a sidelong
glance at his sour and uncommunicative face. All of a sudden he wondered
whether the policeman was aware that a second murder had been committed
in the Gage house, and again it struck him as bafflingly strange that no
mention had been made of the finding of the housekeeper's body. What had
become of it, and how much, if anything, did Pinto know?

"Something seems to be eating you," he observed casually, trying to
adopt a phraseology suited to his rôle. "You were staring at that window
as if you expected old Gage's ghost to take a stroll. What were you
thinking of, Pinto?"

The policeman gave a quick, searching look. "Say, you've been watching
me, ain't you? What's the big idea? And how do you know my name?"

The Phantom laughed engagingly. "How touchy we are to-night! I wasn't
watching you, exactly. Just strolling along, hoping to bump into the
Phantom and cover myself with glory. Then I saw you, and I couldn't
imagine what you were seeing in that window. As for knowing your name, I
happen to be aware that the officer on this beat is one Joshua Pinto and
that he was called by the housekeeper the night Gage was murdered."

The patrolman, evidently satisfied with the explanation, mumbled
something under his breath.

"But you haven't answered my question," persisted the Phantom, speaking
in gently teasing tones. "I am still wondering what you were thinking of
while standing in front of the window."

"Why, I was--just thinking, that's all."

"How illuminating! I wonder if, by any chance, your profound meditations
had anything to do with the present whereabouts of Mrs. Mary Trippe,
Gage's housekeeper."

The patrolman came to a dead stop. Of a sudden his face turned almost
white and his eyes grew wider and wider as they stared into the
questioner's face.

"What--what d'you mean?" he demanded thickly.

The Phantom laughed easily. "Why, Pinto, you're the scaredest cop I ever
saw. Your nerves must be in a bad way. I was only wondering if you've
seen anything of Mrs. Trippe lately."

"My nerves _are_ a bit jumpy," admitted Pinto. He was moving again, but
there was evidence of weakness in the region of his knees. "They've been
that way ever since I had a touch of indigestion last month. What was it
you asked me about Mrs. Trippe?"

"I walked over there yesterday afternoon, meaning to ask her a question
or two in connection with the murder. I couldn't find her, and the
neighbors said they hadn't seen her for a day or two. Got any idea where
she is?"

"No, I haven't." Pinto was speaking in calmer tones now. "Likely as not
she's visiting friends or relatives somewhere. Wimmen don't like to stay
in a place where there's been a murder."

"Something in that. By the way, Pinto, when were you last inside the
house?"

Again, for a mere instant, the patrolman's steps faltered. He threw the
man at his side an uneasy glance. "Why, let me see. It was the day I had
the Phantom locked up in the bedroom and he gave me the slip. Why did
you want to know?"

"No reason in particular. I was just thinking that--But my mind's
wandering. Got a bit tanked early in the evening. Guess I'll turn in.
See you later."

With a yawn, he turned back, fancying there was a note of relief in the
policeman's farewell. He smiled as he walked along. His conversation
with Pinto had cleared up one point in his mind. The officer knew
something of Mrs. Trippe's fate. The dread he had evinced at mention of
the housekeeper's name proved that, and his prevarications and evasions
were further evidence. The plea of indigestion and nervousness, coming
from one of Pinto's robust physique, was highly amusing.

Yet, illuminating as his verbal fencing match with the patrolman had
been, it had merely confirmed suspicions already firmly rooted in the
Phantom's mind. As yet he had not a single iota of concrete evidence,
and there were several snarled threads that had to be untangled before
he could accomplish much. For instance, there was the mystery
surrounding the murder of Mrs. Trippe and the equally perplexing riddle
of what had become of the body. Both of them must be solved before he
could go far toward attaining his object.

He stopped, noticing that his mental processes had guided his steps
toward the Gage house. It was still drizzling, and he was tired and
hungry and wet, but the problem on which he was engaged drove all
thought of rest and food from his mind. The blackness overhead was
slowly breaking into a leaden gray, and from all directions came sounds
of awakening life. He walked up to the door, believing that the answers
to the questions that troubled him were to be found inside the house.

Then, out of the shadows, as it seemed to him, came an undersized
creature with a slouching gait and glittering cat's eyes peering out
from beneath the wide brim of a soft hat. The Phantom felt a slight
touch on his elbow, and for an instant the sharply gleaming eyes scanned
his face, then the queer-looking character shuffled away as swiftly and
silently as he had appeared.

The Phantom was tempted to follow, but just then he noticed that a piece
of paper was cramped between his fingers. He unfolded it and examined it
in the meager light. All he could see at first was something crude and
shapeless sketched with pencil, but gradually the blur dissolved into a
symbol which he recognized.

It was a ducal coronet. The Phantom smiled as he looked down at the
emblem of his old rival and enemy, the Duke. The paper handed him by the
curious messenger was a reminder that the hand of his antagonist was
reaching out for him, that though the Duke himself was in prison, his
henchmen and agents were active, being at this very moment on the
Phantom's trail.

He put the paper into his pocket, and in the same moment the amused
smile faded from his lips. For a time he had forgotten that, to all
practical purposes, he was no longer the Gray Phantom, but one Thomas
Granger, journalist. His lips tightened as again he gazed at the
tracings on the paper. Did it mean that the Duke's emissaries had seen
through his disguise and alias, or did it mean--his figure stiffened as
the latter question flashed in his mind--that Thomas Granger was a
member of the Duke's band?

In vain he pondered the problem, unable to decide whether the paper had
been intended for himself or for Granger. If for himself, it seemed a
somewhat idle and meaningless gesture on the Duke's part, for his old
enemy surely could gain nothing by sending cryptic messages to him. On
the other hand, assuming that the reporter was the intended recipient,
what hidden meaning was Granger supposed to read into a ducal coronet?

He tried to dismiss the problem from his mind until he could have a talk
with Granger, but thoughts of the mysterious message and the strange
messenger pursued him as he once more turned to the door. The entrance
to the store was padlocked, but the lock on the side door yielded
readily to manipulation with one of the tools in his metal case. A quick
glance to left and right assured him he was unobserved. Closing the door
and taking out his electric flash, which he had transferred among other
things to the suit he was now wearing, he ran up the steep and creaking
stairs.

He stood in a long and narrow hall. At one end was a stairway,
presumably leading to the store below, and along the sides of the
corridor were three doors. Opening one of them, he played the electric
beam over the interior, for he did not think it safe to turn on the
light. It was a small, tidily furnished bedroom, and the prevalence of
feminine touches hinted that it had been occupied by the housekeeper. In
the neatness and immaculateness of things there was not the slightest
suggestion of tragedy, and he looked in vain for a sign that the
occupant had been snatched from a humdrum life to a horrible death.

Yet, as his eyes flitted over the room, he felt a vague and haunting
sense of oppression. It must be the air, he thought, which was heavy and
stale, as if the window had not been opened for several days. The note
handed him by the queer messenger was still a disturbing factor in his
thoughts, and he took it from his pocket and examined it in the light of
his flash.

At first he saw nothing but the crude pencil tracings in which he
recognized the emblem of the Duke, but presently, as he gave closer
attention to the outlines of the design, he detected tiny waves and jags
that impressed him as being there for a purpose. He placed his
magnifying lens between the electric flash and the paper, and now the
uneven strokes dissolved into uncouth but fairly legible letters. He
chuckled as he perceived that the Duke, always a lover of the
theatrical, was in the habit of communicating with his agents by means
of writing that had to be read through a magnifying lens.

Quickly he deciphered the script hidden in the ornate tracings. His face
grew hard as a welter of ideas and suspicions surged through his mind.
The message read:

  Traitors sometimes die. Report at once.

The six words seemed to throb with a sinister meaning. They started a
long train of thoughts in the Phantom's mind. For one thing, they proved
that the message was intended for Granger, since there was no reason why
the Duke should accuse the Gray Phantom of treachery. They also made it
clear that the reporter was a member of the Duke's new organization and
that by some faithless act he had incurred the displeasure of the
leaders of the band.

The Phantom loathed a traitor, but the Duke himself was no stickler for
fair methods, and that a member of his gang should have been caught in a
perfidious act was not particularly surprising. As the Phantom saw it,
the chief importance of his discovery lay in the fact that he was still
laboring under a serious handicap. He had thought that in assuming the
guise of a newspaper reporter he would insure himself against
molestation from all sides, but now it appeared that the man whose
identity he had borrowed was an object of suspicion and possible
vengeance. The threat in the first sentence of the message was clear and
to the point.

He scowled darkly at the message, then folded it carefully and put it in
his pocket. He still had an advantage, he told himself, for he was safe
so far as the police were concerned. What he had to guard against was
the stealthy machinations and intrigues of the Duke's band. On the
whole, it was fortunate that the note had fallen into his possession,
for forewarned was forearmed. Increased alertness and a few extra
precautions would see him clear of the pitfalls.

Extinguishing his flash, he left the room and descended the stairs at
the end of the hall, emerging behind the counter in the front of the
store. He walked down the narrow aisle between the show case and the
shelves that lined the wall. The door to Gage's bedroom was unlocked,
and he entered. A shaft of gray light slanting in beneath the window
shade gave blurry outlines to the objects in the room. He passed to the
window and pulled the curtain aside. It was a dull, bleak dawn, as
dismal and gray as the one that had greeted him twenty-four hours ago
when he crawled out of the tunnel.

His inspection of the room shed not the faintest ray of light on the
questions in his mind. He searched carefully, sweeping the dark corners
with his flash, but nothing appeared to have been touched since his last
visit. Of the tragedy he had witnessed, not the slightest sign was to be
found. Yet the scene was so vividly impressed on his mind that he felt
as though the very walls were alive with the echoes of the dying woman's
groans. He could still see the quickly moving hand that had held the
knife.

"Whose hand?" he asked. It had been a mere flash, and, as far as he
could recall, there had been nothing distinctive about it. It was not
likely he would recognize the hand if he should see it a second time;
yet the question was already settled in his mind. The housekeeper
herself had given him the answer to it in the few words she had gasped
out just before the blow was struck:

"He's killing me! He's afraid I'll tell!"

She had referred to Pinto, of course, for her previous words and looks,
the Gray Phantom thought, had clearly shown that she suspected the
policeman of having murdered her employer. It was a safe inference,
then, that Pinto had slain the housekeeper in order to seal her lips
forever, and the Phantom wondered whether the patrolman was not also
responsible for the barricade at the end of the tunnel. It seemed
plausible enough. Pinto must have known that there had been a witness to
his deed, though he probably did not know that this witness had seen
only a hand and a knife. It was even possible that the policeman had
seen more of the Phantom than the Phantom had seen of him. At any rate,
he was doubtless aware that the housekeeper's words had been addressed
to someone hidden in the opening back of the revolving frame. Fearing
that this person would betray him, he had quickly slammed the frame into
place, after which he had run around to Doctor Bimble's cellar and
blocked the mouth of the passage, intending that the witness to his
crime should smother to death.

So much seemed clear; at least it furnished a hypothesis in the light of
which the strange events of the night before were explainable. The only
puzzling factor in the situation was the disappearance of the body. The
Phantom, cudgel his wits as he might, could see no other solution than
that the murderer must have removed it. No one else would have been
likely to do so. If the body had been found by anyone else the matter
would have been promptly reported to the police, and without doubt
another crime would have been chalked up against the Gray Phantom.
Scanning the mystery from every angle, the Phantom could see no other
explanation than that the body had been concealed by the murderer.

"But why?" he asked himself. So far as he could see, the murderer could
have had no reason for covering up the crime, which in the absence of
contrary proof would have been imputed to the Gray Phantom. The police
and the press would have jumped instantly to the conclusion that the
arch-rogue had followed up the killing of Gage with the murder of the
housekeeper, and their fertile brains could easily have invented several
plausible motives. This, to all appearances, would have suited the
murderer to perfection. Why, then, had he gone out of his way to keep
the crime secret?

The Phantom's mind churned the problem for several minutes before the
answer came to him. As is often the case, it was so ludicrously simple
that he wondered why he had not seen it at once.

"Clear as daylight!" he decided. "The murderer knew the crime couldn't
be fastened on me, because I had an alibi. I was in jail, so to speak,
when the murder was committed. Of course, I was in jail only by proxy,
the real prisoner being Tommie Granger, but the murderer didn't know
that until later. He thought I was locked up, and that was enough for
him."

The Phantom backed out of the room. His visit to the scene of the two
murders had helped him to clarify certain problems, but he had
accomplished nothing definite. His suspicions in regard to Pinto had
become stronger, but as yet he had not a shred of actual proof against
the man. He considered what his next step should be as he walked across
the store and started up the stairs. For several reasons, he decided, he
must have a talk with Thomas Granger at once.

He paused for an instant outside the housekeeper's bedroom, then walked
on to the next door, which opened into a kitchen. The third door, the
one farthest down the hall, gave access to a large room, and the tall
tiers of boxes and packing cases indicated that Gage had used it for
storage purposes. Abstractedly he let the gleam of his electric flash
glide over the floor and the long, jagged cracks in the begrimed
ceiling. He was looking for nothing in particular, and apparently there
was nothing to find.

Yet, as he started to walk out, something held him. He could not analyze
the sensation at first, but it was one he had experienced before, and it
was associated in his mind with dreadful and awe-inspiring things. He
could not name it, but it gave him the impression that he stood in the
presence of death.

He started forward, but of a sudden he checked himself and listened
intently to sounds coming from the direction of the stairs. They were
short, creaking, and irregular sounds, like those produced by a heavy
man when he tries to walk lightly, and they gave the Phantom an
impression of hesitancy and furtiveness.

The stealthy footfalls drew nearer. Quietly the Phantom pushed the door
shut, took the pistol from his pocket, and stepped behind a row of
packing cases. The footsteps were now almost at the door. An interval of
silence came, as if the person outside were hesitating before he
entered, then the door came open and a dark shape prowled across the
floor.



CHAPTER XVI--THE OTHER LINK


The room was in total darkness save for a tiny sliver of light filtering
in through a crack between the packing cases stacked against the window.
The prowler advanced gropingly after closing the door behind him, and
from time to time he cleared his throat with little rasping sounds, as
some persons do when laboring under intense excitement.

The Phantom, wedged in a narrow opening between two rows of boxes,
presently heard a faint scraping, as if the intruder were passing his
hand back and forth in search of a light switch. All he could see was a
shadow moving hither and thither in the gloom, but the prowler's quick
breathing and jerky footsteps told that, whatever might be his errand,
he was going about it in a state of great trepidation.

A sudden flash of light caused the Phantom to press hard against the
wall, for he wished to ascertain the other's business before making his
presence known. He judged from the sounds made by the prowler that he
must be at the opposite side of the room, and a succession of loud,
creaking noises indicated that he was dragging some of the cases away
from the wall. After a little the sounds ceased and the only audible
thing was the prowler's hard panting, mingling now and then with a low,
hoarse mutter.

The Phantom stood very still. A curious feeling was stealing over him.
It was the same weird and oppressive sensation he had experienced
shortly after entering the room, but now it was more pronounced, filling
him with a sense of awe which he could not understand.

The prowler's footfalls, moving toward the door, broke the spell. The
Phantom, casting off the uncomfortable sensation with a shrug of his
shoulders, stepped out from his hiding place just as a hand gripped the
doorknob.

"Hello, Pinto!" He spoke in a drawl, toying carelessly with his pistol.
Out of the corner of an eye he slanted a look at an object lying on the
floor. It had not been there when he entered.

The patrolman's face had been white even before he spoke; now it was
ashen and ghastly. His eyes, wide with horror, bored into the Phantom's
face. Several times he moistened his twitching lips before he was able
to speak.

"Where did you co--come from?" he gasped.

"Why, nowhere in particular. Just taking a walk. Changed my mind about
going home. But don't look at me as if I was a ghost. Makes me nervous.
Great heavens, what's this?"

He started at the grewsome heap on the floor as if he had just now
chanced to cast eye upon it. Pinto made a heroic effort to steady
himself. His quavering gaze moved reluctantly toward the motionless form
lying a few feet from where he stood.

"That's--that's Mrs. Trippe," he announced, twisting his head and
working his Adam's apple as if on the point of choking.

"So I see." The Phantom stepped closer to the body, regarded it gravely
for a few moments, then lifted his narrowing gaze to the policeman's
twitching face. "Where did it come from, Pinto?"

The officer was gradually gaining control of himself. He took out his
handkerchief and mopped his perspiring forehead. "Awful sight--ain't it,
Granger? I thought I heard some kind of racket just as I was passing the
house. I tried the doors, and the one at the side was unlocked. I
thought it was queer, for I had made sure it was locked when I passed
the other time, so I ran up the stairs and looked around. When I came in
here and turned on the light, I found that thing lying there. It broke
me all up. Fine scoop for your paper, Granger, if you grab it before the
other reporters do."

Smiling, the Phantom looked Pinto squarely in the eye. "Your story needs
a little dressing up. It doesn't hang together. Maybe you would have
been able to think up a better one if your nerves hadn't been on the
jump. For one thing, Pinto, no cop goes into hysterics at sight of a
dead body unless his conscience is giving him the jimjams. For another,
you didn't find the body where it is lying now. Unless I am very much
mistaken, you dragged it out from behind those packing cases."

He pointed to a corner of the room where several large boxes had been
displaced. The shamefaced expression of a man caught in a clumsy lie
mingled with the look of dread in Pinto's countenance.

"What you driving at?" he demanded with a feeble show of bluster.

The Phantom's mind worked quickly. In the last fifteen minutes his
suspicions in regard to Pinto had become a certainty. The policeman's
conduct left not a shred of doubt as to his guilt, but the evidence the
law would require was still lacking. Pinto would soon gather his wits
and invent a more plausible explanation than the one he had just given,
and on an issue of veracity between the Gray Phantom and an officer of
the law, the latter would have all the advantages. The Phantom, swiftly
appraising the situation, saw that his only hope lay in subtler tactics.
Perhaps by adroitly working on the policeman's evident pusillanimity he
could induce him to make a clean breast of it.

"The game's up, Pinto," he said sternly. "You murdered Mrs. Trippe, just
as you murdered Gage. Better come clean."

A ghastly grin wrinkled the patrolman's face. "Think so, eh? You
newspaper guys think you're pretty wise, don't you? Well, what proof
have you got?"

For answer the Phantom decided on a random thrust. He took a pencil and
a sheet of paper from his pocket and, placing his pistol on a packing
case, roughly sketched a ducal coronet. He held the design close to the
patrolman's eyes.

Pinto glanced at the sketch. With a hoarse cry he shrank back a step,
but in a moment, by an exertion of will power, he had partly mastered
his emotion. He guffawed loudly.

"Looks like a crow's nest to me," he gibed.

"You recognized it just the same, Pinto. Your face told me you did, so
there's no use denying it. You're a member of the Duke's crew. You had
orders to kill Gage, and you did. It was fairly clever, too, the way you
arranged things so suspicion would fall on--ahem, on the Gray Phantom.
But the housekeeper somehow saw through you. She was wise to you. And
so, fearing she might tell what she knew and send you to the chair, you
killed her, too. Then----"

"You've got some imagination, you have!" jeered the policeman,
struggling hard to maintain a grip on himself.

"Then," continued the Phantom coolly, "you carried the body up here and
hid it. Not a very clever move, but you were scared at the time, and
people do queer things when they are panicky. You realized the Phantom
couldn't be blamed for the murder of Mrs. Trippe, for he was in jail
when the job was done. Anyhow, everybody thought he was, which amounted
to the same thing. You were in no condition to reason things out, and
the only safe way out of the mess you had made seemed to be to hide the
body. It would postpone discovery of the murder for a while and give you
a chance to think. The hiding place you picked wasn't a very good one,
but it was the best you could find in a hurry."

"Yeah?" taunted Pinto. "Been hitting the booze again, ain't you?"

"No; I'm sober for once. Well, Pinto, after our little talk a while ago
you were a bit worried. You knew someone would find the body sooner or
later, and you thought things would look better all around if you were
the one to find it. Anyhow, there was no reason for keeping it hidden
longer after it turned out that the police had nabbed the wrong man and
the Phantom had no alibi. I suppose if I hadn't stopped you when I did,
you would now be at the telephone reporting your discovery to the
station house."

As he spoke, the Phantom studied every change of expression in the
other's face. Pinto winced as if each word had been a needle prick, but
he seemed to be drawing on a reserve force of fortitude, for his courage
was rising rather than ebbing.

"After pulling all that dream stuff," he said sneeringly, "mebbe you'll
come across with the evidence."

"Sure thing." The Phantom's tones belied his crumbling hopes. He
realized he had no evidence, and Pinto showed no signs of breaking down.
"If what I've said doesn't hit the bull's-eye, why did you sneak in here
and drag the body out from behind the packing cases? You seemed to be
making a bee line for it. How did you know it was there?"

"So that's what you call evidence!" Pinto sneered. "I guess if it comes
down to brass tacks, my word's as good as yours. Now that you've got all
that stuff off your chest, mebbe you'll answer a question or two, and
you might begin by telling what you're doing here yourself."

"A reporter goes everywhere."

"Reporter--huh! You've been on the Sphere four weeks, and soused half
the time. You came here from Kansas City. You worked on a newspaper
there only a week or two, according to the dope the department got.
Seems you've been tramping around a lot in your days. Mebbe you're an
honest-to-goodness reporter, and mebbe you're not. I've got a hunch of
my own."

"Let's hear it," said the Phantom lightly, though inwardly he felt
somewhat uneasy. Pinto's gaze, constantly searching his face, was
growing keener with every passing moment.

"Well, it looks mighty queer to me that you showed up in this burg just
a few weeks ahead of the Phantom, especially since you two look so much
alike. What's queerer still is that you got pinched the other day just
when the Phantom was as good as caught in the net. He would have been
hauled in if you hadn't been grabbed by mistake."

"So, that's it." The Phantom chuckled amusedly. "Just because it
happened that way, you're thinking that I am acting as a foil for the
Gray Phantom."

"You got me just right, Granger. I'm thinking that, though I'm not
saying much about it yet. Here's another little thing I'd like to get
your opinion on." He came a step closer, looked hard at the Phantom, and
put the question sharply. "What's become of Helen Hardwick?"

"He-Helen Hardwick?" The Phantom stood rigid, mouth gaping and eyes
staring.

"She's the one. They say the Phantom has a crush on her and that it was
on her account he handed the Duke that wallop some months ago. She's
supposed----"

The Phantom, his face deathly white, clutched Pinto's arm in a grip that
made the policeman squirm. "What about Miss Hardwick?" he demanded
hoarsely. "Has anything happened to her? Speak, man!"

Pinto freed his arm and gave him a searching look. "All I know is that
she's missing, and I thought mebbe you----"

"Missing?" echoed the Phantom sharply. "What do you mean? Speak up!"

In his excitement he did not see that the look of perplexity in Pinto's
eyes had given way to a cunning twinkle. In another moment the policeman
had acted with a precision and a swiftness that indicated he was a far
shrewder man that his looks led one to think. In an instant the pistol
had been beaten from the Phantom's numb hand and in the space of a few
seconds a steel link was gyved around his wrist.

"There, Mr. Gray Phantom!" exclaimed the policeman with a triumphant
chuckle. "I guess you won't get away from me this time!"

The Phantom, at last sensing his danger, jumped to one side, but already
the other link was fastened around the policeman's wrist. Pinto's words
regarding Helen Hardwick had stunned him momentarily, and he had not
seen his peril until it was too late. Now he was a prisoner, handcuffed
to his captor!

"This is more like it!" exclaimed the policeman, kicking aside the
pistol his prisoner had dropped and shoving his own weapon against the
Phantom's diaphragm. "I've had a hunch all along that, if you weren't
the Phantom himself, you were his alibi. I'm wise now, all right. You
gave yourself away when I spoke the name of the moll. You turned white
to the gills and almost jumped out of your shoes. Guess you forgot to
play your rôle that time, Mr. Phantom. Granger, not being in love with
the lady, wouldn't have thrown a fit like that. Well, we're off for the
station. You can hand 'em the spiel you gave me, and see how much they
believe of it."

"Before we start, tell me what you know of Miss Hardwick," pleaded the
Phantom, for his own plight still seemed of secondary importance.

Pinto shrugged his shoulders. "She's vamoosed; that's all I know. Come
along. Mebbe she'll drop in and see you when you're in jail."

"Jail!" He braced his weight against the pull at his wrist. "I'm not
going to jail--not while Miss Hardwick's in trouble. You may be a little
stronger than I, Pinto, but I'm in better trim, and you can't budge me."

The policeman tore at the link, but in vain. The Phantom dropped to the
floor, dug his heels into a crack between two boards, and resisted with
all his might. Pinto puffed and cursed, but he might as well have tried
to lift himself by his own boot straps, and his efforts were further
hampered by the necessity of keeping the pistol aimed with his free
hand. The glint in his captive's eyes hinted that he was but waiting for
a chance to land a blow with his fist between the policeman's eyes.

"Say, what's the use stalling?" argued Pinto, resorting to diplomacy
while regaining his breath. "The game's up."

The Phantom knew it, but he was playing for time. Some unexpected turn
might yet reverse the situation and give him the upper hand.

"You're done for, and you know it," said the policeman impressively.
"Might as well give in."

"Wrong, Pinto. You seem convinced that I'm the Gray Phantom, and you
ought to know that the Phantom never gives in. I can sit here as long as
you can. Don't you think we had better compromise?"

"Compromise--your grandmother!" grumbled Pinto. "You'll never get out of
this."

Still pointing the muzzle at his prisoner, he brought the butt of the
weapon close to one of his pockets. Two fingers reached down and
extracted a police whistle, and in an instant it was between his lips,
giving forth a shrill blast. He waited expectantly for a few moments.
Again and again the whistle shrieked, but no response came.

The Phantom grinned. "The acoustics are not all that might be desired.
The windows are closed, and there are several heavy walls between here
and the street. I fear, Pinto, that your lung power is going to waste."

Disgustedly Pinto dropped the whistle. He considered for a moment, then
a grim smile lit up his face.

"You've sung your last tune, Mr. Phantom," he muttered. "There's always
a way to handle the likes of you."

As he spoke, he quickly shifted his hold on the pistol, and in another
moment the handle crashed down on the prisoner's head. Of a sudden the
Phantom felt himself grow limp. A laugh broke hoarsely through the gloom
that descended upon him. He heard a voice, but it sounded faint and
remote, as if coming to him across a vast chasm.

"Guess you won't get out of _that!_"

Then, miles away, a door slammed. He exerted a supreme effort to shake
off the numbness brought on by the unexpected blow. His eyes fluttered
open. His mind struggled out of the blinding haze. The light was still
on, and his staring eyes flitted slowly about the room. It seemed only a
moment ago that the door had slammed. Pinto was nowhere in sight, and
for a moment he wondered at this.

Then, his mind clearing, it came to him that the policeman had gone out
to summon assistance. He had had his lesson, and this time he was taking
no chances with so dangerous and elusive a prisoner as the Gray Phantom.
Doubtless he would be back in a few moments, and then----

He raised himself to a sitting posture. A hideous recollection
electrified his body and mind. Helen Hardwick was missing, Pinto had
said. Perhaps she was in trouble; perhaps some desperate danger
confronted her. He must find her at once, and he must get out of the
room before Pinto returned with reënforcements.

He tried to rise, but something restrained him. It was the steel link
around his wrist. Only a moment ago, so it seemed, the other link had
been fastened to Pinto's hand. Now----

A groan of horror broke from his lips as he saw the thing to which he
was linked by a band of steel. Pinto had, indeed, taken no chances. Even
if the Phantom could get out of the room, his hand would be chained to
the cold, dead hand of the housekeeper.



CHAPTER XVII--THE DUKE'S MESSENGER


In vain the Phantom spurred his wits to find a way out, but the thought
that hurt him most was that he was helpless at a moment when Helen
Hardwick might be in danger.

What had happened to her? His imagination pictured one fearful
possibility after another. The one that seemed most likely was that the
Duke's agents, aware of the Phantom's interest in the girl, had lured
her into a trap. The Duke, thorough and artful in all things, could be
depended upon to miss no opportunity to make his revenge complete.

He tried to clear his mind of harrowing surmises. His situation was
desperate, and now as never before he needed to think coolly and act
quickly. At any moment Pinto might return, and the seconds were
precious. The thought that sustained him was that his wits had never yet
failed him in an emergency, and that always in the past he had contrived
to squeeze out of tight corners by performing some astounding feat.

Yet, was his dismal afterthought, he had never before faced a situation
quite like this. To escape with a lifeless form gyved to his hand was
out of the question. He looked swiftly about the room, but saw nothing
that suggested a means of deliverance. Even the pistol he had dropped
had been removed by the thoughtful Pinto. If he escaped, was his
conclusion, it would be only by a stroke of amazing luck.

Suddenly, as a new thought came to him, he thrust his free hand into his
inside breast pocket. His face brightened a little. Pinto had overlooked
something, after all. His case, with its assortment of carefully
selected tools, was still there. Evidently Pinto had not thought it
necessary to search his pockets. He took out the little box and ran his
eyes over the snugly packed implements, each of which had been prepared
with a definite purpose in view.

Quickly he tried several of his sharp-pointed tools in the locks of the
handcuffs, but the mechanism was proof against manipulation, and he soon
gave up the attempt. Next he picked out a small, fine-toothed saw, but
he realized he would only be wasting time if he tried to cut through the
chilled steel of which the links were made. It might be done if he had
hours at his command.

A step sounded in the hall. One more hope remained. From his case he
took a small capsule, pointed at one end and scarcely longer than a pin.
It contained a combustible powder, and the Phantom had carried it with
him for just such an emergency as this. Now he took one of Granger's
cigarettes from his pocket, inserted the capsule at one end, and put the
cigarette in his mouth. Then he returned the case to his pocket and,
just as the door came open, was making an elaborate pretense of hunting
for a match.

He looked up with an air of unconcern--and in the next instant the
cigarette dropped from his gaping lips. He had expected Pinto to walk in
with one or more of his colleagues, but instead he saw the dwarfish
creature who had handed him the paper bearing the Duke's emblem.

For a few moments the little man remained in the doorway, sweeping the
room with a quick, nervous glance, then closed the door and came
forward. Mechanically the Phantom restored the cigarette to his lips
while staring at the queer intruder. The electric light lent a yellow
tinge to his shriveled face--a face so gloomy and sour that it gave the
impression of never having been lit up by a grin. He drew a pistol from
his pocket as he approached the Phantom.

"Well, Granger, you sure got into a mess," he observed, speaking in a
wheezy, drawling voice.

"So it seems," agreed the Phantom, his mind working quickly. "Got a
match?"

The weazened individual handed him one, but the Phantom seemed in no
hurry to light his cigarette.

"I kinda thought you'd get yourself in bad, the way you carried on,"
continued the little man, gazing indifferently at the body. "Didn't you
savvy the note I slipped you?"

"It was plain enough."

"But you paid no more attention than if it had been an invitation to a
dog fight."

"I didn't think there was any great rush," said the Phantom cautiously.
"I thought to-morrow would be time enough."

"Time enough? He, he! Well, you're a queer one, Granger. Guess you don't
know the big chief the way I do. When he sends for you it means he wants
you right away. He's already kinda leery about you and-- But that's your
funeral. Hope for your sake you can square yourself with him. It's a
lucky thing I turned back and got on your trail after slipping you the
note."

The Phantom, wondering what had happened to the policeman, looked
uneasily at the door. "Where's Pinto?" he asked after a pause.

"The cop? Oh, I fixed him. Handed him one from the rear as he was
starting down the stairs, and he never knew what struck him. Just gave a
grunt and went down like a bag of cement. You see, I'd been standing at
the door trying to get the hang of the gabfest between you and him. I
couldn't hear much--only a word now and then--but when the door opens
and the cop walks out I know there's trouble, and so I hand him one on
the bean. Say, how much is that cop wise to?"

"Eh?" The Phantom stared for an instant, uncertain how he should play
his rôle, but he quickly grasped the threads of the situation. "Oh,
Pinto is away off on his hunches. Hasn't the least idea I'm one of your
gang, but thinks I am dragging a red herring across the Phantom's trail.
Rich--what?"

The other chuckled mirthlessly. "I'll say it is. Well, the cop won't do
any talking for quite a long stretch, and when he comes to things will
be kind of hazy in his coco. You'd better come along with me and make
your spiel to the big chief. You'll have to do some tall explaining,
and, unless you can square yourself, you may wish the cop had got you."

There was an ugly smirk on the man's lips and he spoke the last words as
if gloating over the ordeal in store for the other.

The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "I can explain things to the big
chief. What worries me is the bracelet on my wrist!"

"I'll get the key out of the cop's pocket," announced the little man.

The Phantom gazed after him as he left the room. A little while ago he
had told himself that only a stroke of magic could save him, and the
weazened creature's appearance at the crucial moment seemed almost
miraculous. Yet he looked a trifle dubious.

"I'm coming out of the fire," he mumbled, "but I haven't the least idea
what the frying pan will be like. The little rat may be hard to shake,
and Pinto will spoil my alibi as soon as he comes out of oblivion."

The small man returned and tossed a metallic object at the Phantom's
feet, then stood aside, with pistol leveled, while the handcuffs were
being unlocked. His sharp eyes followed every move the Phantom made, but
evidently there was not the faintest suspicion in his mind as to the
identity of the man with whom he was dealing. In all likelihood he knew
Granger but slightly and had never seen much of him.

"There!" exclaimed the Phantom as the link around his wrist parted.
"Pinto will be the most surprised cop in creation when he walks in here
and finds the bird flown. I'm dying for a smoke."

He rose to his feet and struck the match, glancing narrowly at the other
as he lighted his cigarette. There was a look of habitual alertness in
the little man's glittering eyes, and the pistol in his hand more than
equalized his physical disadvantage.

"Look here, Granger," he said in harsh, wheezy tones, "I don't quite
know how to size you up, but you and the chief are going to have a chat
directly. I'm putting my gat inside my pocket--like this. I'll have my
finger on the trigger all the time, so you'd better watch your step.
We're off."

He motioned the Phantom to start. With a hard pull on his cigarette, the
Phantom drew in all the smoke his mouth could hold, strolled forward
with an easy swagger, and, turning abruptly on the little man, blew a
cloud of smoke into his face.

The victim gasped, spluttered, and choked, then was seized with an
attack of sneezing that racked his sides and convulsed his entire body.
Spasm after spasm shook the puny figure until the little man was quite
exhausted. Covering his nose and mouth, the Phantom stepped behind him
and snatched the pistol from his pocket.

"The sneezing powder worked even better than the last time I tried it,"
he observed with a chuckle.

"Ker-choooo!" was the other's explosive comment. "Ker-chooooo!"

Slowly the acrid fumes drifted toward the ceiling. The little man, with
tears streaming from his red-lidded eyes, lurched toward one of the rows
of packing cases and leaned against it. The smoke was scattering, but
repeated fits of sneezing were still jolting his frame.

The Phantom smothered the cigarette under his heel. A simple trick had
turned the situation in his favor, but now he faced another problem. How
to dispose of the little man and Pinto was a poser. The former did not
worry him, for he had bungled his job miserably, and silence and
discretion were highly esteemed virtues in the Duke's organization.

It was different with Pinto. The policeman had seen through the
Phantom's disguise. Immediately upon recovering consciousness he would
report that the Phantom was masquerading as Thomas Granger, and that
would be the end of the ruse. The personality he had borrowed would no
longer protect the Phantom, and he would once more be a hunted man and
obliged to watch his step at every turn.

On the other hand, it was just possible Pinto would not tell what he had
discovered. The policeman had a bad conscience, and that in itself made
a difference. Besides, the Phantom had twice slipped out of his hands
and he had achieved nothing whereof he could boast. His pride and his
conscience, each a powerful factor, would be very likely to seal his
lips.

Suddenly he smiled. To make doubly sure, he would provide Pinto with a
third motive for maintaining silence. Without doubt the policeman shared
the average man's fear of ridicule, and the Phantom could work on that.

The sneezings had ceased. The victim, looking as though every ounce of
strength had been drained from him, peered vacantly at the Phantom while
the latter removed the second link from the dead woman's hand. Exhausted
by the sneezing fits and deprived of his weapon, he was as helpless as a
snake stripped of its poisonous glands.

"Put your hands behind you," directed the Phantom.

The little man made as if inclined to resist, but thought better of it
and obediently put his hands at his back. He uttered a feeble yawp as
one of the links was clasped about his wrist. With the other in his
hand, the Phantom led him from the room and turned toward the stairs. A
dark, inert heap lay at the head of the stairway, with legs sprawling
over the steps. It was Pinto.

"Sit down," ordered the Phantom.

The puny man looked about him dazedly, then sat down on the top step,
uttering a weak protest as he found himself handcuffed to the
unconscious man.

The Phantom examined Pinto's head. A large swelling at the back told
that the little man had put far more force behind the blow than one
would have thought it possible for such a dwarfish creature to exert.
The pulse was weak and fluttering, and the eyes had a rigid and glassy
look. The Phantom had known of similar cases in which the victims had
remained unconscious for days, and many things might happen before
Pinto's mind and tongue were functioning again. Upon awakening and being
told that he had been found handcuffed to a rat of the underworld, the
policeman, already troubled by an evil conscience and wounded
self-respect, would hardly invite the taunts and jeers of his fellow
officers by going into exact details. At any rate, the Phantom felt he
was playing his best card.

"Say, Granger," whined the little man, "ain't going to leave me like
this, are you? Not after I got you out of the fix you were in?"

"It is a bit rough on you, I admit, but you will have to make the best
of it. Your reasons for getting me out of the scrape weren't entirely
unselfish. I believe it was your intention to put me on the carpet
before the big chief."

The other jerked his head in the direction of the storeroom. "They'll
say I croaked that woman in there," he muttered.

"Not a chance. Examination of the body will show that the murder was
committed more than twenty-four hours ago. What they probably will think
is that Pinto caught you in the act of robbery and that you assaulted
him after he had handcuffed you to him. One guess will be about as good
as another, though, and you will have to lie yourself out of the mess
somehow. I wish you luck."

He started down the stairs, but in the middle he stopped and looked
back. What if Pinto should never recover consciousness? If he should die
before the two murder mysteries were fully cleared up, the Phantom's
efforts to exculpate himself would encounter a serious hindrance. But
nothing was to be gained by worrying over what might happen, he told
himself, and just now he had something far more serious to think about.
His fears concerning Helen overshadowed all other things.

He went out onto the street. The morning was far advanced and the sun
was struggling through a curtain of scattering clouds. The glaring
headlines of the morning papers spread out on the news stands at the
corner told how the Phantom, after having been seen at an elevated
railway station the night before, had once more slipped through the
dragnet. After a brief glance at the introductory paragraphs, he crossed
the street and entered the telephone booth in the rear of a drug store.
There he consulted the directory and called the number of the Hardwick
residence.

A woman, evidently a servant, answered. The Phantom announced that he
was a reporter on the _Sphere_ and wished to speak with the master of
the house. After a few moments' wait a masculine voice came over the
wire. It trembled a little, as if its owner was trying to control an
intense excitement. Mr. Hardwick was at first unwilling to discuss the
matter, but after repeated urgings admitted that he had requested the
police to search for his daughter, who had been missing for two days.
She had left home without explanations of any kind, and nothing had been
heard from her since. As it was entirely unlike her to go away for any
length of time without notifying her father, Mr. Hardwick feared
something had happened to her.

The Phantom's face had a blank look as he emerged from the booth. He
remembered Miss Hardwick's sudden and mysterious disappearance from
Doctor Bimble's laboratory. Something must have befallen her after
leaving the scientist's house, and the fact that she had not
communicated with her father was disquieting.

He went out on the sidewalk and turned toward the corner. Of a sudden he
was all caution and alertness. Someone was watching him.



CHAPTER XVIII--THE STARTING POINT


The Phantom feigned utter unconcern as he continued toward the corner.
His acute senses had instantly registered the fact that he was an object
of scrutiny. It vexed him not a little, for he was anxious to get on
Helen Hardwick's trail, and he had no relish for another adventure with
the police. He looked about him out of the tail of an eye as he advanced
with a leisurely swing.

It took him but a few moments to pick out the watcher from among the
sprinkling of loungers and pedestrians on the sidewalk. The man's dull
face and stolid expression did not deceive the Phantom for a moment. He
stood with his back against a shop window, and part of his face was
hidden by a newspaper he pretended to be reading. The Phantom walked up
beside him.

"You're a detective, aren't you?"

The man lowered the newspaper and gazed at the questioner out of
deceptively sluggish eyes.

"What makes you think so?"

The Phantom chuckled, though he knew he was treading on dangerous
ground. It was just possible that Granger, although he had not been long
in the city and therefore could not have an extensive police
acquaintance, had met this particular detective. A careful study of the
man's face reassured him, however.

"Oh, I spotted you easily enough," was his answer. "I suppose you have
heard of me. I am Thomas Granger, of the _Sphere_."

The other gave a slight nod. A faint grin creased his face. "I've heard
of you, all right. On the day you were pinched, they tell me, you had
the beautifulest jag on that's been seen in this town in many a day. Why
don't you put a fellow wise to your source of supply?"

"I may," with a knowing wink, "if you promise not to jug me again."

"Well, you needn't rub it in, Granger. You look a lot like the Gray
Phantom. If you didn't have those glad rags on, I wouldn't be able to
tell the difference. I never met the Phantom face to face, but judging
from his picture I should say you're as much alike as two peas. By the
way, my name is Culligore--Lieutenant Culligore."

The Phantom repressed a start. He had seen the name in the earlier
newspaper accounts of the murder and remembered that Culligore had been
one of the detectives assigned to the case. He wondered whether it were
possible that he and Granger had not met while the reporter was getting
the facts of the tragedy for his paper. The detective's face showed no
sign of suspicion, but the Phantom noticed that he had an odd habit of
rubbing his upper lip against the tip of his nose, and the little
mannerism impressed him as significant of deep and devious mental
processes.

"That reminds me!" he exclaimed suddenly, as if just recalling
something. "There's been a brand-new murder committed over at the Gage
house."

The detective lifted his brows.

"I was snooping around, hoping to find some new twist to the case,"
explained the Phantom. "In a storeroom on the second floor I found the
body of the housekeeper. She looked as though she had been dead a good
many hours. Pinto is lying on the stairs with a bump on the back of his
head, and he's handcuffed to a little shrimp that looks like a dope
fiend."

Lieutenant Culligore stared as he heard the strange report. "Been
drinking again?"

"Go and see for yourself."

Culligore at last showed signs of activity. "Better come along," he
suggested. "If you've been telling me the truth, there ought to be a
good story in it for you."

"I've seen enough. Going back to the office to write it up."

The two parted. As Culligore started to cross the street, he made a
curious motion with his hand, and the Phantom fancied he was signaling
someone on the other side. He walked briskly toward the elevated
station. Evidently Culligore had put a colleague on his trail, thereby
showing that he was not so unsuspecting as the Phantom had thought. He
ascended the stairs and walked out onto the platform without a single
backward glance, but his ears, trained to catch and classify the
slightest sounds, told him a pursuer was behind him.

The train, a southbound one, was crowded with passengers. The Phantom
selected a strap near the rear end of one of the cars. The many curious
glances leveled in his direction told him he was being recognized as the
newspaper reporter who had won fame by being mistaken for the Gray
Phantom and whose photograph had appeared side by side with that of the
notorious rogue. While ostensibly absorbed in an advertisement, he cast
a sidelong glance at the platform of the car just ahead. The brief
glimpse sufficed to identify his pursuer as a broad-shouldered
individual in a brown suit, whose rather commonplace features were
shaded by the brim of a derby.

The Phantom was in a quandary. He could accomplish nothing with a
"shadow" at his heels, and there was something maddening in the thought
that he was losing time while Helen Hardwick might be in danger. He
could probably elude his pursuer without much difficulty, but that would
be a confession that he had something to hide, and might possibly result
in his being picked up on a general alarm. He was safe behind the
personality of Thomas Granger only so long as he did not engage in
suspicious conduct.

An idea flashed in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the skyscrapers of
City Hall Park. He would take the bull by the horns, he decided. The
safest and surest way of averting suspicion from himself was to play his
borrowed rôle boldly and thoroughly. He would proceed at once to the
offices of the _Sphere_ and make a judiciously colored report of the
latest affair at the Gage house. It was a dangerous experiment, but the
Phantom believed he could carry it out. A bold play, a bit of clever
acting, and the usual accompaniment of good luck were all that was
necessary.

He was still conscious of pursuit as he alighted and turned in the
direction of the _Sphere_ Building. A glance at the bulletin board in
the rotunda showed him the location of the editorial rooms, and he
ascended in the elevator. The mirrors lining the walls of the cage threw
back at him a reflection showing signs of suspense, worry, and want of
sleep. His face was drawn and furrowed, and the usual luster of his eyes
was a trifle dimmed, but these symptoms might also be indications of
heavy drinking, and they enhanced his resemblance to Granger.

The building throbbed with the pulsations of presses. From above, like a
continuous rattle of shrapnel, came the din and clatter of the
linotypes. Faint odors of ink and whiffs from the sterotyping and
photo-engraving plants hung in the air.

The Phantom stepped out with a jaunty appearance, though inwardly he was
quailing a trifle. A sign on frosted glass told him which door to enter,
and a red-haired youth presiding at a desk in an anteroom grinned
broadly as he passed through. A dozen typewriters jabbered noisily in
the room beyond. As the Phantom walked in, a spectacled, shirt-sleeved
man seated at a desk near the entrance looked up and regarded him with
twinkling eyes.

"'Lo, Granger," was his good-humored greeting. "Understand 'Old War
Horse' tied a can to you last night."

"Did he?" asked the Phantom, guessing that the individual referred to
was the autocrat who had ordered Granger bounced. "It was a large night,
and I don't remember the minor details." He looked uncertainly about the
room, as if his vision was a trifle clouded. "Where is the old
fire-eater? Don't see him around."

"Of course, you don't." The spectacled man laughed. "Old War Horse is in
bed, where he belongs. I guess you haven't quite recovered your bearings
yet, or you'd know that Slossdick is on the day shift. I see him looking
this way, as if he had designs on you."

The Phantom trailed the spectacled man's glance to a glass-partioned
cubby-hole at the other end of the room, where a bald and sharp-nosed
man sat at a desk. He advanced airily, grinning in response to the
knowing winks and well-meant banter that followed him, and boldly
approached the scowling personage at the desk.

"Don't you know you're fired?" demanded Slossdick, jabbing at a page of
"copy" with his pencil.

"Am I?" inquired the Phantom innocently. He spoke with a little catch,
as if he had a slight cold, and he avoided the sunlight streaming in
through the window. "It hadn't occurred to me."

"No? Old War Horse had you kicked out, didn't he? You'd been insulting
him again, I understand." Slossdick's devastating pencil ripped an
entire paragraph out of the copy before him. "What's biting you this
morning?"

"Nothing," said the Phantom blandly. "Just thought you might like to
know that there's been another murder at the Gage house."

The slashings of Slossdick's pencil ceased abruptly. He swept the
Phantom's face with a quick, searching glance. Briefly the impostor told
as much as he thought prudent, describing the scene in the storeroom and
at the head of the stairs, without telling of his own part in the
night's events or of Pinto's mysterious conduct. He was not yet ready to
accuse the policeman openly, and for the present it suited his purpose
to leave the affair vague and mysterious.

There was a flicker of interest in Slossdick's eyes. "Housekeeper
murdered and policeman lying at the head of the stairs handcuffed to a
dope. Rattling good yarn, Granger. But"--and a look of doubt crept into
his face--"we've had nothing from the police on this."

"Good reason. The police didn't know of it till a few minutes ago. If
you hurry, you will beat the other papers to it."

Slossdick snatched up the telephone and called a department. "First page
make-over," he snapped when the connection had been established. Then,
turning to the Phantom: "Think you can see the typewriter keys this
morning?"

The Phantom quavered inwardly. Typewriting was not among his
accomplishments, and the entire proceeding was strange to him. He
hesitated, noticing that the rumble of the presses had already ceased.

"Well, never mind," grumbled Slossdick, his pencil already at work on an
eight-column caption. "Give the dope to Fessenden and let him write it.
Then go home and get some sleep. You look as if you needed it. And, for
the love of Mike, steer clear of the booze! Fessenden!"

In response to the explosive shout, a lanky and dyspeptic-looking man
appeared at the door to the cubby-hole. After receiving a few terse
directions from Slossdick, he led the Phantom to his desk and sat down
before his typewriter. He inserted a sheet of paper in the machine while
listening, and his fingers were racing over the keys even before the
Phantom had finished his recital.

"Bully yarn you've turned up," came his appreciative comment over the
clatter of the keys. "A peach!"

The Phantom walked away. The story would, of course, rouse another storm
of indignation against himself, but there was no help for that. On the
whole, he had bettered his chances and enhanced his temporary safety by
giving the _Sphere_ a start of twenty minutes or half an hour in its
race against competing newspapers.

His shadow was nowhere in sight as he emerged from the building. Either
the man's suspicions had been disarmed by the Phantom's move, or else he
had grown tired of waiting and dropped into a near-by restaurant for a
bite of food. Standing at the curb, the Phantom glanced stealthily to
right and left. There was no sign of espionage in either direction. At
last he was free to begin his search for Helen Hardwick, but the trail
seemed to have neither beginning nor end. In vain he searched his mind
for a starting point.

His hands were in his pockets, and presently his absently groping
fingers touched a piece of paper. He drew it out, starting as his eyes
fell on the ducal coronet.

"Guess I'll see Granger," he reflected. "I have a strong hunch he is my
starting point."



CHAPTER XIX--THE BIG STORY


"How is your guest, Peng Yuen?" was the Phantom's first question after
entering the shop on Pell Street.

The Chinaman's eyes widened. "The guest? Ah, yes, I remember. I think
the gentleman is well."

"Has he telephoned anyone, or sent out any messages?"

"No; he has remained in his room all the time. He asked me this
morning for something to read, and I gave him a translation of
'Chin-Kong-Ching.'"

"Good. I have come to have a talk with him."

"Very well." The slight figure, arrayed in loose-fitting, straw-colored
garments, stepped to the wall with the softly gliding gait
characteristic of his race. He pressed a button, and the Phantom passed
through an opening which instantly closed behind him.

Granger, lying on a couch, looked up drowsily. The little room had
neither windows nor visible door. Air was wafted in through a mysterious
recess in a corner of the ceiling, and a shaded lamp shed a greenish
light over the scene. The walls were covered with yellow satin
embroidered with quotations from Chinese philosophers. On a table
standing near the couch were the remnants of a breakfast.

"Fairly comfortable, I see." The Phantom sat down. His glance, though
seemingly casual, was taking in every detail of the reporter's
appearance, "How are you feeling?"

"Rotten!" Granger rubbed his eyes and scowled disgustedly. "I asked the
chink for something to drink, and he brought me a mess that tasted like
vinegar and molasses. Then I dropped a hint that I would like some
reading matter, and he handed me a book that put me to sleep before I
had turned the first page. Say, how much longer are you going to sport
my clothes and wear my name?"

"No longer than I have to. Your name suits me well enough, but our
tastes in clothes differ."

Granger grinned. He was comfortably stretched out on his back and his
eyes were lazily studying the arabesques in the ceiling.

"Anyhow, my clothes are harmless. That's more than can be said for my
name. On the square, I am surprised to see you this morning."

"Why so?"

There was a twinkle in the reporter's eyes as he turned them on the
Phantom. "Because you went in for a lot of trouble when you annexed my
identity. I was pickled last night, and you took my breath away when you
yanked off the mustache. Till then I hadn't had the faintest idea that
my abductor was the Gray Phantom. If I hadn't been so flabbergasted I
might have given you a friendly tip."

"A tip?"

"To the effect that Tommie Granger was a marked man. I'll tell you
something interesting if you promise not to fall out of the chair. I am
a member of the Duke's gang."

The Phantom's brows went up. For several hours he had been aware of
Granger's membership in the criminal organization, but the glib
admission surprised him. He had intended to pull the Duke's
communication out of his pocket with a dramatic gesture and startle a
confession out of the reporter and he was wholly unprepared for the
latter's frank and voluntary avowal.

"Surprised you, didn't it?" Granger chuckled as if mildly amused. "I can
hardly get used to the idea myself. Membership in that gang of
cutthroats and grafters is nothing to be proud of, exactly. I've always
had a sneaking admiration for the Gray Phantom, but the Duke's
different. He's smooth and artful enough, but he's made of coarser
stuff."

"Yet you are a member of his organization?"

"Sounds contradictory, doesn't it? Well, since I have told you the
beginning, I'll have to tell you the rest. The cause of it all dates
back to my birth. I came into the world with the face I'm wearing
to-day, though it's undergone a process of beautification in the
intervening years. You see, my face is the mainspring that has
determined most of my actions in recent years--some of the more
important ones, anyhow. I wouldn't be a newspaper man to-day if I had
been born with a different face."

"I don't see the connection."

"Let me tell you how it came about. On seven different occasions, and in
as many different places, I have been mistaken for the Gray Phantom and
put in durance vile. The clippings in my scrapbook tell all about it. I
was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the first time it happened, and after I had
satisfied the police dunderheads as to my identity, the editor of one of
the local papers asked me to write up my impressions while in jail and
tell how it felt to be mistaken for a celebrity like the Gray Phantom. I
did, and that gave me a taste for newspaper work. The editor gave me a
job on the spot and I've----"

"But what has all this to do with your membership in the Duke's gang?"
interrupted the Phantom impatiently.

"Everything. I've been plugging away at the newspaper game ever since I
got my start in Cheyenne. I never stayed long in a place, for I have
something of a roving disposition and like change of scenery now and
then. My face got me in bad almost wherever I went. I had no sooner
struck a new town than some ambitious dick thought he saw a chance to
get famous by pinching the Gray Phantom. Of course, that always meant a
stretch in the lock-up--anything from two days to a week. I used to lie
awake nights imagining that I was in reality the Gray Phantom and
dreaming of great criminal exploits. That got me interested in crime and
criminals, and I began making a study of the subject.

"Finally, I drifted into New York and landed on the _Sphere_. One night
while prowling about the Chatham Square section I dropped into a Turkish
coffee house. It was a low joint, a hangout for thugs and thieves. While
sipping my coffee I made a study of the different types around me. One
fellow interested me in particular. He was an evil-looking cuss, but
there was something about him that fascinated me. He looked something
like a Stevensonian pirate, and he had a great scar over his left eye.
Presently I began to notice that he was looking my way now and then, and
finally I motioned to him to come and sit beside me. We talked in
whispers, like everybody else in the joint, and by and by he asked me if
I was not the Gray Phantom.

"He seemed disappointed when I told him I was only the Phantom's double.
We talked on for a while, and the next night we met again in the same
place. The fellow piqued my curiosity, and I tried to draw him out
whenever I had a chance. I knew he would shut up like a clam if I told
him my profession, so I let him think I was a crook, though I didn't go
into details. We met night after night, and each time we were more
confidential. I could tell he had something on his mind that he didn't
know just how to put into words, and of course, I did my best to lead
him on. He approached the subject by slow and easy stages, dropping a
cautious hint now and then. Finally, when he had convinced himself that
I was to be trusted, he told me he belonged to a big criminal band and
asked me if I would like to join."

"So that's how you happened to become a member of the Duke's
organization?" observed the Phantom.

"To cut a long story short, that was the way it happened. I thought I
could work the salamander stunt--play with fire without getting burned.
The idea of getting on the inside of a big gang of crooks and studying
its members at close quarters appealed to me. Aside from that, I saw a
chance to turn up a big story for my paper, for it was my intention to
get the goods on the gang and, eventually, hand it over to the police.
But"--and a rueful smile wrinkled Granger's face--"I soon discovered
that one can't play with fire without getting scorched."

"That explains," mumbled the Phantom thoughtfully, at the same time
extending the communication handed him by the Duke's messenger. "There's
a message worked into the design which is readable only under the lens.
It's a pleasant reminder of what happens to traitors."

"Yes. I know. I received several such reminders before you came along
and borrowed my clothes and name. I wasn't really a traitor, though. I
merely refused to obey certain orders they gave me."

"You might have known that you would be expected to take part in the
gang's activities. You didn't expect to be a member only in name?"

"Well, I thought I could stall for a while, till I got the dope I
wanted. You see, I was hoping they wouldn't ask me to do any of the
rough stuff till I had been a member for a while. I soon discovered my
mistake."

"And so the big story will never materialize?"

"I'm afraid it won't. My obituary is the only kind of story that's
likely to grow out of this adventure of mine. The Duke's crew doesn't
stand for any nonsense. I've been told that members who don't obey
orders usually disappear under mysterious circumstances. I never got
next to the inner circle of the gang. I suppose they didn't trust me
because I took a drink too many now and then. Anyhow, I didn't get the
stuff I was after. I was a sort of probationer, reporting to one of the
big chief's lieutenants, and I didn't get as much as a glimpse of the
inner sanctum."

"Too bad, Granger." The disappointment written on the reporter's face
seemed so ludicrous that the Phantom could not repress a smile. "Maybe
it isn't too late yet. By the way," starting suddenly from his chair,
"have you any idea where Helen Hardwick is?"

For a moment or two the reporter lay rigid on his back; then he jumped
up and stared in dumfounded amazement at the Phantom.

"Why do you ask?" he inquired hoarsely, after a pause during which each
man looked the other straight in the eye.

"Answer my question and I'll tell you my reason for asking it."

Granger swallowed hard. "Has anything happened to Miss Hardwick?"

"She has disappeared. Left her home two days ago and hasn't been heard
from since. Her father has asked the police to search for her."

"Good Lord!" Granger groaned. "This is awful!"

The Phantom gripped his arm. "Tell me what you know," he commanded.
"Your looks show that you are not entirely ignorant of the matter."

The reporter's face twitched. "I can guess what's happened to her," he
declared, speaking in thick accents, "but I haven't the least idea where
she is."

"Well, what do you think has happened to her?"

"She's been kid--kidnaped." As if to steady his nerves, Granger picked
up a cigarette and lighted it.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I"--Granger drew in a whiff of smoke--"because I know the
Duke's crowd wanted her abducted. They asked me to do it, and I balked.
I couldn't--well, it simply went against the grain to do a thing like
that. It was my refusal to do as they told me that got me in bad with
the gang."

The Phantom's blood was slowly receding from his face. For a moment he
sat rigid, lips tightly compressed, as if stunned. "Why did the Duke's
crowd want Miss Hardwick kidnaped?"

"That I can't tell you. The leaders simply issue orders; they never
explain their motives. I haven't the faintest idea what their reason for
abducting Miss Hardwick could be."

Silence fell between them. The Phantom's steely gaze continued to search
the other's face. Though evidently shocked by the news of Miss
Hardwick's disappearance, the reporter did not once lower his eyes.

"They must have got somebody else to do it after I refused," he
muttered, slowly getting a grip on himself. "Wish I had a drink."

The Phantom was hardly listening. His knitted brows told that his mind
was struggling with a problem.

"Know an officer named Pinto?" he asked abruptly.

"I think I've heard of him."

The Phantom gave a brief summary of his adventures since arriving in the
city. Granger listened attentively, his eyes expressing a mingling of
astonishment and admiration. They opened wide as the narrator described
the scene in the storeroom and Pinto's peculiar behavior, and he
chuckled appreciatively at the account of the impostor's visit to the
_Sphere_ office.

"That's the Phantom all over!" he remarked when the story was finished.
"It's the nerviest thing I ever heard of. But what you have told me only
puts a few extra kinks in the mystery."

The Phantom nodded thoughtfully. "How well do you know Miss Hardwick?"

"Scarcely at all. I have never met her. She called me up at the _Sphere_
office the day after the murder and asked me a lot of questions. I
referred her to Doctor Bimble."

"So she told me."

"Bimble is a nut, but he has done several brilliant things along lines
of criminology. I was busy the day Miss Hardwick called me up, and I got
a little jolt when she told me her name. The thing was natural enough,
of course, but it seemed a bit weird to be talking to the person I had
been asked to kidnap. Well, I thought the easiest way to dispose of her
was to suggest that she see Bimble."

The Phantom looked puzzled. "You never saw Miss Hardwick, and you have
talked with her only over the telephone," he murmured. "That being the
case, I wonder why Pinto asked me, while we were in the storeroom this
morning, if I knew what had become of Miss Hardwick."

"Rumor has it that a romantic attachment exists between Miss Hardwick
and the Gray Phantom. Pinto must have heard something about it."

"But at the time he put the question he had not the faintest idea that I
was the Gray Phantom. He still thought I was Thomas Granger. It was my
way of responding to the question that aroused his suspicions. Now, he
must have had some reason for supposing that Thomas Granger knew
something of what had happened to Miss Hardwick."

Granger considered. "Miss Hardwick may have told him about consulting
me. But I think it just as likely that Pinto was playing a bit of clever
strategy--that he had already suspected your identity and sprung that
question about Miss Hardwick in the hope that you would betray
yourself."

"Perhaps." The reporter's theory seemed so natural that the Phantom
wondered why it had not occurred to him before. "If that was his
purpose, the trick worked beautifully. Tell me, was it before or after
the murder of Gage that the Duke's men came to you with the kidnaping
proposition?"

Granger stared hard for an instant; then a glint of admiration appeared
in his eyes. "Gray Phantom, you ought to have been a detective. That's
as neat a piece of mental acrobatics as I've seen in many a day. The
proposal came to me a few days before Gage was murdered."

"But the two plots might have been hatched simultaneously?"

"They might. I see what you are driving at. You think the two plots were
related to a single object. Perhaps you are right."

"Granger, you don't think I murdered Gage?"

"No," after a long pause; "but neither can I tell you who did. You, of
course, are going on the presumption that Pinto is the culprit."

The Phantom looked a trifle bewildered. The reporter had read his mind.

Granger chuckled. "I can see in which direction your mind is working.
You think the bolted door and other circumstances prove that no one but
Pinto could have committed the murder. You believe that after killing
Gage he murdered the housekeeper in order to silence her. Pinto's queer
conduct, especially the stunt he pulled off in the storeroom this
morning, is sufficient proof, to your way of thinking, and you base your
entire case on the guess that Pinto is a member of the Duke's gang."

"Don't you agree with me? I read between the lines of your stories in
the _Sphere_ that you did not share the generally accepted opinion."

Granger looked up quickly. "The devil you did! I didn't mean to air my
private opinions. It must have been a subconscious process. To be
perfectly frank, I don't know whether I agree with you or not. I have an
idea of my own on the subject, but it's vague as yet. Maybe I'll tell
you later."

The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "The mystery of the murders doesn't
interest me particularly just at present. Granger, if you were in my
position, how would you go about finding Miss Hardwick?"

The reporter considered for a long time. "My first step would be to get
in touch with the Duke's gang and try to ascertain where Miss Hardwick
is being concealed. That's a large order, and you will find it fairly
exciting. The Duke, I've been told, hates you as he never hated anyone
before, and he's almost as dangerous behind prison bars as outside. He
froths at the mouth whenever he mentions your name to the other
prisoners. Your borrowed personality won't give you a great deal of
protection, for there are a lot of sharp-eyed men in the Duke's crowd,
and, besides, you're in almost as great danger whether you appear as the
Gray Phantom or as Tommie Granger."

The Phantom waved his hand deprecatingly. "I have considered all that.
The question is, how am I to get in contact with the gang." He peered
reflectively at the man on the couch; then an idea came to him. "How did
the heads of the organization communicate with you? To whom did you
report and from whom did you receive your orders?"

"From my acquaintance of the Turkish coffee house."

"The piratical-looking fellow?"

Granger nodded.

"How can I find him?"

"The coffee joint is in Catharine Street, not far from East Broadway.
You can easily locate it, and you will probably find your man there
about ten or eleven at night. But hadn't you better take me along?"

The Phantom shook his head emphatically. "You have just told me to what
extremes you are willing to go in order to get a good story for your
paper. The capture of the Gray Phantom would make an even bigger story
than the one you were after. I can't quite trust you, Granger. You love
your liquor not wisely but too well, and you're likely to give the show
away. Besides, it wouldn't do for us two to be seen together."

"That's so," said Granger resignedly. "Well, anyhow, you might send me
something for a bracer."

The Phantom promised to try. He got up and rapped on the wall, eyeing
Granger steadily as he stepped through the opening that appeared as if
by magic. But the reporter, evidently realizing that any attempt to
escape would be useless, made no move.

An opium lamp was sizzling in a corner of the room. At a table sat Peng
Yuen, his face as impassive as granite. If he had overheard any part of
the conversation he showed no sign of it.

"You need food and sleep," he remarked tonelessly, pointing to the
table, on which a meal was spread out.

The Phantom thanked him and sat down. He was famished and fagged out,
and he could accomplish nothing until night came, so he gladly accepted
the Chinaman's hospitality. As he ate, Peng Yuen regarded him stolidly
while he smoked his acrid pipe of li-un. He did not speak until the
Phantom had finished his meal.

"'The Book of the Unknown Philosopher,'" he remarked, without looking
directly at his guest, "says that the overwise sometimes go far afield
in search of truths that may be found at home."

The Phantom looked up, bewildered. "I suppose there is a priceless gem
of wisdom hidden somewhere in that sentence, but I don't see how it can
apply to me."

The Chinaman gave a queer laugh, half chuckle and half grunt, and deep
in the almond-shaped eyes lurked a faint, shrewd twinkle.



CHAPTER XX--THE MISSING SKELETONS


Dusk was falling as the Phantom, refreshed by Peng Yuen's excellent
cooking and several hours of sound sleep, left the shop in Pell Street
and cautiously picked his way through the reek and noise of the Chinese
quarter. He still felt a twinge of apprehension whenever he thought of
Helen Hardwick, but his nerves were steady once more, and he had the
springy step and the clear, alert eye of the man who feels sure of his
ability to meet any emergency.

His fears were allayed somewhat by the comforting thought that Helen was
as capable and keen-witted as she was reckless and audacious. She was
what the Phantom termed a thoroughbred. She had nerve, spirit, and
subtlety, and on several occasions she had evinced an amazing capacity
for handling a difficult situation. Besides, she had a robust vitality
and an athletic physique that in no wise marred her womanly charms.

The Phantom walked slowly, turning the complex situation over in his
mind, for it was still too early to go to the coffee house in Catharine
Street. At a corner news stand he bought an evening paper, glancing at
the headlines as he walked along. The murder of the housekeeper was
given glaring prominence because of the general belief that it had been
perpetrated by the Gray Phantom. The motives ascribed to him were
somewhat sketchy, but the police seemed convinced that he was bent on a
campaign of terror, and there was anxious speculation as to where his
bloodstained hand would appear next. In the meantime, the search was
being continued at fever heat, and the detective bureau expected to make
an important announcement within a few hours.

The Phantom smiled as he read. He had expected that the death of the
housekeeper would be charged to him, and he had drawn fortitude from the
firm belief that in a short time he would prove his innocence.

The odd predicament in which Pinto had been found was described
facetiously and at great length. The paper treated it as a mystery that
might not be solved until the officer, who had been taken to a hospital
suffering from a severe concussion of the brain, recovered
consciousness. His partner in the droll situation had stubbornly refused
to render any explanation, and was being held for investigation pending
Pinto's recovery. He had an unsavory record, according to the police,
and was known in the underworld as "Dan the Dope."

The Phantom was satisfied. From Dan the Dope he had nothing to fear, and
Pinto, even if he were inclined to tell what he knew, would not be able
to speak for some time. He was passably safe as far as the police were
concerned, and a little extra caution and vigilance would checkmate the
designs of the Duke's henchman. As far as he was able to tell, neither
side suspected that the Gray Phantom was masquerading as Thomas Granger.

He had still more than an hour to while away, and a hazy thought in the
back of his mind guided his steps in the direction of Doctor Bimble's
house. Everything seemed to indicate that Helen had disappeared shortly
after leaving the anthropologist's laboratory, and he might be able to
pick up some clew in the neighborhood that would help him to trace her
movements. He looked about him cautiously as he walked along, surmising
that the vicinity was being watched by spies of the Duke.

At the corner nearest the Bimble residence he turned into a cigar store
and purchased a package of cigarettes. He loitered near the door while
smoking one, amusing himself by studying the faces of the passers-by,
and presently a tall, angular figure approached from the other end of
the block. At a glimpse the Phantom had recognized the inscrutable
features of Jerome, the anthropologist's servant. The man walked
hurriedly, looking straight ahead, and in a few moments he was out of
sight.

A vagrant impulse told the Phantom to start in pursuit of him and see
whither he was bound, but he realized that he had no reason for doing
so. He had sensed something mysterious about Bimble and his servant, but
his interest in them was little more than an idle curiosity. If he had
any suspicions at all, they were of the intangible and intuitive sort
and afforded him no basis for action.

After a few minutes another figure appeared down the block, and the
Phantom pressed close to the wall at his back. Even at a distance he
recognized the enormous head, the jutting stomach, and the absurdly thin
legs of Doctor Bimble. With a beatific smile on his face, and looking
neither to right nor left, the anthropologist walked past him, evidently
bound in the same direction as his servant.

Again the Phantom felt an instinctive urge to follow. It struck him as
rather queer that master and servant had not come out together, but then
he told himself that the circumstance was probably meaningless and that
his imagination was magnifying trifles. He crossed to the opposite side
of the street and turned east, scanning the dark front of the Bimble
house as he strolled along.

Coming directly opposite the residence, he paused in the doorway of a
delicatessen store and looked across the street, scrutinizing the gloomy
and unprepossessing dwelling with an interest for which he could not
account. It seemed strange that Doctor Bimble should have chosen such an
unattractive location, but he remembered that the scientist had said
something about wishing to live in an out-of-the-way place where he
would be safe against intrusions on his privacy and where he could
conduct his researches in peace and quiet.

The house, flanked by a lodging house on one side and on the other by a
three-story structure of residential appearance, whose boarded-up
windows and doors hinted that it had stood vacant for some time, was
dark from attic to basement. Presumably Doctor Bimble and his man were
out for the evening. The house and its neighbors on each side held the
Phantom's gaze with a persistence that he could not understand. He
sensed an incongruity of some kind, and for a while he tried in vain to
analyze it. Finally, as he centered his attention on the building to the
west, the one with the boarded windows and doors, it came to him. It
seemed strange that a structure of that kind should be standing vacant
in the midst of a housing famine, when even the least desirable
dwellings commanded extravagant prices.

The Phantom laughed, a little disgusted with himself for allowing
another meaningless trifle to perplex him. As likely as not the house
was vacant for the simple and sufficient reason that it had been
condemned by the building commissioner. His gaze wandered to the door of
the Bimble residence, and a disturbing thought caused the chuckle to die
in his throat.

Only the other day Helen Hardwick had walked out of that door, he
remembered, and from that moment on her movements were veiled behind a
curtain of mystery. Which way had she turned, what had happened to her,
and where was she now? Had she been forcibly abducted as she stepped
from the house, or had someone lured her into a trap?

There had been nothing about her disappearance in the newspaper the
Phantom had just read, and he surmised that Mr. Hardwick had used what
influence he had to keep the matter out of the press. The door across
the street still held his gaze; and of a sudden, out of the jumble of
his fears and perplexities, came another harassing thought.

What if Helen had never walked out of the door across the way? What if
she should still be inside the house?

The Phantom's eyes narrowed as the suspicion came to him. It was
groundless, so far as he could see, and there was no reasoning behind
it. It had come out of nowhere, like a stray figment of the imagination,
yet it tormented him with an insistence that he could not shake off.

He walked to the end of the block, then crossed the street and moved up
the side on which the Bimble house stood. There were a few pedestrians
in the street, and to attempt to force the main door might prove unsafe.
The basement entrance was dark, and in a moment, concealed by the
shadows, he was at work on the lock. It yielded so easily to his deft
manipulation that he could understand how the prowlers of whom Bimble
had complained had managed to enter the house.

Pulling the door shut, he took out his electric flash, determined to
settle his suspicions by making a systematic search of the house. He
proceeded swiftly but with care, searching every nook and cranny and
occasionally tapping the walls and floors to make sure there were no
hollow spaces. He explored cellar and basement without finding anything
of suggestive nature, then walked up the same stairway he had ascended
after his first trip through the tunnel.

He was now in the laboratory, sweeping floor and walls with the electric
torch. At first glance it looked exactly as it had when Helen met him at
the head of the stairs with a leveled pistol, yet he sensed a difference
almost at once. His eyes flitted over the long workbench with its
collection of chemical apparatus, over the black-framed photographs and
X-ray prints, and then he glanced at the tall cages along the wall, in
which the skeletons stood, erect and grim as ghostly sentinels.

It was then his mind grasped the difference. On his first visit there
had been at least a dozen skeletons in the room; now he counted only
seven. The famous Raschenell, to whom Bimble had pointed with so much
pride, was among the missing ones. He paused only for a moment to wonder
what had become of the others, for Bimble and the servant might return
at any time and interrupt his search, and he wished to be at the Turkish
coffee house not later than half past ten.

He inspected room after room, but without result, finally mounting to
the attic and making the same thorough investigation there. He had found
nothing whatever to reward him for his efforts. He came to the
conclusion that his suspicions had been entirely unfounded, for if they
had had any basis in fact his investigation would have uncovered some
clew or hint pointing in that direction. One thing had been
accomplished, however, was his reflection as he walked down the stairs.
He had eliminated Doctor Bimble from the range of his suspicions and
would waste no more time and effort trying to explain the eccentricities
of a scientist.

Deciding to leave the way he had entered, he crossed the laboratory and
moved toward the stairs. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back
and once more let his electric torch play over the floor and walls.
Again, without exactly knowing why, he counted the cages, vaguely
feeling that there was a hidden significance in the depletion of the
grisly company.

Finally, he extinguished his flash and resolutely turned away. Again he
was berating himself for bothering his mind over trivial things.
Doubtless Doctor Bimble had a sound and simple reason for removing a
number of the skeletons. As he walked down the basement stairs he
resolved to banish the anthropologist and his collection from his
thoughts.

An odd sense of apprehension took hold of him as he reached the bottom
step. He looked about him sharply; the darkness was so thick that he
could see nothing. He pricked up his ears and listened, but he could
detect no sound except those coming from the street. Yet he had a
feeling that he was not alone, that another being was lurking somewhere
in the darkness. It was a familiar sensation and he had learned to heed
its warning, for he had experienced it before in moments of danger.

He stepped down on the floor, at the same instant reaching for the
pistol he had taken from Dan the Dope. Before he could draw the weapon a
voice spoke sharply:

"Stay right where you are, friend!"

Then a click sounded, followed by a blaze of light. He turned quickly in
the direction whence the voice had come. He saw the glint of a pistol
barrel pointed toward him with a steady hand, and behind the pistol
stood Lieutenant Culligore.



CHAPTER XXI--FINGER PRINTS


The detective's face was as dull and unimpassioned as a caricature
carved out of wood. He stood pointing the pistol with a listless air,
and his eyes were heavy and sluggish, as if he were not fully awake. He
lowered the weapon almost as soon as he saw the Phantom's face, but did
not put it out of sight.

"Oh, it's you, Granger." He spoke in a drawl, and there might have been
the faintest trace of disappointment in his tones. "I thought it might
be someone else."

"The Gray Phantom, for instance?"

"Well, maybe. There's no reason, though, why the Phantom should be
prowling around here, is there?"

"Apparently not." The Phantom advanced leisurely and looked sharply at
the speaker's stolid face. The question had been spoken in a tone
faintly suggestive of an underlying meaning. "It seems both of us are
taking advantage of the absence of Doctor Bimble and Jerome to do a
little investigating on the quiet."

Culligore yawned ostentatiously. "The doc ought to have new locks put on
his doors. It's too easy for people to get in."

"He is a simple and unsuspecting soul. But tell me, lieutenant, how it
happens that the Phantom's trail leads into Doctor Bimble's basement."

"Does it?"

"Well, I don't suppose you would be here unless it did. Your object in
coming here wasn't to interview the skeletons upstairs, was it?"

Culligore laughed softly. "I might put the same question to you."

"Then we're on an even footing. And, since we don't seem to get
anywhere, we might as well drop the subject of our mutual presence here.
Each of us can take it for granted that the other has a tip which he
wants to keep to himself. Seen anything of the Gray Phantom lately?"

"Not exactly."

"What's the idea of the 'exactly'? You either have seen him or you
haven't seen him. Which is it?"

"Neither the one nor the other," said Culligore mysteriously. "With a
man like the Phantom you can never be sure. Even when you think you see
him, he isn't always there. Say that was a queer case you tipped me off
on this morning."

"It was. Simple enough, though, as far as the murder of the housekeeper
is concerned. Apparently there's not the slightest doubt that the
Phantom did it."

"Think so?"

The two words, spoken in low and casual tones, caused the Phantom to
raise his brows. "Don't you?"

Culligore tilted his head to one side and squinted vacantly into space.
"Things aren't always what they seem," he drawlingly observed. "I've
been seesawing up and down ever since I was turned loose on this case.
One hour I feel dead sure the Phantom did it; the next I don't know what
to think."

"All the facts seem to point to the Phantom's guilt."

"That's just the trouble." Culligore scowled a little. "There's such a
thing as having too many facts. If the evidence wasn't so perfect I'd be
more sure of my ground. As it is, I wouldn't bet more than a pair of
Bowery spats on the Phantom's guilt. I'm not sure he killed either Gage
or the housekeeper."

The Phantom eyed him intently, trying to read his mind.

"I see," he murmured. "You don't want to believe the Phantom has fallen
so low as to----"

"You're talking rot!" snorted the lieutenant, as if touched on a
sensitive spot. "What I want to believe makes no difference. If I could
lay my hands on the Phantom this minute, I'd put the links on him so
quick it would take his breath away. Even if he didn't kill Gage and
Mrs. Trippe, there are one or two other things we can send him up for."

"I suppose so," said the Phantom thoughtfully. "Much as you would hate
to pinch him, you can't let sentiment interfere with duty."

"Sentiment be damned!" grumbled the lieutenant, reddening a trifle as he
saw the knowing grin on the Phantom's face. "I never was long on that
kind of stuff. By the way, what's your opinion of the case, Granger?"

"I haven't any." The Phantom wondered what was going on in the back of
Culligore's mind. He knew the dull features were a mask and that the
lieutenant, practicing a trick cultivated by members of his profession,
was studying his face every moment without appearing to do so. "You seem
to be holding something back," he added.

"Think so?" Culligore uttered a flat, toneless chuckle. "Aren't you
holding something back yourself? What's the use trying to hog it all for
your paper?"

"Didn't I tip you off on the doings in the Gage house this morning?"

"You did," said Culligore dryly, "and I'm still wondering how you knew
about them. Did you just walk in on a hunch and discover a dead woman,
and a cop chained to an opium-eating runt, or did someone put you wise
beforehand?"

The Phantom felt he was on dangerous ground. "It was only a hunch. We
newspaper men have them, you know, and once in a while they pan out. But
what do you make of it, Culligore? How do you explain the cop being
handcuffed to Dan the Dope?"

"I don't explain it. I suppose Pinto will tell us how it happened when
he comes to."

"Think there's any connection between the handcuffed pair and the murder
of the housekeeper?"

"How could there be? The medical examiner said the housekeeper must have
been dead from twenty to thirty hours when the body was found. Besides,
where do you find any connection between a murder on the one hand and a
cop chained to a dope fiend on the other? To my way of thinking, the two
cases are separate. The one of Pinto and Dan the Dope is all a riddle,
and the only clear thing about it is that the Phantom had a hand in it."

"The Phantom?"

"Yep. The Phantom was in on it. Surprised, eh? Well, there are some
things we don't tell the newspapers, and this was one of them. Just how
the Phantom figured in the thing I can't tell, but he was in the Gage
house last night or early in the morning. Beats the dickens how that
fellow can walk past our noses without getting caught."

The Phantom stared. He did not think he had left any traces of his
connection with the affair at the Gage house, and Culligore's statement
startled him for a moment.

"How do you know?" he asked, getting a grip on himself.

"Finger prints," said the lieutenant. "This is on the q. t. I examined
the handcuffs, and there were three sets of prints on them, showing that
three different persons had handled them. There were only two or three
marks of each set, but enough to identify them. One set was Dan the
Dope's, the other must have been Pinto's, and the third was the Gray
Phantom's."

The Phantom bit his lip, chiding himself for having been caught off his
guard. He might have known that the smooth and shiny surface of the
handcuffs would register finger prints, but he had been bodily and
mentally exhausted at the time, and his habitual sense of caution had
failed to assert itself.

"Wonder what the Phantom was up to," he murmured, feeling a trifle
uncomfortable beneath Culligore's covert and incessant scrutiny.

"Hard telling. Lots of queer things happen in this world." Culligore
grinned while absently toying with the pistol. "For instance, this
morning after I left you on the corner----"

"You had me shadowed," interrupted the Phantom. "What was the idea,
Culligore?"

"Just a hunch. My man trailed you to the _Sphere_ office. Then, thinking
you wouldn't be out for a while, he went into a beanery for a bite and a
cup of coffee. After coming out he hung around the entrance to the
_Sphere_ Building for a while longer, but you didn't show up. Finally,
he went inside and inquired for you. They told him you had left."

Culligore paused for a moment. He was turning the pistol in his hand
with a playful air. The Phantom felt a curious tension taking hold of
his body.

"They told my man," continued the lieutenant, speaking very softly,
"that you didn't write the story yourself, but told the facts to a
reporter named Fessenden. As I understand it, they gave Fessenden a new
desk not long ago. It's a nice-looking piece of furniture, with a
smooth, glossy finish. Maybe you noticed it?"

"No, not particularly," said the Phantom, finding it a little hard to
keep his voice steady. The rôle he was playing had claimed all his
thoughts while he was in the _Sphere_ office, and he had not noticed
details.

"Too bad you didn't." Culligore was still speaking in low, purring
accents. Gradually and without apparent intent, he turned the muzzle of
the pistol until it pointed to the Phantom's chest. "Well, I understand
Fessenden was sitting at that nice, new desk while you told him the
story, and you were sitting right beside him, with one of the corners of
the desk toward you. Some people have a habit when nervous of drumming
with their fingers on whatever object is before them. It's a bad habit,
Granger."

The Phantom nodded. A thin smile played about his lips and his eyes
glittered like tiny points of steel between half-closed lids.

"Very bad habit, Granger. Well, my man saw finger prints on the smooth
and shiny surface of the desk, right where you had been sitting. He
touched them up by sprinkling a little gray powder over them, after
which they were photographed. It didn't take very long to identify them.
Steady now! This little toy of mine can be real ugly when it gets mad.
What I want you to explain is how Tommie Granger's fingers happened to
leave the Gray Phantom's finger prints on Fessenden's desk."



CHAPTER XXII--THE PHANTOM TURNS A SOMERSAULT


There was a humorous glint in Lieutenant Culligore's lazy, mouse-colored
eyes as he noted the look of consternation that was slowly creeping into
the Gray Phantom's face. He drew a step nearer, and now the menacing
muzzle was less than six feet from its target. There was a touch of
carelessness in his manner of handling the weapon, but his aim was sure
and a slight pressure on the trigger would have meant death.

But the Phantom's look of dismay was not due to fear. Many a time he had
laughed in the face of dangers far more serious than the present one.
The thing that appalled him was the realization that twice within a few
hours he had committed a stupid blunder. The Gray Phantom, once the
astutest and craftiest of rogues, had bungled like an amateur.

The thought was galling. Was it that his hand had lost its old-time
finesse and his mind its keen edge, or had his mental stress and fagged
nerves been the cause of his bungling? Again, perhaps he had been
distracted by the haunting vision of a pair of troubled brown eyes.

He looked hard at Culligore. Some faces were like an open book to him,
and this was one of them. The lieutenant was no man's fool. Behind the
mask of dullness and stolidity were shrewdness and quickness of wit, and
he knew that the man before him would not permit private inclinations to
swerve him from his duty. Culligore was as dangerous an adversary as he
had ever faced. But there was still another quality behind the mask, and
it was this that gave the Phantom his cue.

Quickly he looked about him. The way to the basement door was barred by
the lieutenant, but the stairway leading to the laboratory was
unobstructed. With an appearance of utmost unconcern the Phantom turned
away and started to ascend the steps.

"Stop!" commanded Culligore, following the retreating man's movements
with his pistol. "I'll pop you if you take another step."

The Phantom stopped, turned, and grinned. "Oh, no, you won't," he
drawled.

"Can't you see that I've got you covered?"

"But you won't shoot. It takes a particular kind of nerve to kill a
defenseless man in cold blood, and you haven't got it. Good-by."

He took another step, but a short and peremptory "Halt!" brought him to
a stop. There was something in the lieutenant's tone that gave him
pause. He turned and looked down.

"You've sized me up just about right," admitted Culligore. "I can't kill
a man who hasn't got a chance for his life. But if you move another
step, you'll get a slug of lead in your leg. If you think I'm bluffing,
just try."

The Phantom hesitated. The words and the tone left no room for doubt as
to the speaker's earnestness, and even a slight flesh wound would hamper
the Phantom's movements and frustrate his plans. He came down the few
steps he had covered and stood on the basement floor.

"All right, Culligore. You win this time, but don't think for a moment
that I'll let you carry this joke much further. I have very strenuous
objections to being arrested at this particular time. Mind if I smoke a
cigarette?"

"I do," the lieutenant said dryly. "I have heard about your cute little
ways, and I'm not taking any chances. You don't play any of your tricks
on me, Mr. Phantom."

"You surely don't think that I'll permit you to drag me off to a cell?"

"How are you going to help yourself?"

"Why, man, it can't be done! It's been tried before, you know. And just
now I am a very busy man and can't afford to waste time. Besides, what
charge do you propose to arrest me on? Not the murder of Gage and Mrs.
Trippe?"

"There are other charges waiting for you in court. You've been having a
gay time for a good many years, but this is the end of it. You've done
some very fancy wriggling in the past, but you can't wriggle out of
this."

"Perhaps not." A great gloom seemed suddenly to fall over the Phantom.
"It looks as though you had me, Culligore. A man can't fight the whole
New York police force single-handed. All you have to do is to blow your
whistle and----"

"Whistle be hanged! I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of saying
that it took a regiment to get you. I mean to arrest you alone, just to
prove that you're not as smart as some people think."

The Phantom glowed inwardly. His adroit and subtle appeal to the
lieutenant's pride had produced the desired effect. Culligore felt so
sure of his advantage that he would not summon help, and this was an
important point in the Phantom's favor. Yet he knew the situation was
critical enough. On former occasions he had gambled recklessly with
death, often winning through sheer fearlessness and audacity, but much
more than his life was at stake now. He looked in vain for a loophole in
the situation. All he could do for the present was to spar for time.

"I see," he murmured. "The achievement of taking the Phantom
single-handed would put a gorgeous feather in your cap. But look here,
Culligore. Fame is a fine thing, but you can't eat it, and it won't buy
clothes. Isn't it just as important to find the murderer of Mrs. Trippe
and Gage?"

"I'll attend to that, too." The lieutenant inserted a hand in his pocket
and drew out a pair of handcuffs. "Out with your hands, Phantom."

The Phantom promptly put his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "Why
be in such a rush, Culligore? You know I can't get away from you so long
as you keep me covered. Let's discuss things a bit. You don't think I
committed those murders?"

"Not exactly," said the detective thoughtfully, the steel links dangling
from his hand. "Whatever else you may be, I don't think you're a
murderer."

"And that shows that you have more gray matter than some of your
colleagues."

"Thanks," dryly; "but you'd better save the compliments. I haven't quite
made up my mind about the murders yet. If you didn't commit them, there
are a lot of things that will have to be explained. The threatening
letter, for instance."

"Forged."

"And Gage's dying statement."

"Pinto lied, or else Gage was mistaken."

"Think so?" The lieutenant's upper lip brushed the tip of his nose.
"It's a queer thing that nothing but the Maltese cross was taken."

"That was only a detail of the frame-up. Listen, Culligore. Isn't it
your idea that the two murders were committed by one and the same
person?"

"It looks that way, but----"

"Well, then, I happen to know who killed Mrs. Trippe, because I was
there when it happened."

Culligore stared; and the Phantom knew he had gained another point.

"There when it happened? You saw the murder committed?" The lieutenant
seemed at once amazed and incredulous. "Just where were you? In the
storeroom?"

"No; the murder was committed in Gage's bedroom, and the body was
afterward removed to the storeroom by the murderer."

For a moment Culligore's astonishment was so great that he almost forgot
to maintain his aim. He gathered himself quickly, but his face bore a
look of bewilderment.

"He moved the body, eh? I wonder why. If the job was done by a certain
person I have in mind, I don't see what object he could have in carrying
the corpse from Gage's bedroom to the storeroom. The natural thing would
have been to leave the body on the spot. You're not kidding me?"

"Absolutely not." The Phantom grinned at Culligore's perplexity.
Evidently the lieutenant's theories and calculations had been completely
upset by what he had just heard. "Who is the certain person you had in
mind, Culligore?"

"Never mind that. Let me get this straight. You were in Gage's bedroom
when Mrs. Trippe was murdered?"

"Not in the bedroom, but----" The Phantom checked himself on the point
of explaining that he had witnessed the murder from his place of
concealment in the narrow opening back of the window frame. In a flash
it dawned upon him that he had another advantage over the detective. He
had found the loophole in the situation for which his mind had been
searching for the past ten minutes. Culligore, of course, was not aware
of the existence of the tunnel. The stairs leading to the cellar were at
the Phantom's back. If he could elude the detective long enough to slip
down the steps and crawl into the mouth of the tunnel, he would be
temporarily safe. It was a slender chance, but he had no other.

"Where were you, then?" demanded Culligore.

"My secret." The Phantom assumed a mysterious expression, meanwhile
edging ever so slightly toward the stairs at his back. "I saw Mrs.
Trippe and she saw me. She was in a terribly frightened condition, and
she called out that someone was killing her. Then, of a sudden, a hand
appeared, holding a knife. Before I could utter a word or move a muscle,
the knife had done its work."

Culligore muttered something under his breath. He scanned the Phantom's
face keenly, but what he saw evidently convinced him of the narrator's
truthfulness. A noise, scarcely louder than the falling of a pin,
sounded at the head of the stairs. The Phantom's sensitive ears detected
it, but the lieutenant appeared to have heard nothing.

"Well, what happened after that?"

The Phantom waited for a moment before he answered. A draft faint as a
breath told him that the door at the top of the stairs had been opened.
He had a vague impression that somebody was looking down on them, and he
wondered whether Doctor Bimble or Jerome had returned. Not the slightest
flicker in his face showed that he had noticed anything.

"I didn't see any more. The--the curtain fell a moment or two after the
blow was struck."

Culligore regarded him narrowly. Another faint sound came from the head
of the stairs, and in the same instant the draft ceased, indicating that
the door had closed. The lieutenant, his every faculty bent to the task
of ferreting out the thoughts in the Phantom's mind, had heard nothing.
He seemed inclined to doubt and scoff, but a stronger instinct compelled
him to give credence to the story he had just heard.

"And all you saw of the murderer was a hand and a knife?"

"That was all."

"Do you remember the woman's exact words?"

The Phantom searched his memory for a moment. "She said: 'He's killing
me! He's afraid I'll tell! He locked me in----' She never finished the
last sentence, but she had said enough. Evidently, the murderer of Gage
knew that the housekeeper was aware of his guilt, and imprisoned her in
the bedroom so that she would not reveal what she knew. Later he
returned with a knife in his hand, having decided it would be safer to
kill her. The housekeeper must have had some warning of his arrival;
perhaps she saw or heard him coming."

Culligore looked as though he had a baffling problem on his mind. "Who
do you suppose was the 'he' she referred to?"

"I think that's fairly plain. She had previously made it known that she
suspected Pinto of having murdered her employer."

The lieutenant arched his brows and seemed to be revolving a new idea in
his mind. "Just the same, we can't be sure she meant Pinto, as long as
she didn't mention him by name. The fact that she suspected him once
doesn't really prove anything. Something may have happened in the
meantime that caused her to change her opinion. The 'he' might have been
an entirely different person--maybe somebody she'd never seen before and
whose name she didn't know."

"Possible," admitted the Phantom thoughtfully. Culligore had turned his
thoughts into a new channel.

"Besides," added Culligore quickly, "even if Pinto was the 'he' she had
in mind, she might have been mistaken, just as you claim Gage was
mistaken."

The Phantom made another slight movement toward the cellar stairs. "I'm
not at all sure Gage made the statement Pinto claims he made. My private
opinion is that Pinto is a liar as well as a murderer. What the
housekeeper said isn't the only evidence I have against him. I hadn't
meant to tell what happened in the storeroom this morning; but since I
was careless enough to leave my finger prints on the handcuffs, I might
as well come out with it."

Culligore's mouth opened wider and wider as the Phantom related what had
occurred in the storeroom during the early morning hours. When the story
was finished, he seemed stunned, and the dazed look in his eyes told the
Phantom his chance had come.

For an instant he flexed his muscles for action, then executed a swift
and nimble somersault that landed him on his feet in the middle of the
stairs. A spiteful crack told that Culligore had fired his pistol, but
the Phantom was already at the bottom of the stairway. Then he dashed
across the floor toward the point where the mouth of the tunnel was. He
ran his fingers over the wall in search of the hidden door, the
ingenious arrangement of which he had previously noticed.

Culligore, momentarily taken aback by the Phantom's quick and unexpected
move, was losing no time. Already he was scampering down the stairs in
pursuit of the fugitive. The cellar was dark, save for the narrow shaft
of light slanting down from the basement, and the Phantom heard him
muttering to himself as he picked his way through the gloom.

After a few moments' search the Phantom's fingers found the tiny rift in
the brick surface that marked the location of the door. Culligore,
evidently hesitating to use his electric flash for fear of becoming a
target for the Phantom's pistol, was scudding hither and thither at the
opposite end of the cellar. The Phantom crawled into the opening, feet
foremost, and softly pulled the door to, then lay on his back, chuckling
gently to himself as he pictured the lieutenant's discomfiture.

He had no fear that Culligore would find his hiding place. The door was
so carefully concealed that only a careful search would reveal its
location, and the detective did not even suspect its existence. Yet the
Phantom knew that he would not be safe for long. He could not remain in
the tunnel indefinitely, and escape through the other end was
impossible, for he had previously ascertained that the mechanism of the
revolving window frame could not be manipulated from that side. All he
had gained was time. He could only hope that his lucky star, which so
far had never deserted him, would once more turn the situation in his
favor.

His mind was working quickly while he listened to Culligore's movements
in the cellar. Doubtless the detective would soon summon assistance and
have the building surrounded, and then, unless some chance and
unforeseen development came to his rescue, the Phantom's position would
be critical indeed. Even if the searchers should not find his hiding
place, he would eventually die from lack of air.

Suddenly his figure stiffened. He lay rigid, trying to account for the
curious sensation that had just come to him. In a moment he knew what it
was a faint current of air was stirring in the tunnel. At first he could
not understand, for he was certain that both exits were closed, and the
tube itself was air-tight. He worked deeper into the tunnel, trying to
trace the mysterious current to its origin, and presently it came to him
that, through some unaccountable circumstance, the other end must be
open.

It was mystifying, but the stirring of air could be explained in no
other way than that in some manner the revolving window frame had come
open. He moved forward as rapidly as he could, hoping to gain the exit
and get out of the zone of danger before the block was surrounded. By
this time Culligore must have discovered that his quarry had in some
inexplicable way escaped from the basement. Perhaps he was even now
cursing himself for his vain-glorious boast that he would take the Gray
Phantom single-handed and unaided.

The movement of air became more noticeable as the Phantom drew near the
end of the passage. He proceeded more slowly now, moving forward by
cautious twists and wrigglings, a few inches at a time, carefully
calculating each motion so as to make no noise. There was something at
once puzzling and ominous about the open exit, and he could not know
what awaited him in the bedroom at the end of the tunnel.

His progress became more difficult as he reached the acclivity in which
the passage terminated, for he had been moving crab fashion, having
entered the tunnel feet first in order to be able to close the door
behind him, and the width of the tube did not permit him to turn. Silent
as a mole, he twisted his body upward, all his senses on the alert
against the slightest hint of danger. Now his feet were almost at the
window frame. As he had surmised, the opening was clear, and a few more
twists would land him on the floor of the bedroom.

Cautiously he thrust a foot through the opening, but in a moment he drew
it back. Then he lay rigid, listening, for something warned him of
danger. The bedchamber was dark and there was not the faintest sound;
yet he knew someone was lying in wait for him on the other side.



CHAPTER XXIII--THE WATCHERS AT THE WINDOW


The Phantom strained his ears. Faint sounds of breathing came to him;
then a board creaked ever so slightly under someone's weight. A
watcher--or were there two?--was standing just inside the window,
guarding the exit. The discovery nettled him, for it meant the loss of
precious seconds, but he thanked the warning instinct that had prompted
him to muffle his movements. It had probably saved him from an
unexpected attack in the dark.

Warily he reached for the pistol in his hip pocket. He was still
listening, and now he was almost certain that two watchers were standing
close to the window sill. Doubtless they were armed and ready to spring
upon him the moment he betrayed himself, and his awkward position would
make it extremely difficult for him to defend himself.

He turned the situation over in his mind while he waited. It had been a
trap, of course. He remembered the slight sound that had told him of the
opening of the door to the laboratory while he was fencing for time with
Culligore. Someone had looked down on them from the head of the stairs,
remaining there long enough to take in the situation and decide on a
course of action. Doubtless he had suspected that the Phantom would make
an attempt to reach the tunnel, his only avenue of escape, and the plan
had been to attack him as he came out of the passage.

Again a board gave forth a slight creak, signifying that one of the
sentinels was growing impatient. The Phantom was in a cramped position
and, with his feet above his head, he would be at a decided disadvantage
in a fight. He could still use his pistol, but to do so would be
dangerous, to say nothing of the difficulty of taking aim in the dark.
He was still looking for a way out of the difficulty when one of the
watchers at the window spoke in a whisper.

"'Slim!'"

"Well?"

"Hear anything of him yet?"

"Not a sound. Suppose he shouldn't come out at all, 'Toots'?"

"What's in has got to come out. He'll come acrawlin' this way by 'n' by.
Don't you worry."

The whispering voices were unrecognizable, and the names were not
illuminating, but the Phantom did not think that the speakers were
officers. More likely they were members of the Duke's band and had
gained entrance to the house during the absence of Doctor Bimble and
Jerome. It was even possible that they had trailed the Phantom to the
anthropologist's residence.

Again the man named Toots spoke. "I don't like this job a little bit.
The Phantom's a bad customer--a reg'lar devil."

"But we've got him this time. He'll come this way as soon as he notices
the draft. He won't be suspectin' a thing, and all we've got to do is
grab him. It'll be as easy as picking a banana out of the peeling."

Toots was silent for a time. Evidently he stood in great awe of the
Phantom. "What about the dick?"

"Oh, he's taken care of. The boss is handlin' him. No danger of him
buttin' in on us."

The Phantom listened intently, but was barely able to distinguish the
faint whispers. Slim's last remark was interesting. If Culligore had
been attacked and overpowered while searching the cellar, then the
Phantom was in no danger from the police just at present. His only
immediate problem was how to deal with the two watchers.

"What's the lay, Slim?" Toots was asking. "Why is the big chief so
all-fired anxious to get his mitts on the Phantom?"

"Orders from the Duke. There's a big job on, but only two or three are
in the know of it. All you and me got to do, Toots, is to keep our
mouths shut, ask no questions, and collect our little bit when the time
comes. The boss will do the thinkin' part."

Again a silence fell between the watchers; then Toots asked: "Why don't
one of us go to the other end and smoke him out? I'm gettin' tired of
waitin'."

"What's eating you? Time's cheap, ain't it? The Phantom will come out
when he gets ready."

Another pause ensued; then the inquisitive Toots asked another question.
"What I don't get atall is how the 'skirt' figgers in the deal. Where
does she come in, Slim?"

The Phantom held his breath to catch the answer.

"Search me. All I know is that the Phantom has a crush on her. I s'pose
the boss thinks the Phantom will be easier to handle if he's got a grip
on the moll."

"Where's the boss keepin' her?"

"Say, ask me somethin' easy. The boss don't tell me his secrets."

The Phantom felt a twinge of disappointment. Toots' question had given
him hope of learning something about Helen's whereabouts, but Slim's
answer had quickly dashed it.

"I'm dying for a smoke," he heard Toots whisper.

"Well, get back in the corner and have one. But don't make any noise,
and be careful when you strike the match."

The Phantom heard Toots tiptoeing away from the window. Then came a
faintly scratching sound as of a match being struck. A daring idea
entered the Phantom's mind. For the time being the enemy's force was
divided, and there was only one watcher at the window. He saw a
chance--a slender and dubious one, but perhaps the only chance he would
have--to get the upper hand of the sentinels.

Bracing his shoulders against the wall of the passage, he drew his
electric flash from his pocket. His right hand was already gripping the
pistol. Holding both in readiness for instant action, he pricked up his
ears and listened. Sounds of breathing told him that Slim was standing a
few inches from his feet, perhaps looking directly at him through the
darkness. He had already decided that Slim was the more resourceful man
of the two. If Slim could be put out of action, his difficulty would be
more than half solved.

His finger touched the little button, and a shaft of light pierced the
darkness. In the same instant a head was thrust into the opening. A pair
of startled eyes stared at him for a moment--and in that brief space of
time the Phantom acted. His foot shot out, delivering a sharp blow in
the region of the nose and eyes. With a cry of pain the man tottered
back, blood streaming from his face.

The Phantom extinguished his flash and flung it through the opening.
Toots, evidently wondering what had happened, was jabbering excitedly,
but Slim gave no sound. With a swift and agile movement, the Phantom
jerked himself forward, dropping his legs over the sill, and in another
moment he was standing inside the room. He stooped, ran his fingers over
the floor, and recovered the electric torch, then darted noiselessly to
one side. A pistol shot sounded, followed by a sharp thud as the bullet
hit the wall a few feet from where he stood.

He leaped silently across the floor. The brief flash emitted by the
pistol had given him a glimpse of Slim at the opposite wall. Before the
man could move, the butt of the Phantom's pistol had crashed down on his
head. Uttering a feeble grunt, he sank limply to the floor, and in the
same instant came another crack and flash, and a bullet whistled past
the Phantom's head.

"You almost winged me that time, Toots," he remarked coolly, at the same
moment dropping to his knees and noiselessly crawling toward where Toots
stood with his back to the door. Another shot, fired at random, lighted
up the room for a brief instant, giving him another glimpse of his
adversary. Swiftly and without making the slightest sound, he advanced
toward the door. Now he reached out a hand, fumbling for a moment in the
darkness until he lightly touched one of Toots' shoes. With a swift and
powerful motion he jerked the man's feet from under him.

The Phantom sprang to his feet and rushed out of the room, turning the
key in the lock on the other side. He paused for breath while he brushed
some of the dirt from his clothes. He had vanquished his adversaries,
but possibly the shots had been heard, and haste was necessary. He ran
to the front of the store. The street outside was quiet and dimly
lighted. Cautiously he opened the door and stepped out, casting a quick
glance up and down the street.

He made a few rapid calculations as he walked to the corner. If
Culligore had fallen into the clutches of the Duke's gang, as seemed
likely from the remark dropped by Slim, then he was still reasonably
safe so far as the police were concerned. Yet, for the first time in
many years, the Phantom was haunted by misgivings. Each thought of Helen
Hardwick burned itself into his mind, leaving a scar. The realization
that the Duke's minions had her in their power was maddening. He felt an
urge to find her at once and snatch her away from her jailers.

Yet, at almost every step, he was hampered by the designs of his
enemies. There were traps and snares everywhere. He had just escaped
from one of them, but another time he might not escape so easily, and
what would become of Helen then?

He shuddered at the thought. His mind was as keen and his muscles as
pliant as ever, but he was playing against overwhelming odds, and the
mere thought of defeat was unbearable. To ask help of the police was out
of the question. His old organization was scattered to the four corners
of the earth. Wade, his former chief lieutenant and now his trusted
friend, had grown too fat to be of much use, and to reach him would be
difficult.

Suddenly he thought of Thomas Granger. The reporter's journalistic
instincts, coupled with his fondness of strong drink, had given the
Phantom the feeling that he was not to be trusted. Those two qualities
aside, he had rather liked the fellow. Granger had traits that appealed
to him strongly. He reconsidered the question as he stood on the corner,
glancing furtively in all directions to see whether he was being spied
upon.

In a few moments his mind was made up. For Helen's sake he must seek
assistance somewhere, and he was in no position to be squeamish about
his choice. A glance at his watch told him that it was half past eleven.
Pell Street was only a dozen short blocks away, and a brisk walk brought
him to Peng Yuen's door.

The wooden-featured Chinaman scanned his face as he held the door open
and bade him enter.

"There is fire in your eyes," he observed as he conducted his guest into
the den. "Is it the little Lotus Bud who is troubling the Gray Phantom?
The 'Book of the Unknown Philosopher' says----"

The Phantom interrupted him with a short laugh. "Peng Yuen, for a man
who doesn't read the newspapers, you are surprisingly well informed. I
have come to have a talk with my double."

The Chinaman regarded him stonily. Two incense sticks, burning before a
hideous joss idol, filled the air with acrid fumes. Peng Yuen, sucking a
bamboo pipe with gorgeous tassels, seemed to be turning over a question
in his mind.

"I think your friend is sleeping," he said at length.

"Then wake him," directed the Phantom impatiently.

The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders and touched a button on the wall,
then motioned the Phantom to enter. Granger was in bed, but he looked up
gloomily and stretched himself. There was a litter of cigarette ends on
the table, and torn and crumpled newspapers were scattered over the
floor.

"Hope you've brought me a drink," said Granger.

The Phantom shook his head. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and
fixed the reporter's face with a keen and minutely searching gaze, as if
exploring the depths of his soul.

"What's the idea?" asked the reporter. "You look at me as if I were some
kind of curiosity."

There was a faint hint of doubt in the Phantom's face, but it vanished
soon.

"I think you will do," he declared. "There's just one quality in your
face, Granger, that I can't quite analyze. It's a weakness of some
kind--your craving for alcohol, perhaps. Anyway, I am willing to take a
chance on it. You are going with me."

The reporter sat up, his face all eagerness.

"Wait," commanded the Phantom; "I want to be sure that we understand
each other. I am making the biggest play of my career. I am going after
the Duke's crowd. My primary object is to get Miss Hardwick out of their
clutches. My secondary one is to put the whole gang of sneaks and
cowards behind the bars, where they belong. If I succeed, it will be as
great a sensation as the _Sphere_ ever sprang. You are welcome to it,
provided you accept the conditions."

"What are they?"

"I am very likely to get into trouble before the job is done. I may walk
into the arms of the police, or into one of the traps set by the Duke. I
may get shot, put in a dungeon, murdered, perhaps. You are to follow me
at a safe distance wherever I go, never letting me out of your sight. If
anything happens to me I want you to take up the search where I left
off. Above all else you are to get Miss Hardwick away from those
ruffians. Do you agree?"

Impulsively, without a moment's hesitation, Granger put out his hand.
The Phantom gripped it. As he held it for a moment, another look of
doubt flickered across his face, but it was soon gone.

"Then get into your clothes," he directed; "or mine, rather. We might as
well keep up the masquerade a while longer. I am just a shade safer when
I am hiding behind your personality."

"But what about me?" inquired Granger, making a wry face.

"Give the dicks and bulls as wide a swath as you can. At worst, they can
only pick you up again and take another impression of your finger
prints, and you will have to explain why you have shed your gaudy
feathers. If we have a bit of luck we'll pull off a stunt that the
police won't forget in many a day. They'll be so busy explaining their
own mistakes and blunders that they won't ask many questions."

He had found a whisk broom and was removing from his clothing some of
the grime and dust he had gathered in the tunnel. He glanced impatiently
at his watch, while Granger dressed with time-consuming care.

"Which way?" inquired the reporter.

"Do you suppose it's too late to find the coffeehouse pirate?"

"Doubtful, but you might try. Sometimes he hangs around the Catharine
Street joint till late."

"What's his name?"

"You might call him Matt Lunn. He has several names, and he isn't
particular which one you use."

The Phantom considered. "Is he close to the inner circle of the gang?
Does he share its secrets?"

"I think he does, but I wouldn't swear to it. Anyhow, he is a lot closer
to the big chief than I ever got."

The Phantom scowled while Granger adjusted his tie. The reporter seemed
almost as keen on sartorial polish as on journalistic attainments.

"By the way," inquired the Phantom, "who is the illustrious personage
that's referred to as 'the big chief'?"

"He is the Duke's chief agent. I don't know his name, and I've never
seen him. Through underground channels the Duke sends him orders from
his cell in Sing Sing. The Duke is the brain that plans, and the big
chief is the hand that executes. Say, I'm being consumed with curiosity.
Aren't you going to tell me something of your plans?"

"I haven't anything definite. I shall go to the Catharine Street coffee
house and try to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Matt Lunn. I mean to
obtain certain items of information from him. Just how I shall go about
obtaining them depends upon what sort of man I find him to be. We'll be
on our way whenever you are through primping."

At last the reporter was ready. Peng Yuen was stolidly smoking his pipe
as they passed out. The almond-shaped eyes narrowed a trifle as the
Phantom shook his hand, and for an instant he seemed about to say
something. In another moment he had changed his mind, however, and with
a queer little grunt in his throat he went back to his green-tasseled
pipe.

With a final admonition to exercise care and discretion, the Phantom
left Granger outside the shop and walked rapidly toward Catharine
Street. He had no reason for doubting the reporter's sincerity.
Granger's moral stamina might not be all that could be desired; but, on
the whole, the Phantom was well pleased with the arrangement. It had
already relieved him of much worry and enabled him to center his
thoughts and efforts on the task before him.

He had no difficulty in finding the coffee house, a crumbling and
evil-looking hovel squeezed between a sooty factory building and a
squalid tenement. Lights shone dimly through several windows in the
block, which had a gloomy and somewhat sinister appearance, and he was
looked at sharply by several wretched creatures who passed him on the
sidewalk. The window and glass door of the coffee house were covered
with green paper blinds, but there was a narrow opening through which
the Phantom could get a glimpse of the interior.

Some twelve or fifteen men were seated at long tables, drinking coffee
and smoking pipes or cigarettes. The air was so heavy with tobacco fumes
that the Phantom could not distinguish their features clearly, but he
got the impression that they were a disreputable lot. He looked in vain
for anyone answering the description Granger had given of Matt Lunn. He
walked away from the window and stood at the curb, scanning the street
in either direction. At a corner a block away, he saw a shadowy figure
leaning against a stack of boxes outside a grocery.

"Granger is on the job," he mumbled.

Then he turned quickly just as a huge, raw-boned man appeared from the
opposite direction and walked into the coffee house. The Phantom caught
a glimpse of his face as he opened the door and passed through, and that
glimpse revealed a great, livid scar over the left eye.

In an instant he knew that the man was Matt Lunn. A thin, audacious
smile hovered about the Phantom's lips as recognition flashed through
his mind. For a moment he hesitated, casting a swift glance to the
corner where Granger stood; then he crossed the sidewalk and resolutely
pushed the door open.

A minute or two later, in a cheap, all-night lunchroom a block down the
street, someone was impatiently jigging the hook of a telephone.



CHAPTER XXIV--THE FACE IN THE LIMOUSINE


Twelve or more pairs of eyes looked up as the Phantom walked into the
coffee house. They gave the newcomer a long, stony stare, followed his
brisk progress across the floor to a table in the rear, then looked down
again into coffee cups and pipe bowls, as if the new arrival had been
completely forgotten.

With a view to obtaining an unobstructed view of Matt Lunn's face, the
Phantom had chosen his position carefully. He wished to study the man
before he approached him. A glance told him that Granger's description
had been apt but incomplete. He was a wicked-looking creature, with
coffee-brown complexion, eyes that were as hard and emotionless as bits
of colored porcelain, and thick, coarse lips that were fixed in a
perpetual sneer and gave him a look of sullen ferocity that was set off
strikingly by the scar over his eye.

The Phantom noted these details and made his deductions while he gave
his order to a gaunt, hunchbacked waiter. So far Lunn, who sat alone
across an aisle between the tables, had not even looked in his direction
and seemed totally unaware of his presence. The others, too, appeared to
be ignoring him, but furtive glances and an occasional whisper warned
the Phantom that he was under surveillance.

He sipped a little of the coffee that was brought him, shoved the cup
aside and strolled across the aisle, seating himself opposite the man
with the scar.

"Hello, Lunn," he said easily, imitating Granger's manner of speech. It
was a convenient opening, even if he should not be able to deceive the
man in regard to his identity.

Slowly the other lifted his flinty eyes, fixing a vacuous stare on the
Phantom's face, and pulled hard at his pipe. "Hullo, yourself," was his
gruff response.

"A bit grouchy to-night, Lunn?" bantered the Phantom, resuming his study
of the man at closer range and confirming his previous suspicion that
Matt Lunn was a bully with a coward's heart. A cranning of necks and
lowering glances signified that the rest of the men in the room were
following the conversation.

"You called me by a different name last time you saw me," grumbled Lunn
suspiciously.

The Phantom masked his momentary confusions behind a grin. After all, he
had scarcely hoped to fool Lunn, for the latter and Granger had been
intimately acquainted for some time, and this was putting the ruse to
the acid test.

"You've got so many monickers, Lunn, that I can't remember them all.
Which particular one would you like to have me use to-night?"

"The same one you always used before, if you know which one that is."

Of a sudden the Phantom wished that Granger had given him more explicit
information regarding Lunn. The man with the scar was plainly
suspicious, and the Phantom was not yet quite ready for action.

"Tell me where I can connect with a drink," was his jocular evasion, "or
I'll call you a name you never heard before."

The other sneered. "There are some things that hurt a lot worse than
names do. One of them is a knife in the side, and I've been told a
fellow whose name is Tommie Granger is going to get just that unless he
explains certain things to the big chief."

The Phantom's face sobered. "I'm ready to explain. That's why I looked
you up to-night. But we can't talk in here. Suppose we take a walk
around the block?"

Lunn laughed derisively. "I was referrin' to a guy named Tommie Granger.
He looks a lot like you and he hands out pretty much the same kind of
spiel, and yet I could tell the difference almost as soon as I put my
lamps on you. Just the same, I'd as soon walk around the block with the
Gray Phantom as with anybody else."

He spoke the last sentence in a whisper, accompanying the words with a
grin that rendered his face all the more repellent. The Phantom cast a
quick glance at the evil-looking faces at the other tables, wondering
whether Lunn had any confederates in the room. They were the scum of the
lower levels of the underworld, and their blotched and hardened features
bespoke lives steeped in loathsome iniquities, but, unless there were
members of the Duke's organization among them, the Phantom saw no reason
why they should side against him.

He paid the hunchback and walked behind Lunn toward the door. Sullen and
covert glances followed him, but none of the men rose, and he was
permitted to reach the door without interference. He glanced back as he
stepped out on the sidewalk and made sure that Lunn and himself were not
being followed.

The man with the scar took a few steps down the street, then stopped and
whirled round.

"What's the idea?" he demanded brusquely. "Why did you walk in there and
try to pass yourself off as Tommie Granger?"

"Not so loud, Lunn." The Phantom glanced about him quickly. For the
moment the block happened to be deserted. Lunn was standing with his
back to the dark doorway of the factory building which adjoined the
coffee house. There was a menacing scowl in his face and his right hand
was hovering over one of his pockets.

Again the Phantom darted a quick glance up and down the street. The only
person in sight was the lonely figure leaning against the stack of
grocery boxes on the farther corner. Evidently Granger had not moved a
single step from his post.

"I'm listening," said Lunn. "What's the answer?"

"This is your answer." With one hand the Phantom pinioned Lunn's arm;
with the other he jerked his pistol from his pocket and pushed it
against the other's waist, shoving him into the shelter of the doorway.
Lunn, startled by the swift maneuver, gave a throaty squeal.

"Be quiet!" commanded the Phantom. "I have a few things to say to you,
and I don't want any interruptions. I happen to know that you're a
member of the Duke's gang. Your crowd is after me tooth and nail, and
the reason you were so willing to take a walk with me was that you hoped
to catch me off my guard and hand me over to your chief. You're a fool,
Lunn. Cleverer men than you have tried that and failed. Feel that?"

He jabbed the pistol harder against the other's waist, and a yawp of
terror proved that he had read Lunn's character accurately. The big man,
who would have been a dangerous adversary if he had gained the upper
hand, was cowering.

"Now, Lunn," said the Phantom sharply, "a few quick answers may prolong
your life by a good many years. Did you ever hear of a young lady named
Miss Hardwick?"

"The name sounds kind of familiar."

"Don't stall! Miss Hardwick was kidnaped by members of the Duke's gang."

"Ye-es." Lunn gulped. "I--I think she was."

"You _know_ she was. Don't you?" The question was emphasized with a
little extra pressure on the pistol.

"I've been told the lady was kidnaped, but that's all I know. I didn't
have anything to do with that job."

The Phantom regarded him sharply, but his face was indistinct in the
gloom. "Who did?"

"I don't know; I never heard."

"Where was she taken?"

"I can't tell you that, either. Say, there's no use poking a hole
through me with that gat. I can't tell what I don't know."

The Phantom was inclined to believe him. Evidently Granger had
overestimated Lunn's store of inside information regarding the gang's
activities.

"There's one thing you can tell me, and you had better speak quickly.
Where does this precious gang hang out? Where is its headquarters?"

Lunn did not answer. He was breathing stertorously, and he uttered a
groan or grunt whenever the pressure on the pistol was increased.

"Out with it!" The Phantom cast an uneasy glance behind him as he spoke,
but no one was in sight. "You'll never get out of here alive unless you
tell."

The big fellow trembled. "I've sworn to keep my mouth shut."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't be the first time you have violated an oath.
Where is the place?"

"Will you let me go if I tell you?"

An affirmative answer was on the Phantom's tongue, but he held it back.
"No, Lunn, you are not going to get off quite so easily. You might give
me a fictitious address, and I would have no way of verifying it until
too late. You will have to take me there, and I sha'n't let you go until
I have satisfied myself that it is the right place."

Lunn groaned; and the Phantom looked dubiously along the street. The
words were no sooner out of his mouth than a sense of diffidence
assailed him. To march an unwilling and treacherous guide through the
streets would be a hard and perilous task even at that late hour. Then
an idea came to him. He would signal Granger and instruct him to find a
taxicab.

He turned slightly and looked out of the doorway, waving his hand at the
solitary figure on the corner. In the next moment a short exclamation of
surprise fell from his lips. A big black car was gliding down the
street, slackening its pace as it drew nearer. The Phantom, still
pressing the pistol firmly against Lunn's body, saw that it was a
limousine, and he was at a loss to understand what a car of that type
was doing in such a squalid neighborhood. Now it was crawling along very
slowly, swerving close to the curb as it came within a few feet of the
entrance to the coffee house. The driver was leaning from his seat, as
if looking for someone.

Of a sudden a hoarse cry rose in the Phantom's throat. Forgetting Lunn,
he sprang from the doorway. A face had appeared at the window of the
car--a white, rigid face with staring eyes and the look of death spread
over its features.

The face was Helen Hardwick's.



CHAPTER XXV--IN A CIRCLE OF LIGHT


She looked as though her whole being had frozen into rigidity, and the
glacial stare of her eyes sent a chill through the Phantom's veins. In a
moment he was on the running board, wrenching the door open. He did not
notice that the car gathered speed just as he tumbled in.

"Helen!" he cried, throwing himself into the seat beside her. "What's
the matter? What has happened? Can't you speak?"

Her body swayed slightly with the motions of the car, but otherwise she
did not stir. She sat erect and immobile, with her face turned stonily
to the window, as if neither hearing nor seeing. He took one of her
hands. It was cold, clammy, and limp. A groan broke from his lips.

Then, from a corner of the car, two shadows leaped upon him with a
suddenness that dazed him. The pistol was still in his hand, but a
stinging blow over the knuckles made him drop it to the floor. Helen
Hardwick's face, terribly still, held him under a spell while his arms
were twisted behind him and his wrists secured with a stout cord that
bit into his flesh. Not until his legs had also been manacled did a
glimmering of the truth force itself through his numbed senses; but even
then he could think of nothing but the woman at his side.

"Is she--dead?" he asked.

Someone laughed. "Oh, no! She will come out of it presently. We needed a
decoy, and she refused to accommodate us, so we gave her a hypodermic
injection. It worked fine."

He braced his muscles as a vivid realization of what had happened
flashed upon him, but the cords about his wrists and ankles held his
limbs. Again he had walked into a trap, but for once he did not blame
himself for his lack of caution. With eyes open he would have rushed
into a thousand traps if Helen Hardwick was the bait. He glanced out of
the window, noticing that the car was gliding swiftly through dark and
deserted streets.

A hand reached out and pulled down the blind, cutting off the view. The
car was making numerous turns, and he soon lost all sense of direction.
The man's explanation of Helen Hardwick's condition had removed a
crushing weight of horror from his mind, and once more his head was
functioning clearly.

"Another of the Duke's tricks, I suppose?" he remarked.

"You suppose correctly," was the answer. "You have slipped out of our
hands often enough, but this time we have you. You haven't a chance in
the world."

The Phantom was silent for a time, realizing that his captors had turned
the trick neatly and with dispatch. Evidently they were men of much
finer mental caliber than Matt Lunn and Dan the Dope. It had been a
clever ruse, and they had set the trap very deftly.

"What's the programme?" he inquired.

"You will see soon enough."

The Phantom asked no more questions. Suddenly he remembered Granger, and
he wondered whether the reporter had been able to follow the speeding
car. It was doubtful, he thought, unless Granger had been lucky enough
to find a taxicab in a hurry. Yet the fellow was resourceful and
keen-witted, and it was possible----

His thoughts were rudely interrupted. The car slowed down, and almost in
the same instant a hand gripped him around the throat and shoved him
back against the cushion. Another hand put a cloth over his mouth, and
he became conscious of a cloying, sickeningly sweetish odor. Gradually
his sensations drifted into chaos as his head grew heavier and heavier.
He heard voices, but they sounded as if coming from a great distance,
and he had an odd feeling that the car was sliding down a bottomless
abyss. Then a great void seemed to swallow him up, and he knew nothing
more.

Finally, after what seemed a lapse of hours, his mind drifted out of the
stupor. There was a burning sensation in his throat and he felt sick and
weak. He tried to move, but something restrained him, and he had a dull
impression that he was roped to a chair and that the chair itself was
clamped to the floor. His eyelids fluttered weakly, and he closed them
instinctively as a door opened behind him.

Two men were entering the room, and one of them was chuckling gleefully,
as if he had just heard a good joke. Though his thoughts were wandering
in a haze, it occurred to him that it might be well to feign
unconsciousness. He closed his eyes tightly and sat motionless in the
chair. The two men advanced until they stood in front of him. The
Phantom felt their eyes on his face.

"Capital!" exclaimed one of them, and he thought there was something
familiar about the voice. "Too bad the Duke can't be here and see this!
It would do his soul good to see his old enemy strapped to a chair.
Well, Somers, I guess this will be the end of the Gray Phantom."

The words stung the listener's senses like a whiplash. He tried to
identify the voice, but he was unable to recall where he had heard it
before.

"We've got him just where we want him," remarked the man addressed as
Somers, "and I don't think he'll get away from us this time. It will be
a miracle if he does."

"Not even a miracle can save him. The Phantom is done for. You did a
good job, Somers."

"Oh, it was easy enough. All we had to do was to shoot some dope into
the moll, pose her in the window of the car, and drive past the place
where we had been tipped off we would find the Phantom. I was just
wondering how to get him out of the joint, when he walks out of a
doorway, catches a glimpse of the skirt, and rushes blindly into the
trap. It worked like greased lightning. Looks as though he'd be dead to
the world for quite a while yet."

The Phantom repressed a smile. His superb constitution was already
shaking off the effects of the chloroform.

"How is the little doll?" inquired the first speaker, who seemed to be a
man of authority in the Duke's organization.

"Chipper as a wild cat. She came to shortly after we got here. That kid
had spunk, and she's all there on looks. I don't blame the Gray Phantom
for falling for her. I would myself."

"Sentiment and business make a bad mixture," was the other's dry
comment. "Don't let a pretty face bedevil you, Somers. The young lady is
here to serve our purpose. After that----"

He stopped, and the ensuing pause somehow impressed the Phantom as
ominous.

"Well, then what?" asked Somers, and there was a slight catch to his
voice.

"She is a shrewd young thing and she knows too much for our good. Our
safety demands that--but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it." He
laughed again, as if to rid his mind of unpleasant thoughts. "I can
scarcely realize that the Gray Phantom is in our power at last. It's
almost too good to be true."

"It is true, though. Say, won't he get a jolt when he comes out of the
daze and finds himself strapped to a chair?"

"That isn't the only jolt that's in store for him. We'll give him a
glimpse of the big show, just for the moral effect it will have on him.
Just a little eye teaser, you know, Somers. Is everything ready?"

"Ready to a dot. Want to have a look?"

The other answered affirmatively, and the two men left the room. The
last part of the conversation had been unintelligible to the Phantom,
and he did not try to puzzle it out. The unfinished sentence and its
train of vaguely disturbing thoughts haunted him. Helen Hardwick was to
serve some mysterious purpose. After that--he wondered why he felt a
chill as he tried to imagine the rest. The words left unspoken suggested
terrifying possibilities.

He opened his eyes. Evidently the two men had extinguished the lights
upon leaving, for the room was dark. With the fragmentary sentence still
echoing in his ears, he tore at the ropes, but the attempt only bruised
his wrists.

Suddenly he sat still, his eyes fixed on a tiny light that had appeared
in the back of the room. The point of luminance grew larger and larger,
swelling into a circle of pale radiance, and in its center he saw
something that caused him to wonder whether he was dreaming a madman's
dream.



CHAPTER XXVI--THE PHANTOM HEARS A SCREAM


Rigid in every fiber, the Phantom stared at the circle of light, which
seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. At first small as the head of a
pin, it gradually unfolded and expanded, at the same time changing from
white into a pale greenish hue that dissolved the surrounding darkness
into translucent mist.

As it grew larger, the light wrapped itself around an object of strange
appearance. It was gray as ashes and its shape gave forth a weird
suggestion that it had once been a living thing. The pale, ghostly light
that surrounded it like a nimbus gave it a monstrous character.

"A skull!" mumbled the Phantom. Under ordinary circumstances he could
have looked upon it calmly, but the stillness and darkness, broken only
by the pallid glow in the distance, gave the object a mystical touch
that cast a spell over his senses.

His nerves had withstood physical fear in its most severe forms, but
they quavered a little before this subtle and bewildering manifestation.
His weakness nettled him and he closed his eyes and sought to banish the
thing from his mind, but the vision as it lingered in his imagination
was even more disturbing than the reality. Again he opened his eyes and
looked fixedly to one side, determined not to let an inanimate thing of
bone upset his nerves. A slight shiver ran through him as, among the
shadows at the wall, he discerned a dim shape. He could barely
distinguish its outlines, but again he received an impression of
something that had once pulsed with life and was now hollow and dead. He
peered sharply at the blurred shape standing grimly erect a few feet
from his chair, and presently he saw what it was.

Then he laughed, but the laugh sounded a trifle forced. He had seen a
similar object before, in one of the glass cages in Doctor Bimble's
laboratory, but he had regarded it with no stronger feeling than mild
curiosity. Now, in the stillness and gloom, the sight made him feel as
if a dead hand had touched him. He turned his head toward the opposite
wall, and there, etched dimly in the shadows, was another figure. A few
feet away he glimpsed a third, and in the distance were a fourth and a
fifth.

In the air there was a creeping chill, like a breath from a tomb. He
felt no fear, but he experienced the acute depression that seizes even
the strongest when standing in the presence of death, and his physical
and mental distress was aggravated by his inability to move even an arm.
The stifling air made him feel as though he were in a black and silent
mausoleum, with dead things on all sides.

An unaccountable fascination caused him to look once more at the
luminous circle. The greenish light seemed to have grown a trifle
dimmer, but the waning of the glow only lent an added touch of
hideousness to the object in the center of the nimbus. It fired his
imagination, and he fancied that something loathsome was staring out at
him through the black hollows where the eyes had been.

As the circular light faded, he thought it was drawing closer to where
he sat. As if gently propelled by an invisible hand, the paling circle
of light was creeping slowly nearer, moving steadily toward his chair.

He pulled at the ropes. Now the fringe of light was so faint that the
skull was only a shapeless blur, but its dimness rendered its creeping
approach all the more uncanny. In a little while, if it continued in its
present course, it would touch his face. He wondered why his senses
shrank from the encounter, for he knew that the contact could not harm
him.

Finally the light died, leaving an intense, oppressive darkness. Though
he could neither hear nor see, he was aware that the object was still
creeping toward him and that in a few moments he would feel its chilling
touch. There was something subtly enervating about its silent and
stealthy advance, something that inspired him with a feeling he had
never experienced when standing face to face with a foe of flesh and
blood.

Then, without apparent cause, he sensed a change in the atmosphere. The
oppression suddenly left him, and he knew instinctively that something
had halted the advance of the dreaded thing. He drew a long, deep breath
as he tried to account for the relief that had come so suddenly to him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of a door at his back and
the entrance of two men. He could not see them, but their footfalls told
him that they were groping toward the point where he sat. Silently they
fell to work and released him from the chair, but his arms and legs were
still tied and he was as helpless as before. He wondered, as he was
being carried from the room, what fresh ordeal awaited him.

The two men carried him across the hall and into another room, where he
was placed in a chair. He was surprised to see the sunlight streaming in
through the window, for the darkness from which he had just emerged had
left an impression of impenetrable night on his mind.

"The big chief will be in directly," announced one of the men as they
were leaving.

The Phantom felt a thrill of expectancy at the thought that at last he
was to come face to face with the Duke's chief agent. Then he began to
look about him. From where he sat, all that was to be seen through the
window was the murky wall of a factory building. The room was small, and
the only furniture was a table and three chairs. In vain he looked for
something that might suggest a way of escape.

He turned quickly as a step sounded outside the door. It came open, and
for several moments he stared at the man who entered. Then he laughed, a
short, unnatural laugh that sounded hollow even to himself. The man who
stood before him was Doctor Tyson Bimble.

He would never have guessed that the anthropologist was the man through
whom the Duke directed his criminal enterprises from his cell in prison,
but on second thought the discovery was not so surprising. Since their
first meeting he had suspected that anthropology was not Bimble's sole
interest in life. He had felt that it was merely a cloak for other
activities, though it had not occurred to him what these might be.

"You are pale," observed Bimble, looking at him through his thick
lenses; "but I sha'n't trouble to feel your pulse this morning. I have
no doubt it's normal."

The doctor, with his stiltlike legs and top-heavy head, seemed as
ludicrous as ever, and his face wore the same beatific smile that had
greeted the Phantom when they first met, but his eyes were a trifle
stern, and there was an unfamiliar briskness about his movements.

The Phantom swallowed his emotions and braced his mind for a duel of
wits with the doctor. Many a time in the past he had outmaneuvered men
as crafty as his present adversary. For the present he tried not to
think of Helen, for he would need a clear mind and steady nerves if he
was to help her.

"Have you made any new scientific discoveries since I saw you last,
doctor?" he inquired chattily.

Bimble's eyes twinkled. "No; but I dare say you have."

"I have discovered a new use for skeletons."

"New? You are mistaken, my excellent friend. The efficacy of skeletons
and like objects as means of moral suasion has been understood for a
long time. I believe the wicked old doges of Venice used similar methods
when they wished to put their enemies into a receptive frame of mind and
did not care to resort to physical torture. It is strange how all of
us--even a strong man like yourself--stand in awe of objects associated
with death and decay."

"It is," agreed the Phantom dryly. "But I don't quite get the idea. I
admit the ghostly vaudeville you staged for my benefit was a bit creepy.
I would rather face a regiment of smooth rascals like you than a
grinning skeleton. But if you expected me to come out of that spook
chamber a broken man you are doomed to disappointment."

"I didn't, as a matter of fact." The doctor smiled amusedly. "I am well
aware that it takes something more than that to break a man like the
Gray Phantom."

"Then what was the object?"

"You shall see presently. My friend, you have given me no end of
trouble. Since the day you made your first unexpected appearance in my
laboratory, I have done my best to save you from the police, but you
seemed determined to rush blindly into their arms. I did not realize how
stubborn and foolhardy you were till the morning when I entered your
bedroom and found it empty. You knew the police were combing the town
for you, and I had hoped that would keep you in."

"It was a shameless abuse of hospitality," confessed the Phantom. "But I
take it you were not altogether unselfish in your desire to save me from
arrest."

Bimble smiled as he ran his eyes up and down the Phantom's figure.
"Borrowed feathers are not becoming to you," he observed critically.
"These togs are atrocious. But the idea itself was excellent. I did not
even guess that the Gray Phantom was masquerading as a newspaper
reporter until the trick you played on Pinto and Dan the Dope gave me an
inkling of the truth. Then, last evening, upon my return from a visit in
the neighborhood, I found you and Lieutenant Culligore in the basement
of my house. The few words I overheard were sufficient to verify my
suspicions. I saw that Culligore had you cornered, and I guessed you
would try to reach the tunnel. Then--But I think you know the rest."

"All except what happened to Culligore."

The doctor beamed. "Poor Culligore! He's really a much cleverer man than
you would think--cleverer than yourself, in certain ways. An automatic
equipped with a flash light and a silencer put a bullet into his leg
while he was looking for you in the cellar. A most regrettable
accident!" Bimble laughed softly. "The poor man is now under my
professional care, and I fear he will not be out for some time."

"I can guess the nature of the professional attentions you are giving
him. But why were you so anxious that I should not fall into the hands
of the police?"

"Because I had certain plans in which you were concerned, and your
premature arrest would have seriously interfered with them. Can't you
guess what they were?"

"The Duke has a goose to pick with me, I believe. At any rate, I
understand he is not very benevolently disposed toward me."

"You have been correctly advised. The Duke is a very thoroughgoing
hater, as you will discover before we are through with you. Not only
that, but he is an adept in the gentle art of mixing business and
pleasure. He also knows how to bring down a flock of birds with a single
stone. Take, for instance, the case of old Sylvanus Gage."

"Yes," murmured the Phantom, fixing the doctor with a keen gaze, "the
Duke showed his genius there. He planned the murder very shrewdly so
that the guilt would be fastened on me. It was an admirable way of
getting revenge."

The doctor smiled. "True, but it wasn't so simple as all that. You are
not giving the Duke half the credit he deserves. I told you that he
always mixes business and pleasure. These walls are deaf, so there is no
reason why I should not enlighten you. Gage had been for years a member
of the Duke's organization. It was through him the band disposed of the
proceeds from its activities. It was a risky business and he lived in
constant danger. Hence the tunnel, which gave him a convenient avenue of
escape in emergencies. The housekeeper, an estimable soul, knew that her
employer was conducting some sort of illegitimate business, and she
assisted him in it to a certain extent, which explains any symptoms of
bad conscience she may have shown. I don't think, however, that she was
aware of Gage's membership in the Duke's organization. Gage was a
valuable man, but his insatiate greed led him astray. He double-crossed
the band in financial transactions, and when called to task for his
crooked work he threatened to cause trouble. To put it briefly, it was
decided that he must be put out of the way."

"I see." The Phantom smiled, but his eyes were hard. "The Duke avenged
himself on two persons with one stroke. He not only removed Gage, but
arranged matters so that suspicion for the crime would fall on me."

"Exactly. You are now beginning to appreciate the Duke's many-sided
talents. Of course, his main object was to repay you for the merciless
joke you played on him when you put him and most of his gang behind
bars. Where to find you was a poser. It was known that you had taken
your treasures and gone into hiding somewhere, but no one seemed to have
the faintest inkling of your whereabouts. Knowing your sensitiveness
about such matters, the Duke guessed that the murder of Gage, with the
circumstances pointing to you as its perpetrator, would smoke you out."

"It was a good guess. I had to come out and clear myself, and that gave
the Duke his chance. Now that you have me where you want me, what do you
propose to do with me? Am I to be handed over to the police, or have you
engaged passage for me on the Stygian ferry?"

The question seemed to amuse the doctor. "If we meant to hand you over
to the police we would scarcely have gone to such great lengths to save
you from arrest. What is to be done with you eventually hasn't been
decided as yet. The Duke's orders are to dispose of you in whichever way
will hurt you the most and give him the ultimate degree of revenge.
There is a question involved in that. You are not the kind of man that
fears death."

"Thanks."

Bimble's deceptively mild eyes regarded him carefully. "I think there
are certain other things that would hurt you far more. For instance--But
we will drop that phase of the subject for the present and get down to
the more practical side. As I told you, the Duke always mixes business
and pleasure, which in this case means a judicious blend of revenge and
profit."

The Phantom's brows went up. A tinge of greed and craftiness had dimmed
the habitual look of serenity in the doctor's eyes. He was looking down
at his scrupulously polished shoes while playing with his watch chain.

"How?" asked the Phantom. The uncertainty as to his own fate did not
trouble him in the least, but all his will power was needed to maintain
a semblance of coolness whenever he thought of Helen.

"You put in many very busy years at the pleasant occupation of annexing
other people's property," murmured the doctor. "The magnitude of your
enterprises has been the talk of the whole continent. There must be a
good many millions stored away in that retreat of yours."

The Phantom smiled. Imaginative newspaper writers had pictured the Gray
Phantom living like an East Indian potentate in some snug retreat,
surrounded by countless treasures and a splendor that would have offered
a gorgeous Arabian Nights' setting. The fable, eagerly swallowed by the
public, seemed wildly grotesque in comparison with the truth.

"You're forgetting something, doctor. I never had the Duke's keen eye
for business. I was not a crook for the sake of the loot, but for the
excitement I found in the game, and I usually gave the stuff away after
I had had the fun of taking it. I haven't much that would interest the
Duke."

The doctor's lips curled in a way that indicated strong skepticism. "You
will let me be the judge as to that, my friend. All I ask of you is that
you tell me explicitly and veraciously where this collection of yours
may be found."

The Phantom drew himself up as far as the ropes permitted. The smile was
still on his lips, but in the depths of his eyes lurked a hard glitter.
"What if I refuse?"

"Why, man, you can't refuse! You are in no position to do anything but
surrender to my wishes."

"Wrong, doctor." He gave a low, metallic laugh. "You ought to know that
the Gray Phantom never surrenders. Threats and bullying can't move me an
inch. That's absolutely final."

The doctor seemed not at all disconcerted. "I expected you to say that.
You are stubborn as a mule, but fortunately I have means of persuasion
at my disposal. If I can't bend you, I will break you."

He rose abruptly and left the room. There had been something in his
tones that lingered in the Phantom's ears after he had gone. He was back
in a few moments, and once more his face was wreathed in smiles. Without
a word he sat down, crossed his thin legs, and lighted a cigarette, then
smoked in silence while the Phantom scanned his face for a clew to the
mysterious errand that had taken him out of the room.

Minutes passed, and still the doctor smiled and smoked. From time to
time he raised his tranquil eyes and glanced at the door as if expecting
somebody, and all the while there was an air of pleasurable anticipation
about him.

Suddenly the Phantom stiffened. For a moment he sat rigid, listening,
then jerked forward in the chair, straining fiercely at the ropes.

Somewhere in the building a woman had screamed. The shriek, sharp and
explosive, as if inspired by a terror long restrained, dinned with
hideous significance against the Phantom's ears. His heart stood still
for a moment.

The voice that had uttered that mad, unforgettable cry was Helen
Hardwick's.



CHAPTER XXVII--THE PHANTOM'S RUSE


The doctor placidly finished his cigarette. The sleek, genial smile had
not left his face for an instant, and his eye still held the same
twinkle of languid amusement.

"Miss Hardwick is a very plucky young woman," he murmured, "but
evidently the spook chamber, as you so aptly termed it a little while
ago, has proved too much for her nerves. The cry we just heard seemed to
indicate that she was in great distress. Being alone in a dark room with
nothing but skeletons for company is not a very pleasant experience for
a woman."

The Phantom's face turned a shade whiter. For a moment he was dazed by
the realization that Helen was undergoing the same excruciating ordeal
to which he himself had been subjected. The ghostly spectacle had caused
even his strong nerves to writhe and he shuddered at thought of the
effect it must have on her more delicate organism.

"I gave you a little taste of it just to enable you to appreciate Miss
Hardwick's predicament," continued the doctor in matter-of-fact tones.
"The arrangement is simplicity itself. My excellent Jerome fixed it up.
The scenic effects are so simple that a child could have handled them.
Yet you will admit, I think, that they serve their purpose. I once knew
a person--not a weakling, either--who went mad under similar pressure.
It is strange how----"

Another shriek, not so loud as the first, but long-drawn and hoarse,
interrupted him. He paused for a moment, eyeing the Phantom with a level
glance while the scream lasted, then fell to polishing his lenses.

"As I was about to remark," he went on, "it is strange how darkness and
a touch of the grewsome affect one's mind. The soul seems to shrink from
such things. The reason, I think, must be atavistic. The poor wretch I
was telling you about, the one who lost his mind----"

"Stop it!" cried the Phantom. His voice was husky. "Get her out of that
room before she goes mad!"

Doctor Bimble seemed suddenly interested. "Do I understand that you are
willing to listen to reason? Are you ready to reconsider the suggestion
I made a while ago and which you so grandiloquently rejected? In other
words, are you willing to tell me where your treasures are hidden?"

"Yes--anything! I'll do whatever you ask. Only stop that infernal
hocus-pocus at once!"

"Oh, very well." There was a smile of keen gratification on Bimble's
lips as he got up and left the room.

The Phantom, every limb shaking, stared at the door through which he had
passed. Suddenly his blood-streaked eyes grew wide. He remembered
something that was almost as terrifying as the shrieks he had just
heard. His thoughts went back to the moment when he had awakened in the
dark room, and he recalled the snatches of conversation he had
overheard.

One of the two speakers, he was now almost certain, had been Doctor
Bimble. The voice had sounded familiar, and he would probably have
recognized it but for the dazed condition he was in. One of the doctor's
sentences had burned itself into the Phantom's brain:

"The young lady is here to serve our purpose. After that----"

He saw it all in a blinding flash that scorched like fire. With their
usual cunning the Duke's men had perceived that neither by torture nor
by threats of death could the Gray Phantom be forced to comply with
their desires. They had known that he held his life lightly and could
suffer personal punishment like an Indian. And so their diabolically
crafty minds had conceived the idea of letting Helen Hardwick's agonized
cries pierce his armor of pride and obduracy, thus accomplishing what
could never have been accomplished by other means.

They had judged him accurately, was his grim reflection. Rather than see
a hair of Helen's head harmed he would gladly make any sacrifice. But
the sinister significance of the doctor's words had been plain. The
Phantom would not insure Helen's safety by accepting Bimble's terms.
Evidently, Miss Hardwick had come into possession of information which
the gang feared she might divulge if set free, and consequently she was
to be silenced forever as soon as Bimble's purpose had been attained.

While he awaited the doctor's return the Phantom thought quickly. By
accepting Bimble's terms he would only be hastening Helen's doom, for
the gang, having no further use for her after they had gained their
ends, would probably put her to death quickly. On the other hand, by
rejecting the conditions, he would at least gain time. In the meanwhile
Bimble might inflict cruel suffering upon her, but his selfish interests
would restrain him from taking her life, for, once he had done so, his
sole hold upon the Phantom would be gone.

The reasoning was plain, but he found it hard to reach a decision.
Perhaps death would be merciful in comparison with the tortures that
Bimble might subject her to. He was caught between the jaws of a fearful
dilemma, and the only sane course he could see was to play for time.

Doctor Bimble returned. "Why do women never swoon until the worst is
over?" he questioned in whimsical tones. "Miss Hardwick is a surprising
young lady, but she is not free from the foibles of her sex. She had no
sooner been taken out of the dark room than she promptly collapsed."

The Phantom held back the biting words on his tongue, but he could not
forego a look of withering contempt.

"Do you know," the doctor went on, "I am almost certain that Miss
Hardwick knows where your retreat is located? In fact, she let slip
something that convinces me she does. But do you suppose the stubborn
little beauty would tell? Not she! I don't believe the fear of eternal
fires could force her to speak."

He had guessed correctly, but the Phantom carefully refrained from
signifying by a look or a word that it was so. Miss Hardwick knew about
Sea-Glimpse, and it was with mingled feelings the Phantom heard of her
refusal to reveal the secret. Had she become aware, through some process
of divination, that her life would be forfeited the moment the
information was in the doctor's possession, or had she been guided by
other reasons?

"So you see," continued Bimble in smooth tones, "that you will save the
little lady from all sorts of unpleasantness by acceding to my very
reasonable terms. It would be a shame if such a charming woman should
become a gibbering maniac as a result of obstinacy on your part. Where
did you say this place of yours is situated?"

"I haven't said yet." The Phantom forced a laugh. "Before I do, you and
I must have a definite understanding. Do you agree to set Miss Hardwick
free the moment I have given you the information?"

"What an unreasonable question, my dear Phantom! I agree to do nothing
of the kind. I shall keep Miss Hardwick here until I have satisfied
myself that you have been dealing with me on the square and that the
directions you have given me are accurate."

"Fair enough. But after you have satisfied yourself in regard to my good
faith, what then?"

"Then," said the doctor, and there was not a trace of guile in his face,
"Miss Hardwick shall be immediately released."

"On your word of honor?"

"On my word of honor."

"Snake!" the Phantom was tempted to say, but he pretended to be
satisfied. Already his mind was inventing a ruse. He would gain several
hours of valuable time by inveigling the doctor into a search for a
place that had existence only in the Phantom's imagination. In the
meantime several things were likely to happen. It was just possible that
Granger had been able to trace the movements of the limousine and would
come to the rescue. At any rate, the Phantom believed that if he could
but stave off the crisis for a while his customary luck would once more
reassert itself.

His mind worked fast. Doubtless the doctor knew that he had arrived in
New York less than twenty-four hours after the Gage murder. Allowing for
slow and infrequent trains and the time required for news to reach
out-of-the-way places, he would have to choose a point that was not more
than ten or twelve hours removed from New York. With a mental picture of
the map before his eyes, he outlined a highly imaginative route to the
doctor.

Bimble made a few notes. Then he looked up, and for once there was an
ominous glint in the usually placid eyes.

"My men will start at once," he announced. "They will be instructed to
wire me as soon as they have reached their destination. I hope, for Miss
Hardwick's sake, that you have not tried to deceive me."

With that he was gone; but the softly spoken words, edged with just the
faintest trace of a sinister note, lingered for a long time in the
Phantom's memory.



CHAPTER XXVIII--PINTO'S CONFESSION


The Phantom awoke with a start, vaguely conscious that he had been
sleeping for several hours. Shortly after his interview with Doctor
Bimble, he had been removed to a small dark room with a single shuttered
window, through which no sunlight or air entered. The ropes around his
wrists and ankles had been removed, but his movements were restricted by
a chain only a few feet long, one end of which was padlocked to his
right leg while the other was clamped to the wall.

Jerome, more tight-lipped than ever, had brought him a meal, and he had
eaten with relish, after which he had lain down on the cot and gone to
sleep. A lessening of his mental tension had come with the conviction
that Helen was in no immediate danger and would be safe until the doctor
heard from his messengers, which he probably would not do until after
midnight.

He had slept soundly, and now he was refreshed in body and mind. He
inspected his surroundings with a keen eye. The little room was
admirably adapted to the purposes of a cell. Even if he were inclined to
shout for help, the shutters doubtless would render such an effort
useless. The room was sparsely lighted by an electric bulb in the
ceiling, and he noted that the door, walls, and floor had a substantial
appearance. The only objects within his reach were the cot and a table.

His face fell as he took an inventory of his pockets, noticing that all
that remained of his belongings was a watch and a handkerchief. His
wallet, with Dan the Dope's pistol, was gone, and so was the little
metal box that on so many occasions had enabled him to squeeze out of
tight corners. The chain was not heavy, but strong enough to resist all
the force he could muster, and each end was fastened in a way that left
him no hope of escape.

"The worthy doctor is taking no chances," he muttered. "He has left me
as helpless as a newborn babe. Wonder where I am."

He had no idea where the black limousine had taken him, for it had
traveled a devious course, and he had been chloroformed before it
reached its destination. He was certain he was not in Doctor Bimble's
house, for he had searched that dwelling from cellar to attic and there
had been no room in it that resembled this one. Probably he was in some
other house controlled by Doctor Bimble or one of his associates.

After all, where he was did not matter, greatly. The one thing that
concerned him was his helplessness, for evidently the doctor had taken
every conceivable precaution against his prisoner's escape. Everything
considered, it was as hopeless a situation as the Phantom had ever
faced.

A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four o'clock. He had eight
hours in which to accomplish the seemingly impossible before the doctor
should learn from his agents that they had been sent out on a wild-goose
chase. He shuddered as he contemplated what would be the consequences if
he failed. Yet, he told himself, the course he had taken was the only
one possible under the circumstances. If he had directed the doctor's
agents to Sea-Glimpse, Helen's usefulness to the organization would have
been ended, and then----

He turned quickly as the door opened, admitting Doctor Bimble, with a
newspaper in his hand.

"Thought you would be interested in the news about Pinto," began the
doctor, advancing somewhat cautiously and taking care not to step within
the narrow half circle that bounded his prisoner's movements. The
Phantom regarded him languidly, for his mind was on other things.

"Has Pinto recovered consciousness?" he asked indifferently.

Bimble nodded. "Much sooner than the doctors expected, and he has
celebrated his return to consciousness by making a rather interesting
statement."

"Not a confession?" The Phantom was still speaking in dull tones. In the
last few days he had almost lost sight of the purpose that had called
him to New York. The danger threatening Helen Hardwick had seemed far
more important than the mystery of the two murders.

"Well, you might call it that, though it probably isn't the kind of
confession you have in mind. Pinto has made a clean breast of
everything, but he still insists that you murdered Gage."

"That's a contradiction," mumbled the Phantom. "He is not making a clean
breast of things so long as he denies his guilt."

"His statement sounds fairly convincing, nevertheless. He admits
practically everything except that he committed the murder. For
instance, he frankly admits that he concealed the body of the
housekeeper and----"

"That in itself is evidence of his guilt."

"But Pinto has what looks like a satisfactory explanation. He seems to
be an honest, hard-working, unimaginative fellow, not overintelligent,
and deeply devoted to his wife and baby. You probably know the type. He
says that for months before Gage was murdered he had a queer premonition
that something of that kind was to happen, and he never passed the house
without an uneasy feeling. I suppose what he really means is that he had
noticed signs of strange doings about the place, and that without
analyzing his impressions he found it getting on his nerves.

"Pinto reiterates his previous assertion that Gage made a dying
statement accusing you of the crime. He admits, however, that he felt
nervous about the whole affair. The poor fellow was in a very trying
position. After forcing the door, which was bolted on the inside, and
listening to Gage's dying words, he made a careful examination of the
room, paying particular attention to the little window which was so
narrow that no grown person could possibly have crawled through it. He
did not understand how even an accomplished person like the Phantom
could have committed the murder and escaped from the room.

"Then, all of a sudden, Pinto got panicky. Even his crude intellect
perceived that it looked as though nobody but himself could have
committed the murder. He thought of his wife and his baby, and he did
not relish the idea of being tried for murder. As he saw it, he might
easily be convicted and sent to the chair. However, his fears proved
unfounded, for nobody accused him of the crime, and Pinto could breathe
freely once more."

"But what about the housekeeper?" inquired the Phantom, gradually
becoming more interested.

"I am coming to that. After the murder of Gage Pinto got into the habit
of visiting the house between rounds. He was still hoping to discover a
way whereby the Phantom could have escaped from the room. Late one
night, according to his statement, he found the housekeeper's body in
the same room where Gage had been murdered. He says the body was still
warm, so the woman could not have been dead long. At the discovery all
his fears returned with trebled force. The supposition, he thought,
would be that the murderer of Gage had also killed Mrs. Trippe. The Gray
Phantom was supposed to be in jail at the time and therefore could not
be accused of having murdered the housekeeper.

"Pinto was in a terrible quandary. Since, as he thought at the time, the
Phantom could not have murdered Mrs. Trippe, it might be questioned
whether he had murdered Gage. The whole case might be reopened, in which
event he feared the finger of suspicion must inevitably point to him.
Again Pinto thought of his wife and baby, and, the more he thought of
them, the more nervous he became. He did a foolish thing, as men often
do when fear conquers reason. He could think of nothing to do but cover
up the crime until he could get a chance to think the thing over, and so
he carried the body upstairs and concealed it behind some packing cases.
Later, after it developed that the Phantom had not been in jail and had
no alibi, he saw no reason for concealing the body longer. He explains
at length what happened when he went to the storeroom to drag it out and
was interrupted by you."

Bimble smiled blandly, but he was studying the Phantom's face out of the
corner of an eye. "What do you think of Pinto's confession?"

The Phantom considered while he glanced at the papers Bimble handed him.
The statement was there, just as summarized by the doctor. Granting a
crude intellect and a mind not too analytical, he thought it quite
possible that an innocent man might act exactly as described in Pinto's
statement. Further, the story had all the earmarks of truth, for a
guilty mind would have tried to invent a less grotesque tale. Of a
sudden the Phantom found that all his calculations and theories in
regard to the murder had been upset by Pinto's surprising and unexpected
explanation.

"Why ask me?" was his reply. "You know the murderer."

"Perhaps. I was just curious to hear what you would think."

There was a wrinkle of perplexity on the Phantom's brow. Assuming that
Pinto was innocent, the difficulties in the way of solving the mystery
and exculpating himself had been vastly complicated.

"If Pinto didn't do it," persisted the doctor suavely, "who do you
suppose did?"

The Phantom could not tell why, but the question gave him a mental jolt.
In the past few hours his concern for Helen had claimed all his
thoughts, and before that he had been so firmly convinced of Pinto's
guilt that there had been no room in his mind for other suspicions. The
possibility that someone other than the policeman might be involved had
not occurred to him.

He looked up and found the doctor's soft eyes searching his face with an
odd intensity. Bimble seemed intent on ascertaining what deductions his
prisoner would make from Pinto's statement, and apparently this had been
the only reason for his call.

"My question seems to have stumped you," he observed.

The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. "With Pinto eliminated, I'm entirely
at sea. In view of the bolted door and the size of the window, I don't
see how anyone else could have murdered Gage, unless----" He checked
himself abruptly, and of a sudden he saw a great light. In the next
instant a smile masked his agitation. "Unless," he finished with a
chuckle, "I did it myself."

Bimble seemed satisfied. "Excellent logic, my friend," he murmured as he
stepped to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned and fixed his
gaze on the Phantom's face. "I shall pay you another visit as soon as I
hear from my men."

His tone carried a sinister emphasis, but the Phantom scarcely noticed
it.

"With Pinto eliminated," he said half aloud when the door had closed,
"only one other person could have committed the murders. And I know that
person!"



CHAPTER XXIX--THE PHANTOM'S VISITOR


With quick and nervous steps the Phantom walked back and forth within
the narrow semicircle allowed him by the chain. The solution of the
mystery had come to him in a flash of intuition, but his elation had
been brief. It was now half past eleven, and after cudgeling his wits
for hours, he found the problem of how to extricate himself and Helen
from their predicament as insolvable as ever.

Soon Bimble would receive word from his messengers that they had been
hoaxed, and then Helen would be subjected to another agonizing ordeal in
the dark room. The Phantom shuddered as his imagination pictured her
strapped to the chair in that chamber of ghastly things. Again he looked
sharply about the room, hoping against hope that something would suggest
a way of escape to him.

He found nothing. The only objects were the cot and the table, and they
offered no solution whatever. His pockets contained nothing but a
handkerchief and a watch, together with the cigarettes and matches
Jerome had brought him with his dinner. At least a score of times during
the late afternoon and evening he had given the chain a minute
inspection, only to be convinced that it could not be tampered with.
With the aid of a small nail or a penknife he might have been able to
pick the lock that held it to his ankle, but not even a pin had been
left him.

The Phantom was all but ready to admit defeat. His only fortifying
thought was that he had never yet been the loser in a game of wits, and
that for Helen's sake he could not fail now.

He rose quickly from the cot as the door opened and Doctor Bimble strode
into the room. His face was dark, and a look of sullen anger had taken
the place of his usual smile.

"You lied!" he declared gruffly. "I half suspected you would, but I
hardly thought you would attempt anything so clumsy as this. What have
you gained by it?"

"Time," said the Phantom, pretending a coolness he did not feel.

The doctor laughed derisively. There was a dull flush in his cheeks and
an ugly glitter in his eyes, but again he took care not to step within
the Phantom's reach.

"Time! Bah! Really, Vanardy, you're simpler than I thought. Just as if a
few hours more or less could make any difference! You will either tell
me what I want to know, or, Miss Hardwick will go to the madhouse or the
grave. She will be as harmless in one place as in the other. I trust you
understand?"

"Your meaning is perfectly clear." The Phantom spoke in level tones. "If
you would come a step closer, I should take extreme pleasure in beating
you within an inch of your life. But you have no inclination in that
direction, I see. Like most of your kind, you are a coward."

"Words never hurt."

"Furthermore," continued the Phantom, "you will be in jail before Miss
Hardwick goes to either of the places you have just mentioned."

"Jail?" The doctor stared as if he thought the statement utterly
preposterous. "Jail! Ha, ha! Good joke coming from a man who can't move
six feet."

"Enjoy it while you can. As you may remember, I perpetrated the same
kind of joke on the Duke, and he doesn't seem to relish that brand of
humor."

The doctor winced as if an unpleasant thought had been suggested to him,
then walked stiffly to the door. "Remember," was his parting shot, "if
you persist in your obstinacy, it will be either the madhouse or the
grave for Miss Hardwick."

He slammed the door as he went out, and the Phantom's face sobered the
moment he was alone. His threat had not been altogether an idle one, for
it had driven a wholesome misgiving into the doctor's heart; yet the
Phantom was painfully aware that he was in a desperate situation.
Throwing himself on the cot, he turned the problem over and over in his
mind. Black as the outlook seemed, he could scarcely believe that all
was lost. He still had faith in his star, and it was this that had
braced him and enabled him to speak with such confidence in Doctor
Bimble's presence.

After a while something drew his gaze to the window. He listened
intently. A faint scraping sound reached his ears, and it occurred to
him that it had been going on for several minutes, though he had been
too preoccupied to notice it until now. He got up and stepped as close
to the window as the chain permitted. Now he heard it again--a slow,
dull grinding and scraping that remotely suggested that someone was
attacking a metallic object with a blunt tool.

He waited breathlessly. Evidently someone was trying to enter the room,
and he wondered whether the intruder was coming as friend or foe.
Perhaps the amazing luck that had so often turned a critical situation
in his favor was once more coming back to him.

A click sounded, then the boards in front of the window came apart, and
the Phantom gasped as Thomas Granger jumped into the room.

"You!" he exclaimed.

"Not so loud!" whispered the reporter. He was still wearing the
Phantom's clothing, and the garments were wrinkled and streaked with
dirt. "The house is full of members of the Duke's gang. Holy smoke,
you're certainly in a fix!"

He stared at the cabin, then looked quickly about the room. "Don't ask
me how I found you. I had a devil of a time, and it's a longer story
than I've got time to tell. Lookouts are stationed in front and in rear,
and it was only by sheer luck and some quick fist work that I got
through. How am I to get you out of here?"

The Phantom regarded him thoughtfully. "Didn't you know that Doctor
Bimble was the Duke's chief representative?" he asked.

"Never had the faintest idea."

"This room is in the rear of the house, I believe."

"Yes, but----"

"You were lucky to locate my window as easily as you did."

"That wasn't luck. I tried several before I found yours. Twice I bumped
into the Duke's men. I hate to think what that bunch would do to me if
they caught me." He made a wry face. "But this isn't getting you out of
here. We'll have to get a move on."

Strangely enough, the Phantom seemed absolutely calm and in no hurry
whatever. "I haven't been able to get my bearings," he announced. "Where
is this house?"

"Next door to Doctor Bimble's."

The Phantom started. "The one with boarded windows and doors?"

"That's the one. The front is boarded-up, and from the street it looks
like a vacant house. Nobody would suspect that it was the headquarters
of the Duke's gang. I suppose Bimble owns or controls both houses, and
there is probably a connecting passage somewhere."

The Phantom knitted his brows. He had seen no such passage when he
searched the Bimble residence. However, that proved nothing, for it
might be so carefully concealed that a hasty search would not reveal it.
The arrangement, he thought, was rather ingenious. No one who had seen
the anthropologist's home, where everything suggested artlessness and
love of simple comforts, would have suspected that the occupant was
using the adjacent house for the conduct of criminal enterprises.

"Miss Hardwick is somewhere in the building," he remarked. "Her safety
is the first consideration."

"Worse still. You and I might be able to fight our way through, but with
a woman on our hands it's almost certain death. It wouldn't be so bad if
there weren't so many against us. I have only one gat. How about you?"

"A watch, a handkerchief, a package of cigarettes and some matches are
my sole possessions just now."

The reporter scowled. "The Duke's men would be sure to pounce on us
before we could get her out of the house, and I don't suppose Miss
Hardwick is bullet-proof."

"What would you suggest?"

Granger reflected. "Have you any friends in town?"

"As far as I know, Peng Yuen is the only one. There may be others, but I
wouldn't know where to find them."

"Peng Yuen doesn't look much like a scrapper. We can't appeal to the
police, for they are after you just as hard as the Duke's men are. I'd
give half my life to be able to meet that bunch in a fair and even
fight. Too bad you haven't any friends handy. Say"--and Granger looked
as though he had suddenly snatched an inspiration out of the air--"what
about the place where you live? Haven't you got some friends there?"

The Phantom looked thoughtful. Rumor had it that he had taken a few
carefully selected members of his former organization with him to his
place of retirement. His lips twitched a little.

"It would take sometime to get them here," he murmured, "and we must act
in a hurry."

"But it's our only chance. We'll wire them to get a fast car and burn up
the roads. I'm rather stuck on the idea of organizing an expedition and
rushing to the rescue of a fair lady in distress. Write out your
telegram, and I'll sneak out and file it."

The Phantom, chuckling as though he had caught the contagion of the
other's enthusiasm, made as if searching his pockets for pencil and
paper. "All right. I guess, after all, it is the only thing we can do. A
pitched battle in the heart of New York will be something of a novelty.
Have you a pencil and a scrap of paper?"

Granger stepped up to the table and handed out the desired articles.
With the reporter standing at his elbow, the Phantom placed the paper on
the table, poised the pencil over it, and stood as if framing a message
in his mind. Suddenly, with a motion as quick as that of a metallic
spring, his hand darted out and gripped Granger's. Then, with another
surprisingly swift movement, he jerked the reporter down on the cot and
shoved a knee against his chest.

"Tommie Granger," he said in low, measured tones that throbbed with
exultation, "I've been waiting a long time to lay my hands on the
murderer of Gage and Mrs. Trippe."



CHAPTER XXX--THE ROOM IN THE BASEMENT


The reporter's face went white.

With lips gaping, he lay rigidly still, staring into the Phantom's hard
face. There was a look of great fear in his eyes, and for several
moments he seemed incapable of motion. Then he began to wriggle, twist,
and squirm, but his efforts were rendered futile by the knee on his
chest and the firm clutch in which his hands were held.

"When did you guess it?" he muttered, forcing a sneering grin to his
face.

"Just a little while ago. I've acted the simpleton throughout the whole
affair. I was so sure of Pinto's guilt that it never occurred to me to
suspect anyone else. The moment Pinto was eliminated, I knew you were
the murderer. I saw then what I should have seen at once--that Gage was
murdered by a man who looked so much like me that, when Gage saw the
face of the scoundrel, he was sure it was the Gray Phantom. That's why
he told Pinto that I was the murderer."

Granger drew in his breath and opened his mouth as if to shout for help,
but the knee pressing against his chest strangled the cry.

"It was all very cleverly arranged," the Phantom went on, "I suppose you
were selected for the job because you happen to resemble me. The very
entertaining story you told me at Peng Yuen's was probably a skillful
blending of truth and fiction. How you happened to join the Duke's gang
and how you carried out its orders under cover of your profession really
make no difference. The only thing that matters is that you're going to
the chair for those two murders."

The reporter, gathering his wits, gave a contemptuous laugh. "The chair,
eh? Not just yet, I guess. Several things are likely to happen to you
first."

"That remains to be seen. You are fairly clever, Granger, but your
cleverness won't help you now. You hood-winked the police very neatly.
They had the murderer once, but they felt so sure I was the man they
wanted that they let you go as soon as you had satisfied them you were
not the Gray Phantom. It was a fairly good joke. I perpetrated another
good joke myself when I went to you and borrowed your identity, never
guessing that you were the murderer. You took it all in good part,
because you couldn't do anything else, but all the while you were
scheming to hand me over to the Duke's crowd."

"It was rich! You were so easily taken in that I had to laugh whenever
you turned your back."

"I admit it. The reason you took me in so easily was partly because you
were a member of an honorable profession, and partly because of the note
handed me by Dan the Dope, which seemed to prove that you were on bad
terms with the Duke's crowd. That appeared to confirm your story that
you had joined the organization for the sole purpose of obtaining inside
information. The details of your relations with the gang are not clear
to me yet, but neither are they important. If you don't mind, I'll
relieve you of this handy little implement."

With a deft motion he reached into Granger's pocket and extracted the
reporter's automatic. Then he removed the knee from the man's chest and
covered him with the weapon.

"The cutest trick of them all," he continued with a grim chuckle, "was
your crawling in here to-night through the window and pretending to have
eluded the Duke's sentinels. Of course, the sole object of your dramatic
entrance was to inveigle me into revealing the whereabouts of the place
where I live. I suppose the worthy doctor had begun to despair of his
ability to worm the information out of me by the original plan. It
threatened to take too long and entail too many risks, and so he thought
he would try a short cut. You led up to the proposition very adroitly,
but I saw through the ruse almost at once."

Granger, having got a precarious grip on his nerves, laughed shakily.
"You're a first-class guesser--but guessing won't get you out of this
fix. It isn't very likely you'll ever see daylight again. As for the
dear girl----"

"Leave her out of it!" commanded the Phantom curtly. He thought it
unlikely Miss Hardwick would be molested further until Bimble had
learned the result of Granger's mission. In the meantime, he told
himself, he must make the most of the slight advantage he had gained. He
studied the reporter keenly, and all at once an inspiration came to him.
"Miss Hardwick," he went on in casual tones, "has an amazing knack of
taking care of herself. It wouldn't surprise me at all if she had
already found a way out of the amiable doctor's clutches."

"Hardly!" Granger gave another hoarse, sneering laugh. "She's smart, all
right, but the big chief knows it, and he isn't taking any chances. He
has locked her up in the basement, in a room barely large enough to turn
around in, with a stout door and no window."

"The basement, eh?" The Phantom seemed not at all interested. "This room
we are in is on the second floor, isn't it?"

"Third," said Granger, after puzzling for a moment over the question.

"Good!" The Phantom smiled. "You have told me exactly what I wanted to
know, Granger, and since you couldn't know the object of my questions, I
believe that for once you have spoken the truth. Kindly elevate your
hands."

A thrust with the pistol emphasized the command, and Granger sullenly
obeyed. With his free hand the Phantom explored the reporter's pockets
until he found a small silver-handled knife.

"My property, I believe," he murmured, examining the tool with a
critical eye. "It's one of the things you acquired when we swapped
clothes and identities. A very handy article, Granger. I've been wishing
all night for something of this kind, but the doctor thoughtfully
emptied my pockets. Sit very still, Granger."

He spoke with a brisk, cutting emphasis. Moving to the other end of the
cot and keeping one eye on Granger, he opened the knife and with the
sharp-pointed blade began to pick at the lock that held the chain to his
ankle. The pistol lay close at his side, ready to be picked up at a
moment's warning. In a short time the lock had yielded to the deft touch
of his fingers, and his ankle was free before Granger quite realized
what he was doing. A shout rose in the reporter's throat, but in an
instant the Phantom's fingers were at his windpipe.

"Quiet!" he warned. "I don't care to be interrupted just yet. Granger, I
don't like the togs I've been wearing the last few days, and you have
worn mine just about long enough. We are going to make a quick change.
Strip!"

The reporter glared, but his lips trembled and the shaking of his limbs
indicated that he was in need of his favorite stimulant.

"Hurry!" urged the Phantom, making a little flourish with the pistol.
"Bimble is likely to walk in on us at any moment to see what is keeping
you so long. Will you strip voluntarily, or must I tap you on the head
and undress you? I don't like to be rough."

The reporter seemed impressed by the argument. With surly acquiescence
he kicked off his shoes and started removing his suit. The Phantom, a
thin smile hovering about his lips, followed the other's example,
keeping the pistol within easy reach while the exchange was in progress.
In a little while he was once more garbed in the familiar gray which was
his favorite color.

"This is better!" he commented. With an absentminded air he picked up
the chain. For a moment or two his fingers toyed with the lock; then,
stooping quickly, he looped the end of the chain around Granger's leg.
The reporter growled out a curse as the lock snapped shut.

"Put your hands behind you!" commanded the Phantom, again making a
menacing gesture with the pistol. The reporter, his ashen face
twitching, glowered savagely as he obeyed, and in a few moments the
strings had been removed from his shoes and twisted tightly about his
wrists. Finally the Phantom tore a strip from the table-cloth, fashioned
it into a gag and thrust it between the reporter's teeth.

"I'm really very much obliged to you, Granger," he murmured dryly as he
put the revolver and the knife into his pockets. "If you hadn't come to
me with that barefaced hoax, I should still be wearing a chain around my
ankle. Too bad I can't offer you a drink. You seem to need one."

With elastic step he walked to the door. There he pushed a button, and
the room went dark. There was a glow in his cheeks and a tingle in his
veins as he stepped out in the hall, closing the door behind him.
Looking up and down the silent corridor, he saw a stairway at the
farther end, and hastened in that direction. At the head of the stairs
he all but collided with Doctor Bimble.

"Well, Granger?"

The Phantom thanked his lucky star that the lights in the hall were dim.
Under the circumstances, it was the most natural thing in the world for
Bimble to suppose that he was addressing the reporter. He knew that
Granger had been wearing the Phantom's clothes, and the latter was
supposed to be chained securely to a wall.

"_No luck_," announced the Phantom, simulating Granger's manner of
speech. "I gave him exactly the line of talk you suggested, but he
spotted the trick right off. He wouldn't listen to me at all."

Even in the dusk the Phantom saw a spiteful look creep into the doctor's
face.

"Doesn't he still think you are on his side?"

"He seems to have his suspicions," answered the Phantom, carefully
weighing his words, "but he is keeping them to himself. I tried my
darndest to flimflam the information out of him, but it was no use. He's
about the smoothest article I ever came across."

The doctor nodded curtly as he swung around and started to descend the
stairs, the Phantom following.

"I'll break him yet," muttered Bimble vindictively. "In a few moments
he'll hear a tune that he won't like. Miss Hardwick is going to make
another trip to the spook chamber, as our mulish friend so aptly termed
it. I guess he will come across with the information when he discovers
that we mean business."

They reached the floor below. As they passed a light in the hall, the
Phantom saw a look of venomous determination in the doctor's face, and
he knew that a terrible ordeal would be in store for Helen if Bimble was
permitted to have his way. The anthropologist opened a door, and the
Phantom glanced into the room over his shoulder. About a dozen men, the
expressions on their faces ranging all the way from low cunning to
sullen brutality, sat at a long table playing cards.

"Jepson!" called the doctor, taking a bunch of keys from his pockets.

A tall, raw-boned individual with features suggestive of a gorilla's
rose from the table and approached them, with dragging gait.

"I want you and Granger to bring Miss Hardwick here immediately,"
directed Bimble handing Jepson one of the keys.

The tall man nodded and slunk away. The Phantom, keeping in the shadows
as much as possible, followed him down two flights of stairs. Here and
there, at a turn in the halls or stairs, they encountered soft-footed,
wary-eyed men who passed them in silence.

"The whole crowd seems to be about to-night," observed the Phantom.

"Sure," said Jepson. "The big chief don't like to take chances. He means
to rush a bunch of us to the Phantom's place as soon as he finds out
where it is. There may be a scrap when we get there."

"Quite likely." The Phantom repressed a smile. There was a fever in his
veins, and he wished Jepson would walk faster. They descended into the
basement, sparsely lighted by a small bulb suspended over the stairs,
and Jepson picked his way carefully over the floor. Finally he stopped
before a door, inserted a key in the lock, and walked in.

The room was dark, but a quick gasp, resembling a sudden intake of
breath, told the Phantom it was occupied. His body tingled with
suppressed excitement. Jepson was standing in the doorway, and a light
scraping sound indicated that he was running his hands over the wall in
search of a switch.

As light flooded the narrow room the Phantom stifled an exclamation. In
a chair at the wall sat a slender figure, rigidly still save for the
trembling of the hands clasped across the bosom. Long waves of lustrous
hair framed a face white as alabaster, and the large brown eyes were
staring at Jepson with an expression of dread. There was a quiver in the
distended orbs, as if a frightful recollection were lingering in their
depths.

She shrank back against the chair as Jepson lumbered toward her. For a
moment longer she remained motionless, then a long-drawn moan sounded in
her throat, and with hands thrust out she sprang from the chair.

"You sha'n't take me back there!" she cried in tones edged with fury and
terror. "I won't go back! I won't!"

"Easy now, lady! No use kicking up a fuss." Jepson roughly seized her
arm, squeezed it until she uttered a sharp cry of pain, and started
dragging her toward the door.

Then, of a sudden, the Phantom's fist shot out. Hard as steel, it
delivered a stinging, crunching blow between Jepson's eyes, and the big
brute dropped to the floor like a dead weight. The girl stood immobile,
staring at the twisted shape at her feet as if unable to understand what
had happened. Then, very slowly, she raised her eyes until they met the
Phantom's.

"You?" She spoke lowly, as if not quite recognizing him at first.
Dazedly she drew her hand across her forehead. "Are you the Gray Phantom
or----"

"I am the Gray Phantom. Don't you know me--Helen?"

She gazed at him long and searchingly. A soft gleam penetrated the film
of terror in her eyes.

"Yes, you are the Gray Phantom." The words sounded hushed and strained.
She came a step closer and placed her cold hand in his. There was a
faint, tremulous smile on her lips. "Can you forgive me--for doubting
you?"

"One little whisper from your lips makes everything right," he murmured
softly, gently drawing her from the room and locking the door.

"I couldn't help it," she whispered. "Everything seemed to point to your
guilt."

"It did," admitted the Phantom, "and I don't blame you. I suppose
Granger lied to me when he told me he got into disgrace with the Duke's
gang because of his refusal to abduct you. He's a skillful mixer of
truth and fiction. What happened to you? Who kidnaped you?"

"One of Doctor Bimble's men, I suppose. I slipped out of the laboratory
while you and the doctor were reading the paper. I was sick at heart.
What you had told me while we were in the closet expressed my feelings.
It seemed as though an idol had fallen off its pedestal and broken to
bits, like ordinary clay. Well, I had almost reached the front door when
someone sneaked up behind me, thrust a black cloth down over my head and
carried me upstairs. I must have been chloroformed, for shortly
afterward I lost consciousness.

"The next day Granger called on me in the little room where they were
keeping me. I think his object was to learn the location of Sea-Glimpse.
I was--well, I was stubborn and wouldn't tell him. I received a shock
the moment I saw him and noted his striking resemblance to you. All at
once I knew he was the murderer. It came to me in a flash, and of a
sudden I understood the meaning of Gage's statement."

"There must be such a thing as feminine intuition, after all," was the
Phantom's comment. "Of course you told him to his face that he was the
murderer?"

"I guess I did. The words seemed to tumble out of themselves. I think I
told Bimble the same thing that evening. He seemed greatly alarmed."

The Phantom started. "Intuition is sometimes a very dangerous faculty,"
he murmured. "It is very likely to--But this is no time for talking.
Jepson will be dead to the world for some little time, but the house is
bristling with gangsters. I must get you out of here somehow."

He looked quickly about the dimly lighted basement. There was a window
on each side, but both were covered by shutters and iron grilles, and
the only exit seemed to be the stairs.

"What about yourself?" asked the girl.

"Oh," with a low laugh, "I have a task that yet remains to be finished.
But you----"

Suddenly a little gasp slipped from the girl's lips, and she seized his
arm convulsively. Her gaze was rigid, and the Phantom looking in the
same direction, saw Doctor Bimble standing in the stairs with a leveled
pistol in his hand.

"Don't stir!" was the anthropologist's crisply spoken warning. "You will
please note, my dear Phantom, that I'm not aiming at you, but at Miss
Hardwick. She'll be dead the moment you make the slightest move!"



CHAPTER XXXI--AT BAY


The Phantom scarcely breathed. He stood utterly still while the doctor
came down the remaining steps and halted at the foot of the stairs. The
pistol, pointed at Helen with a steadiness that bespoke a deadly aim,
inspired him with a sense of awe a thousand times greater than if it had
been leveled at himself.

The girl's hand was still on his sleeve, and, without looking directly
at her, he knew that she was facing the menacing pistol without
flinching. Her slight touch on his arm gave him a feeling of tenderness
and strength. Already his wits were at work. In his hip pocket was the
weapon he had taken from Granger, but he could not reach for it without
jeopardizing the girl's life.

"Cruel trick you played on Granger," observed the doctor, standing a
dozen feet away. "I don't know how you managed it, but you seem to have
a special talent for such performances. Fortunately one of my men
happened to enter the room in which you left the poor fellow, and he saw
how things were. Well, Phantom, one thing is sure, you have played your
last trick."

The Phantom maintained his attitude of immobility, but Bimble's words
had given him an inward twinge. As far as he could see, the doctor had
appraised the situation with accuracy. The windows, with their shutters
and iron bars, seemed impregnable. The murky walls and the low ceiling
gave forth an impression of solidity that accentuated his sense of
bafflement. The way to the stairs was barred by Bimble with his pistol,
and the rooms and corridors above were swarming with the Duke's men. And
meanwhile the Phantom dared not bend a muscle, for fear of causing Helen
Hardwick's death.

"You will admit that you are very neatly cornered?" taunted the doctor.

"It would seem so," admitted the Phantom dryly, "but I have been
cornered many times before. There's nothing very original in the
situation."

"No, nothing except that you wriggled out of the others, while this one
will hold you till I am through with you. Don't you think it would be
the part of wisdom to submit and tell me what I want to know?"

"Never!" declared the Phantom with emphasis.

"Wouldn't it be better?" whispered Helen. "He'll kill us both unless we
do."

"It's his intention to kill us, anyway," the Phantom whispered back.
"The only reason he hasn't killed us already is that he hopes to
persuade us to give him the information he wants. Afraid?"

"Not for myself. But you----"

"Then step behind my back as quickly as you can."

The girl looked up at him with an expression of uncertainty.

"Hurry!" whispered the Phantom. "It's our only chance."

She hesitated a moment longer; then, with the swift motion of a startled
doe, she darted aside and stood at his back. The blue steel of the
pistol barrel flickered for an instant as the doctor transferred his aim
to the Phantom. Evidently the sudden movement had disconcerted Bimble.

"A fairly clever maneuver," he acknowledged, "but you have gained
nothing by it."

"I am satisfied," declared the Phantom, his spirits rising again. "You
can't reach Miss Hardwick with a bullet without first perforating me,
and you have no intention of killing me until you have learned what you
want to know. Eh, Bimble?"

The doctor's lips twisted into an ugly sneer. "We shall see," he
muttered irately. "You are a clever man, Phantom, but your cleverness
can't help you now."

He plucked a small metallic instrument from his vest pocket and brought
it to his lips. Three short, shrill whistles pierced the silence. With a
gratified grin on his lips the doctor restored the little metal tube to
his pocket. The third blast had no sooner sounded than a tumult of
discordant noises came from above. Bimble looked gloatingly at the
Phantom as the sounds drew nearer. A man ran down the stairs, quickly
followed by a second and a third. Others kept arriving, in groups of
three or more, until the Phantom had counted twenty-four.

Like a great human fan, the crowd spread out in a triangle along the
walls and about the foot of the stairs. As each man took his place in
the line, the Phantom gave him a quick appraising glance. In their faces
he read low cunning, brutish instincts, and stolid obedience to orders,
but the keener wit and subtler intellect which the Phantom had always
demanded of his men were lacking.

He read each face as if it were an open page, and finally his gaze
rested on Doctor Bimble. The anthropologist was a craftier man by far
than his subalterns, but at a glance the Phantom's keen eye picked out
the weak spot in his moral fiber. Already a plan was forming in his
mind. All he was waiting for was a favorable combination of
circumstances that would enable him to act.

The pistol in the doctor's hand was still pointing straight at the
Phantom's chest. Bimble's expression was a repulsive mixture of cruelty
and smug satisfaction.

"I trust you are convinced that resistance is useless, my dear Phantom,"
he declared in drawling tones. "There are more than twenty of us, as you
see."

"Excellent!" remarked the Phantom. "I am glad to see so many of you
here."

"Glad?" The doctor seemed a little dumfounded. "Why, pray?"

"Because having you all here in this room will make my task much
easier."

"Your task?"

The Phantom laughed easily. "You must surely know that it is my
intention to hand you all over to the police?"

Bimble stared. Twice he opened his mouth, but no words came. The
Phantom's cool audacity seemed to have silenced his tongue.

"Are you crazy?" he asked at length.

"Never was saner in my life. It is my firm intention to turn every one
of you over to the police. That's why I am glad to see so many of you
gathered in one room."

He smiled as he spoke, but his heart was not in his smile. He was
turning an audacious plan over in his mind, but he was not at all sure
that he would have a chance to put it into execution. At his back he
heard Helen's quick, nervous intakes of breath, and he turned his head
slightly.

"The Gray Phantom's star has never yet set," he whispered.

A low, quavering laugh was the girl's response.

Bimble was still staring at him as if doubting his sanity. "_You_ think
you are going to turn _us_ over to the police!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!
Still in a jocular mood, I see. It won't last long. For the last time I
ask if you will accept my terms."

The Phantom sent him a contemptuous glance. "One doesn't make terms with
sneaking hyenas like you," he declared.

"Very well." Bimble ran his eye over the triangle of faces, and his gaze
fell on a stout, tough-limbed man with a reddish face.

"Wilkes," he directed, "pull that devoted pair apart and carry the young
lady to the room upstairs where the skeletons are. Be careful not to get
in front of my pistol."

The stout man stepped out of the line. A coarse grin wreathed his face
as he approached the Phantom and the girl from the side.

"Get back!" whispered the Phantom to Helen. Slowly, step by step, the
two moved backward until Helen stood against the wall. Then the Phantom,
looking straight into the muzzle of Bimble's pistol, reached back and
wound his arms around the girl's slender waist.

"Pull us apart if you can," he told Wilkes as he interlocked his fingers
behind Helen's back.

The stout man stopped and scratched his head, as if confronting a
problem too complex for his wits to solve. A look of diffidence crossed
Bimble's face as he noticed that the Phantom had once more balked him.

"Knock him down if you can't part them any other way," he commanded
wrathfully. "Tap him on the head with something."

Chuckling, Wilkes drew a long revolver from his pocket, gripping it
tightly by the barrel as he cautiously approached the Phantom from the
side. Helen gasped.

"Keep cool!" whispered the Phantom. "And whatever happens, stay right at
my back."

He watched Bimble's pistol out of one eye, while with the other he
followed Wilkes' movements. For an instant, as Wilkes swung the heavy
weapon over his shoulder, he tensed his muscles for action. Then, with a
motion so swift that the eyes of the onlookers could scarcely register
it, his arm darted out and gripped the other's wrist just as the
revolver was about to crash down on the Phantom's head.

Once more his arm shot out and with a quick and powerful wrench he swung
Wilkes directly in front of him, coiling the fingers of one hand around
the man's neck and windpipe. In almost the same instant he whipped out
his pistol and, using the bulky figure of Wilkes as a shield, took aim
and fired.

Bimble uttered a sharp yell of pain. The pistol dropped from his
fingers, and he looked dazedly at his blood-spattered hand.

"Fairly good shot!" ejaculated the Phantom with a chuckle. At his back
was Helen, trembling with excitement, and in front of him stood Wilkes,
spluttering and gasping for breath as a result of the Phantom's clutch
at his throat.

The whole episode had been enacted within the space of a few seconds.
The Phantom had acted so swiftly and taken them all so completely by
surprise that on one had had time to interfere. Now, before the men
huddled against the wall and in front of the stairs could gather their
wits, a powerful shove sent Wilkes sprawling headlong to the floor, and
in another moment the Phantom had seized Helen's hand and made a rush
for Bimble.

He snatched up the pistol the doctor had dropped as the bullet struck
his wrist, and handed it to Helen.

"Shoot the first man who makes a move," he directed, "and shoot to
kill!"

Helen looked into his cool, determined eyes, flashing with the ecstasy
of combat. With a faint audacious smile on her lips, she drew herself up
and handling the weapon with the sure touch of an expert, faced the
staring and muttering crowd. For a few moments the men stood immobile,
as if the swift succession of events had cast a numbing spell over their
bodies and minds; then, with ominous grumblings and curses, a few of the
more daring ones started forward.

In the meantime the Phantom had jabbed his pistol against Bimble's body
with a force that brought a sickly groan from the doctor's lips. He
glanced aside out of the corner of an eye as a crack and a gleam of fire
issued from Helen's weapon. A bullet in the fleshy part of the hip had
checked a furtive movement on the part of one of the gang, and instantly
the others, impressed by the girl's exhibition of marksmanship, fell
back.

The Phantom nodded approvingly. His glittering eyes and a smile on his
lips gave no hint of what he felt.

"Let me warn you that Miss Hardwick is an expert," he remarked coolly.
"She once got a perfect bull's-eye at six hundred yards."

The men looked at the girl, then at their ashen-faced and quavering
leader. The Phantom pushed the pistol a little harder against the
doctor's body.

"If anyone raises a hand against Miss Hardwick, you die instantly," he
declared sharply. "I could kill you with no more compunction than if I
were killing a rat."

The doctor gulped, and for the moment all his cunning seemed to have
deserted him.

"Anyone who cares to fire a bullet at me is welcome to do so," the
Phantom went on, speaking in quick accents that sounded like the
clinking of metal. "My index finger, you will notice, is on the trigger.
The slightest pressure will send a chunk of lead into your vitals. If I
die, the muscular contraction that always accompanies sudden and violent
death would be very likely to snap the trigger. You get the idea, I
hope?"

It was evident that Bimble did. His absurdly thin legs wabbled as if he
were in the grip of a great terror and the spasmodic twitching of his
fingers indicated that this was a situation against which his habitual
craftiness was helpless.

Helen stood at the Phantom's side, sweeping the crowd with cool, alert
eyes, and holding the pistol in readiness for instant action. Her slim
figure was erect, and there was a proud tilt to her head, as if the
contagion of the Phantom's fighting spirit had gripped her. Again there
were surly mutterings among the men, but with rare exceptions they were
of the type that is impotent without a leader to urge them on.

Not a word came from Bimble's lips, but there was a look in his eye
which told that the tentacles of his mind were reaching for a solution
of the difficulty. The Phantom, keeping one eye on the doctor and the
other on the crowd, detected a stealthy movement in the rear of the
group. Someone had dropped to his knees and was crawling toward a huge
box.

Instantly the Phantom saw the meaning of the stealthy movement. For a
moment, as the crawling figure appeared around the edge of the group, he
turned his pistol from the doctor, took a quick aim, pressed the
trigger, and again thrust the muzzle of his weapon against Bimble's
diaphragm.

A cry told that the bullet had found its mark. As the smoke drifted
toward the ceiling, the man rose to his feet with a look of distress in
his face, caressing a portion of his arm as he slunk away toward the
rear. A few of the others, who had sought to take advantage of the
Phantom's temporary abstraction, fell back to their places.

The Phantom drew a long breath as he realized how narrowly Helen and
himself had escaped disaster. They had the advantage for the present,
but the slightest faltering might easily reverse the situation and
release the pent-up savagery of their foes.

"Bimble," he remarked, "it would be extremely unfortunate for you if any
of your men should get reckless. I see some of them are impatient. If
anything happens to Miss Hardwick or me, you will be a dead man. Hadn't
you better tell your friends to throw down their guns?"

The doctor glanced uneasily at his men. His looks told plainly that the
Phantom had read him accurately, that there was nothing he valued quite
so highly as he did his life, and that his swagger and bland assurance
would wilt the moment he faced a personal danger. There was venom in his
eyes, and his pale, distorted features bespoke impotent rage.

"Drop your guns," he commanded after another despairing look about the
basement.

The men regarded him diffidently and did not move. Their faces showed
that they were torn between the conflicting impulses of
self-preservation and an ingrained habit of obedience.

"You're first." The Phantom pointed a finger at a tall, barrel-chested
man at the end of the line. "Step forward and empty your pockets."

The Phantom was in a state of high tension. He was exercising a mastery
of mind over the situation, but all might yet be lost if the man should
refuse to obey and set the others an example of resistance.

"Miss Hardwick," he said quickly, realizing that each moment of delay
might cost them their lives, "you will count five. If our friend at the
end of the line has not emptied his pockets when you are through, shoot
to kill."

The girl signified with a slight nod that she understood. As she began
to count, her pistol was pointing straight at the man the Phantom had
indicated. The fellow's sullen obstinacy yielded gradually to an
over-powering respect for Helen's marksmanship, of which he had already
witnessed an exhibition. Just before she reached "five," he lumbered
forward and turned the lining of his pockets inside out. A knife, an
automatic, and several other implements clattered to the floor.

"Now get back in the corner," commanded the Phantom pointing. He
thrilled at the thought that the crisis was past and the victory almost
won.

The second man hesitated only for an instant before he followed the
example of the first. After that the process of disarming the gang went
on swiftly and without interruptions. Man after man stepped out of the
line, emptied his pockets, and joined the others in the corner. When the
last man had divested himself of his belongings there was a small pile
of oddly assorted articles in the middle of the floor.

The Phantom felt a little dazed, now that the tremendous tension was
over. At last he lowered the pistol and turned to the girl. Her face was
pale and a little haggard but a smile of triumph hovered about her lips.

"You're the grandest little woman I ever knew," he declared feelingly.

"Oh, I don't know," she confessed a little wearily. "I don't think I
could have stood it if you hadn't been so close to me. I felt as though
you were holding me under a spell all the time."

The Phantom laughed. "Bimble, you have seen how one man, with the
assistance of a plucky little woman, has vanquished a gang of
twenty-five cutthroats and ruffians. The yellow streak in you made it
fairly easy. I should like to see the Duke's face when he hears about
this."

The doctor swallowed hard. His putty-hued face reflected the depths of
mental agony.

"What--what are you going to do with us?" he inquired weakly.

"Precisely what I said I would do--hand you over to the police."

"Not that!" The doctor looked as though he had received a blow. "Listen!
Down below, in the cellar, are several million dollars' worth of
valuables. You can have it all if you will let us go."

"You're a rather poor sort, Bimble," said the Phantom contemptuously.
"There isn't gold enough in the world to buy your freedom. To see you
get your just deserts is worth more to me than all the millions the Duke
and his gang ever stole."

The doctor staggered back against the wall, utterly dejected. Of a
sudden the Phantom's expression of elation faded out and a worried look
took its place. Where was Granger? The reporter had not been among those
who had answered the doctor's summons, and the Phantom had seen nothing
of him since he left him chained to the wall in one of the upper rooms.
Without doubt he had been released, for Bimble had said that a member of
the gang had entered the room and found him shortly after the Phantom
had started for the basement. His absence was somewhat disturbing, for
the Phantom's task would not be finished until Granger had been caught.

Admonishing Miss Hardwick to keep an eye on the gang, he walked toward
the farther wall. In the corner was a door which he had not seen before.
It was locked, but he guessed that it led to the cellar in which the
doctor kept the gang's treasures, and he noted that it was of hard and
solid material and would resist almost any amount of pressure.

"Doctor," he said, walking back to where Bimble stood, "I'll trouble you
for your bunch of keys."

With an air of a broken and defeated man, Bimble complied, and the
Phantom made sure that one of the keys fitted the lock on the door
leading to the cellar. Keeping one eye on the gang, he gathered the
weapons they had discarded and placed them on the cellar stairs. Then he
carefully locked the door and put the keys in his pocket. Motioning
Helen to precede him, he backed up the stairs, covering the huddled and
dejected group with his pistol till he reached the top. Here was another
door, almost as substantial as the one communicating with the cellar.
They stepped through, and the Phantom closed it and turned a key in the
lock.

"Our precious friends are trapped," he remarked with a chuckle. "I'll
wager they won't get out of that basement till the police drag them out.
Now we must find Granger."

Passing swiftly down the hall, they opened one door after another,
glancing quickly into each room before proceeding to the next. Finally,
on the floor above, they reached a door through which faint sounds came.
For an instant the Phantom listened, then jerked the door open and
entered. Taking in the scene at a glance, he drew his pistol.

"Hands up, Granger!" he commanded.



CHAPTER XXXII--THE OUTLAW


The reporter's flushed face and the bottle at his elbow showed that he
had been drinking. As the Phantom's sharp command rang out, his nervous
fingers dropped the revolver which he had been pointing at a lanky,
dull-faced figure standing against the wall.

"Culligore!" exclaimed the Phantom, "How did you get here?"

The lieutenant smiled. "Oh, I've been in this house for some little
time--ever since that confounded 'doc' shot me in the leg. He put me to
bed and tied some ropes around me. How I got loose is a long story. I
guess the 'doc' would have taken a little more pains with the ropes if
he had known that the wound in my leg wasn't so bad as I let on it was.
I was strolling around a bit and finally I bumped into our friend
Granger here. He's a real hospitable guy. Handed me a drink with one
hand and flashed a gat on me with the other."

Granger, blinking his heavy eyes and staring blankly at the two
intruders, leaned back against his chair. Evidently the weapon in the
Phantom's hand convinced him that the game was up, for he made no move
to recover the pistol he had dropped.

"He felt so sure I wouldn't get away from him alive that he told me the
whole story," Culligore went on. "Of course, I had pieced together most
of it already from the scraps of fact I had. I've had my suspicions
about Granger ever since the department turned him loose. I thought that
was a big mistake, but I didn't have any evidence until just the other
day. Then I searched his room, and what do you suppose I found?"

"What?" asked the Phantom and Helen in unison.

Culligore laughed softly. "It's queer how clever rascals like Granger
always make some childish blunder. He didn't have sense enough to throw
away the Maltese cross--that bit of phony jade that the murderer took
from Gage's desk--but hid it in the false bottom of his trunk. Well, I
guess that alone will give him a start toward the electric chair, though
it isn't the only piece of evidence I have against him."

"Then, Culligore," asked the Phantom, "I suppose you're convinced I had
nothing to do with the murders?"

The lieutenant grinned. "Well, you sized me up about right while we were
stalling each other in the basement. From the first I didn't want to
believe you were mixed up in the dirty deal. I had a sort of bet with
myself that the Gray Phantom would always play the game according to the
code. Anyhow, it wasn't long before I began to suspect that the whole
thing was a frame-up. Granger has just told me all about it. Seemed
proud of his achievement. The Duke had mapped out a nifty plan for
Bimble to work on. None of the flossy details were omitted. Gage was to
be murdered and you were to be the goat. If possible, the man put on the
job was to be someone resembling you, so that if he were seen on or near
the scene of the crime the evidence against the Gray Phantom would be
strengthened.

"I guess you know what a thoroughgoing bunch the Duke's men are. They
combed the country till they found a man looking like you. Granger
seemed to fit the specifications, and they offered him a big bunch of
money if he would do their dirty work. Granger tells me he has always
had his eye on the main chance, that he was sick and tired of the
newspaper grind, and was ready to do almost anything to get out of it. I
suppose his conscience troubled him a bit, but the Duke's gang gave him
all the whisky he wanted, for they knew he had the knack of keeping his
mouth shut even when he was drunk, and liquor is a pretty good antidote
for a troublesome conscience.

"The threatening letter was forged, of course. The job was done by one
of the cleverest forgers in the world, a member of the Duke's
organization. After the murder----"

"Not quite so fast," interrupted the Phantom. "How did Granger get into
Gage's bedroom?"

"Through the tunnel connecting with Bimble's residence."

The Phantom looked puzzled. "But I satisfied myself that the revolving
frame could not be manipulated from the outside."

"It wasn't," said Culligore. "Gage himself admitted his murderer. It
wasn't the first time that he had received a visit from one of the gang
that way, and he did not know that the organization had condemned him to
death. So when Granger gave the customary signal, Gage thought somebody
who didn't care to be seen was bringing him an important message."

"I might have guessed it," murmured the Phantom. "Evidently I was not
cut out for a detective. Granger, of course, made his escape through the
tunnel after committing the murder?"

"He did, and that's what made the crime look so mysterious. It was part
of the plan, for it convinced everybody that no one but the Phantom
could have committed it. But Granger had no sooner committed the murder
than he began to be nervous. Somehow he got it into his head that the
housekeeper was wise to him. Maybe she was; we will never know that for
sure, though I have a private hunch that Mrs. Trippe had guessed the
truth. Anyhow, Granger decided that he wouldn't be safe unless the
housekeeper was put out of the way. He locked her up in the bedroom;
then went out for a drink. He was bent on murder, and he needed a bracer
for his nerves. When he came back----"

"In the meantime," interrupted the Phantom, "Mrs. Trippe tried to escape
by way of the revolving window frame. Probably she knew there was a
hidden exit somewhere in the room. At any rate, she had discovered how
to open it just before Granger returned. I was in the aperture in the
wall and saw the murderer's hand as he drove the knife into her body.
Granger either knew or guessed that I was there. He did not see me, but
he heard the housekeeper addressing someone just before the blow was
struck, and he probably surmised who it was. To make sure I wouldn't get
him into trouble, he ran around to the Bimble residence and blocked the
other end of the tunnel. But there is one thing I don't understand. How
did it come about that Granger was suspected of treachery?"

"You have just told us that he tried to kill you," said Culligore.
"Well, that was the reason. The doc had given strict orders that you
were to be taken alive and were not to be killed under any
circumstances. Granger violated those orders when he tried to smother
you to death in the tunnel. Shortly after that he disappeared, and that
made it look all the worse for him. The 'doc' didn't know that you had
kidnaped him. All he knew was that Granger had vamoosed, and he thought
he was doing the gang dirt and pulling some kind of treacherous stuff."

"That explains the note Dan the Dope handed me," observed the Phantom.
"Everything is clear except Pinto's part in the affair. His statement
cleared up a good many things, but not all. For instance, he was
startled when I showed him the ducal coronet. Tell me," and the Phantom
lowered his voice as a new thought occurred to him, "is, or was, Pinto a
member of the Duke's crowd?"

"Not exactly." Culligore spoke with a hesitant drawl. "I'll tell you
something if you promise to let it go in one ear and out the other. For
some time I've had a private tip to the effect that the Duke's outfit
wanted someone on the inside of the police department. They made Pinto a
pretty attractive offer, and Pinto nibbled at the bait. He might have
swallowed it if the Gage murder hadn't happened along."

"No wonder he acted so shaky," murmured the Phantom. "Well, I am glad
the ugly mess has been disposed of. The wily old Peng Yuen must have had
an inkling of the truth when he quoted something to me from one of the
Chinese philosophers. I didn't get his meaning then, but I do now.
Anyway," with a soft laugh, "the bloodstain has been washed from the
Gray Phantom's name. There will never----"

Granger, who had been leaning back against his chair as if in a drunken
stupor, made a sudden movement. The Phantom was about to interfere, but
the reporter was only pouring himself a drink from the bottle. He rose
unsteadily and held the glass aloft.

"It was fun while it lasted," he declared thickly. "I'm going to have
one more drink--just one. Here goes!"

He gulped down the contents of the glass, swayed for an instant and
regarded the others with an odd expression. Then, before either of them
could interfere, he picked up the pistol he had dropped upon the
Phantom's entrance.

A crack sounded. Helen uttered a sharp cry, and Culligore limped toward
the reporter's chair just as Granger went staggering to the floor.

"Killed himself!" muttered the lieutenant. "Shot himself through the
heart. Well, that's one way of dodging the electric chair."

Helen shuddered convulsively and the Phantom led her gently toward the
door. He drew the doctor's keys from his pockets and tossed them to
Culligore.

"I forgot to tell you," he remarked in casual tones, "that Bimble and
his gang are locked up in the basement. Miss Hardwick and I rounded them
up and took their guns away from them while you and Granger were
discussing the crime. I understand, too, that there's a large amount of
swag salted in the cellar. It will be quite an important catch for you,
Culligore, and ought to help toward promotion for you."

The lieutenant stared.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he muttered at last.

The Phantom smiled. "I believe there are several outstanding charges
against myself," he observed. "To arrest the Gray Phantom would be
almost as big an achievement as the rounding up of the Duke's gang."

Culligore seemed to hesitate. "Well," with a broad grin, "I suppose I
ought to pinch you, but my leg still hurts a bit and you can run a lot
faster than I can. Anyhow, I'll get plenty of credit as it is. You two
might as well go away. I'll wait ten minutes before I telephone
headquarters."

"Thanks, Culligore."

He gripped the lieutenant's hand and held it while each man looked the
other in the eye. Then he turned and led Helen from the room. In a
little while they were out on the street, and her face brightened as the
morning breeze fanned it. The Phantom hailed a passing taxicab.

For a time they sat silent, and there was a touch of reverence in the
Phantom's attitude as he gazed at the girl.

"Helen!" he whispered.

The soft brown eyes looked into his own.

"Gray Phantom!" she murmured.

He found her hand and held it. "It was a great adventure--the greatest
of my life. Who would ever have dreamed that the Gray Phantom would go
to such extremes to clear himself in the eyes of a girl?"

She looked up again, and there was a warm, misty radiance in her eyes.

"Did my opinion of you really matter as much as that?"

"Why, of course; it meant everything to me. And Helen----"

There was a choking sensation in his throat. He turned his head and
looked out through the window at a quiet street lined with brownstone
fronts. He laughed sadly.

"I forgot for a moment that I am still a hunted man. I am still an
outlaw, and all officers are not as generous as Culligore. My past is
hanging over me like a great black cloud. But perhaps some day----"

She smiled as he broke off. "Perhaps some day," she murmured, "the cloud
will roll away."

His fingers tightened convulsively about her hand; then he opened the
door and called to the chauffeur. The cab swerved up to the curb and
stopped.

"Good-by, Helen."

Her lips trembled and for a moment she could not speak.

"Au revoir--Gray Phantom!"

He drew a long, deep breath as the cab glided away. He watched it till
it was out of sight. There was a smile on his lips and his eyes held a
tender light.

"Farewell, Brown Eyes," he said, half aloud. "Wonder if we shall meet
again, and if--" He did not finish the thought, but smiled whimsically.
"I must hurry back and see what I can do with my gray orchid."

Then he swung down a side street and walked briskly away, looking
furtively to right and left with the habitual caution of hunted men.





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