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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.