← catalogue

The Gray Phantom's Return

by Herman Landon · English · Gutenberg #37490 · 468,562 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Gray Phantom's Return
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Gray Phantom's Return

Author: Herman Landon


        
Release date: September 20, 2011 [eBook #37490]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37490

Credits: E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRAY PHANTOM'S RETURN ***


E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



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
reentered 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 reenforcements. 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 aesthetic sense which revolts against the vulgar and sordid.
Having, on the impulse of the moment, committed a sordid crime, your
aesthetic 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 role 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
role 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 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/37490