The Phantom was silent for a moment. Helen Hardwick seemed to be searching his soul with eyes that gave him a distressing impression of doubt, suspicion, and reproach.
“You’re mistaken.” He was addressing the doctor, but the effect of his words was intended for the girl. “I went to Gage’s house this afternoon, hoping to find some clew to the murderer.”
“Ah!” The doctor’s chuckle expressed amusement. “You were acting on the idea that it takes a crook to catch a crook, I suppose. Go on. Your ingenious explanations are diverting.”
“I found myself cornered,” continued the Phantom, stifling his resentment. “With the house surrounded and the police pounding on the door, I had only a few moments in which to find a way out. I used the tunnel, but I discovered the opening by merest accident.”
“Impossible—flatly impossible! Yes, I see your wrist is scratched, but that proves nothing. That opening, my dear sir, could never have been discovered by accident.”
“You seem to know something about it yourself,” remarked the Phantom pointedly.
“I do,” admitted the anthropologist, with a broad grin.
“And the tunnel runs into the cellar of your house.”
“So it does.” The doctor seemed not at all disturbed by Vanardy’s sharp gaze. “Years ago, when I was looking for an inconspicuous and out-of-the-way place in which to pursue my studies in quiet, I leased the house to which this laboratory forms an extension. I saw Gage now and then, and the man interested me. Even before we became confidential I had noticed phrenological manifestations that seemed to classify him as belonging to one of the types described by Lombroso. Step by step I became familiar with his history and mode of life. I learned that he was conducting an extensive traffic in stolen goods, and that he had a broad circle of acquaintances in the underworld. Gage proved useful, introducing me to criminals whom I wished to study at close range, and, in addition to that, the man himself interested me. I saw traits and peculiarities in him that were strangely contradictory. And so, when one day he confided to me that he was living in constant fear of the police, who were likely to raid his premises at any time and confiscate his valuables, I made a proposition to him.”
“You offered to help on the condition that he sign his body over to you for dissecting purposes,” guessed the Phantom.
“Exactly, my friend.” Bimble rubbed his hands in glee. “I offered to invent an avenue of escape that would be absolutely safe and proof against detection. Gage accepted, and I set to work fulfilling my part of the bargain. The result, if I may bestow compliments on myself, was a work of genius.”
The Phantom gazed in frank astonishment at the versatile anthropologist. “The police have a nasty name for that sort of thing,” he observed.
“The police and I are friends. I help them on occasions, when the spirit moves me and the case interests me. And a scientific man, my dear sir, cannot afford to have moral scruples. The ends of science justify all other things, even assisting a criminal to escape. Incidentally I derived a lot of entertainment out of the planning of the tunnel. In the first place, the window was purposely built so small that no one would consider it for a moment as a possible means of escape. Still less would any one think of looking for an exit hidden behind the frame of such a window. You noticed the nail, of course. A lot of psychology is centered around that nail.”
“So it’s a psychological nail, eh?” The Phantom looked at the scratch on his wrist.
“I knew, from my observations of the workings of the human mind, that not one person in ten million would give a second thought to that nail. Even if, by remote chance, someone should touch it, he would never suspect that it was a part of a mechanism. If, by a still remoter chance, he would investigate more closely, he would not know how to operate it. So, you see, there is not one chance in a billion that a stranger would find the tunnel. Do you blame me for doubting your statement that you found it by accident?”
The Phantom looked at Miss Hardwick. Doctor Bimble’s explanation seemed to have impressed her strongly. He did not wonder at this, for he knew there was logic in the anthropologist’s argument. Nothing but his firm belief that Gage had provided himself with an emergency exit of some sort had prompted the Phantom to give the nail a closer scrutiny.
Doctor Bimble gave him a mildly amused look.
“You agree with me—don’t you, Vanardy? I think my logic holds together. Only a person familiar with the tunnel could have committed the murder. Conversely, a person betraying a knowledge of the tunnel is a worthy object of suspicion.”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” The Phantom suddenly called to mind his own theory of the crime. “One other person could have committed the murder without a knowledge of the tunnel.”
“Yes, I know,” said the doctor wearily. “You are thinking of Officer Pinto. The possibility that he might be the guilty one occurred to me as soon as I saw the newspaper account, but the probabilities of the case controverted that view. Officer Pinto is an honest, dull-witted, conscientious soul—nothing else. That kind of man doesn’t com——”
The jangling of a bell in front of the house interrupted him. There was a humorous twinkle in his eyes as he looked at the Phantom over the rims of his spectacles. Helen inhaled sharply.
“The police have come to search the house, I think,” Doctor Bimble murmured languidly. “My man Jerome—an estimable fellow, by the way—is already admitting them. In a few moments they will be coming this way. Of course, if I tell them that I have seen nothing of a fugitive, they will go away without making an extended search.”
Vanardy stiffened. His head went up and his eyes narrowed; then he glanced quizzically at the doctor. It seemed to him that Bimble had stressed the word if, as though a condition were implied.
“Well, Vanardy?” The anthropologist’s tone was light and playful. Sounds of distant footfalls reached their ears. The Phantom’s darting eyes rested for an instant on one of the skeletons, and in a twinkling he understood. He laughed shortly, for the idea impressed him as grotesquely humorous.
“I see,” he said quickly. “You’ll say the necessary word to the police if I agree to dedicate my earthly remains to your private hall of fame.”
“You grasp my meaning exactly. But the time is short and I sha’n’t press you for a definite promise. Only give me your word that you will consider the proposition.”
“Very well; I’ll consider it,” promised the Phantom. “But I warn you that I have no burning ambition to become a skeleton for some time yet.”
A pleased grin wrinkled the doctor’s face. The footfalls, mingling with gruff voices, were coming closer, signifying that the searchers were rapidly approaching the laboratory.
“This way, Vanardy.” The doctor beckoned the Phantom to follow as he started toward the door. Approaching footsteps caused him to draw back. A look of bewilderment came into his face.
“We have wasted too much time,” he said complainingly; then, as he looked about the room, his face brightened. “But this will do for a hiding place. Better come along, Miss Hardwick. It may save you embarrassing questions.”
He stepped hurriedly to one side of the room, opened a door and motioned them into a narrow closet. A moment later they heard a key turn in the lock.
CHAPTER VIII—LOGIC VERSUS HEART THROBS
A vague misgiving assailed the Phantom as the door closed. The hiding place chosen for them by the genial Doctor Bimble seemed not quite adequate to the emergency. There had been no time for argument, however, and nothing for the Phantom to do but follow instructions. The versatile anthropologist knew best, he had thought, and very likely the police would take Bimble’s word for it that nobody was concealed in the laboratory.
The closet was so dark that, but for a faint fragrance and the occasional scraping of a foot, he might have thought himself alone. From the other side of the door came subdued sounds, and he pictured the tubby little doctor protesting against the intrusion on his sacred privacy. Of Helen he could see nothing but the pallid glint of her face in the gloom, but her quick, nervous breathing told him that she was keyed up to a high tension. There was a medley of questions in his mind, but he found it hard to put them into words.
“Hel—Miss Hardwick,” he whispered.
“Yes?”.
“Logic is silly rot.”
A moment’s pause. “I don’t believe I understand.”
“According to the learned doctor’s logic, I am the murderer of Sylvanus Gage. He made out quite a convincing case, and I could see you were impressed. Yet, deep down in your heart, you know he was talking piffle. You don’t believe I killed Gage.”
She stood silent for a time. He pressed closer to the wall and fumbled for her hand. It was cold, and the pulsations at the wrist made him think of a frightened, fluttering bird.
“I wish I could believe you didn’t,” she murmured, freeing her hand.
“Thank you.” Her candor had given him a little thrill of faint and indefinable hope. “Would it surprise you very much if I told you that my only reason for leaving Sea-Glimpse was to convince you of my innocence?”
“Convince me?” She gave a low, incredulous laugh. “Why?”
“I’m not sure I can tell you that. From a practical point of view it was a foolish move, wasn’t it? By the way, you knew that the police were hunting high and low for me. You alone knew where I was to be found, and yet you didn’t tell. I wonder why.”
She meditated for a little; then, in a whisper: “I don’t know.”
He laughed softly. “It seems neither one of us is very practical. We don’t understand our own motives. Can you tell me what you are doing in this gallery of skeletons?”
“I am not sure, but I will try. The morning after the murder of Gage, I read the accounts in all the papers. I can’t tell you how I felt. It was as if a great illusion had been shattered. I remember how I cried one day when I fell and broke my first doll. My feelings after reading the papers were something like that, only more poignant.”
“I understand,” he murmured. “You had placed the Gray Phantom on a pedestal. When he fell and broke to bits, just like common clay, you were disappointed.”
“Yes, it was something like that. I had placed your better self on a pedestal. I didn’t want to believe it had fallen or that it was just common clay. I read the papers very carefully; hoping to find a weak point in the evidence against you, but it seemed complete and conclusive down to the tiniest detail. One of the articles puzzled me a little, though.”
“Oh—the Sphere’s! Yes, I noticed it, too.”
“It read as though the writer were not quite sure that you were the guilty one. After thinking it over for a while I called up the Sphere and asked for the reporter who had written the article. They had some little trouble finding him, and when he finally came to the ’phone he acted as if he were not quite sober. I tried to question him about the case, but he gruffly told me he had nothing to tell aside from what he had put into his story. If I had a personal interest in the matter, he said, the best thing I could do was go and consult Doctor Bimble.”
“And you adopted the suggestion?”
“I had never heard of Doctor Bimble, but the reporter told me he was the cleverest investigator of criminal cases in town. He warned me that Doctor Bimble might refuse to help me, since he accepted nothing but cases of unusual interest, but the fact that the murdered man was a friend and neighbor might make a difference. Yesterday I called on the doctor, but at first he would talk of nothing but his skeletons. The murder didn’t seem to interest him in the least. He said the Phantom’s guilt was clear and that all that remained was to catch him. Then, when he saw how earnest I was, he told me about the tunnel.”
“The doctor is a queer duck,” murmured the Phantom musingly. “The ordinary man wouldn’t take strangers into his confidence about such things. The eccentricity of genius, I suppose.”
“The whole affair seemed to bore him immensely. He told me the man who killed Gage must have used the tunnel, since he could not have left the room any other way. He thought it possible the murderer was still hiding there, lying low until the excitement should die down, and if I didn’t have anything better to do I might watch for him at this end. As for himself, he said he wasn’t at all concerned in the apprehension and punishment of criminals, but he gave me his revolver and told me I might watch the door leading from the laboratory, since the murderer, if he were still in the tunnel, had to come out that way. I think my interest in the case amused the doctor. I suspected he was chuckling at me most of the time.
“I watched the door till late last night, all the time hoping that, if anyone came out of the tunnel, it would not be you. Shortly before midnight I persuaded the doctor to let his man take my place. You see, if the murderer proved to be anyone but you, I wanted him caught, because then your innocence would be established. Early this morning I went back to my post. When I heard steps on the stairs my heart stood still for a moment. As the door opened I felt like shrieking. And then——”
She broke off with a gasp. From above came the sounds of footsteps and doors slamming, indicating that the police were searching the upper part of the house.
“And when you saw me,” the Phantom put in, “you immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was guilty. Well, I suppose it was good logic. What can I do or say to convince you that I didn’t kill Gage?”
“Nothing,” she said, a hysterical catch in her throat. Of a sudden she seemed cold and distant, as if realizing that in telling her story she had betrayed too much of her feelings. “I fear there is nothing more to be said.”
The Phantom drew a deep breath. “I don’t blame you,” he said gently. “There are several black chapters in my past. But some day I’ll prove to you that I had nothing to do with this murder. I admit that just now the evidence weighs heavily against me. It is true there was something of a feud between me and Gage once upon a time and——”
“And the threatening letter,” she interrupted. “Why did you send it if you didn’t mean to kill him?”
“It was a forgery. I never wrote it.”
“Handwriting experts say you did.”
“I know.” He remembered having read in the newspapers that three experts had compared the letter with samples of his handwriting on file in the bureau of criminal identification, and that two of them had declared that the Phantom had written it. “That only goes to show that it was an exceptionally clever forgery, and experts have been known to differ before.”
“But Gage told the officer that it was you who stabbed him.” She spoke as if determined to hear his explanation of the damning bits of evidence even though every word hurt her.
“True enough. But Gage didn’t see me. He had the threatening letter in mind when he said that.”
“Nothing but the Maltese cross was missing, and you had had a quarrel with Gage about that.”
“True, too.” The Phantom chuckled bitterly. “If I had committed the murder I should have taken pains to carry away a lot of other things for a blind.” She was silent for a few moments. Footsteps were coming down the stairs, and the Phantom knew that the searchers would soon be in the laboratory. Again he found her hand, but she quickly drew it away.
“You knew about the tunnel,” she reminded him, her shaky accents betraying the struggle going on within her.
“I swear that I found it by accident.”
He could not see her face, but he sensed that she doubted him and that the remnant of faith in her heart was unable to withstand the corroding effect of a growing suspicion. The footsteps were drawing closer, and now they could hear voices outside the door. He recognized the rasping accents of Doctor Bimble.
“I tell you, my dear sir, that the closet contains nothing but chemicals which I use in my laboratory work. Some of them are very valuable. That’s why I keep them under lock and key.”
Tensing every muscle as if preparing for an attack, the Phantom stepped in front of the girl. She made no protest as he took her pistol, which she had been holding all the time and which now hung limply from her fingers.
“I don’t doubt your word,” answered a gruff voice outside, “but orders are to search everywhere and make a good job of it. Hate to trouble you, but it’s got to be done.”
The doctor, evidently sparring for time, insisted that he had been in his laboratory all day and that nobody could have slipped into the closet unnoticed by him; but the other was obdurate.
“Very well, then,” finally grumbled the anthropologist, “but I shall make complaint to Inspector Wadham. Jerome, where are my keys?” Despite the suspense under which he was laboring, the Phantom grinned. He strongly suspected that Bimble was working a ruse in order to gain time. Yet he wondered what the outcome was to be, for unless the keys were promptly produced the officers would undoubtedly force the door.
His next sensation was one of astonishment. A curious calm appeared to have fallen over the group outside, for moment after moment passed without a word being spoken. The Phantom wondered what it could mean. It seemed as though the speakers had been suddenly stricken dumb. After what seemed a long period of silence, somebody uttered an exclamation of astonishment, then a laugh sounded, and next footsteps moved away from the closet door. A minute or so passed, then someone fumbled with the lock, and presently the door was opened by Doctor Bimble. He was smiling blandly, but the Phantom thought he detected an uneasy gleam behind the spectacles.
“What’s happened?” he inquired, looking about him dazedly and noticing that the girl and himself were alone with the doctor.
The anthropologist waved a hand toward the front of the house. “Listen!”
From the streets came loud and raucous shouts, and a blank look crossed the Phantom’s face as he made out the words:
“Uxtra! Gray Phantom capchured! All ’bout the big pinch! Uxtra!”
CHAPTER IX—THE PHANTOM IS MYSTIFIED
For a time the little group in the laboratory stood as if turned into inanimate shapes, their senses under the spell of the hoarse shouts in the street. The Phantom felt a curious churning in his head. The anthropologist was still smiling, but the smile was gradually growing thin and hard. Helen fixed the Phantom with a stony look.
“It appears a mistake of some kind has been made,” muttered the doctor at length. “It was a fortunate one for you, my friends, for the officers were becoming quite insistent. Luckily the cries diverted their attention from the closet, and they went away apologizing after telephoning headquarters and verifying the report.”
The Phantom, still feeling Helen’s gaze on his face, pocketed the pistol he had been holding. The newsboys’ cries had given him a jolt that left him a little dazed and caused his mind to turn to trivial things. He found himself admiring Helen’s simple little hat and plain but tasteful dress, noticing that they seemed as much a part of her as her hair and her complexion. He saw that she tried to be brave despite a crushing disaster to her illusions, and somehow he felt sorry for her.
Doctor Bimble turned on him with a frown.
“Sir,” he demanded, “are you the Gray Phantom or merely a clumsy impostor?”
The question seemed so ludicrous that the Phantom could only chuckle.
“It has long been my desire to meet the Gray Phantom,” pursued the doctor, still scowling darkly. “I should dislike to think I have been imposed upon. But that can’t be, unless”—with another suspicious look—“you are acting as a foil for the Phantom. Well, we shall see presently, I suppose. In the meantime, you may consider yourself at home under my roof.”
Without knowing why, the Phantom hesitated before accepting the invitation. To take advantage of the doctor’s hospitality was clearly the proper thing to do. In a little while the police would learn they had blundered, and then the man hunt would be resumed with redoubled vigor. To venture forth on the streets after that would be little short of madness. The Phantom, conquering his misgivings—which, after all, were nothing more than a vague doubt in regard to the doctor—murmured his appreciation.
Bimble’s manservant, a lanky, thin-faced individual with a gloomy expression and wary eye, entered with a copy of the extras. The Phantom gave him a quick and keenly searching glance, and again he felt strangely bewildered. The man looked innocent enough, and it was nothing but an intangible something in his gait and his manner of carrying himself that caused the Phantom to look twice.
Doctor Bimble took the damp sheet, still redolent of ink, and read aloud the triple-leaded article under the scare head. During the perusal Helen regarded him with strange, expressionless eyes, while now and then the servant shot the Phantom a stealthy glance which the latter found hard to interpret.
Evidently the extra had been hurriedly prepared, for the article contained only a few pithy facts. It seemed that the Phantom, with an audacity and a recklessness characteristic of him, had for some unaccountable purpose visited the East Houston Street establishment in which the murder of Sylvanus Gage had been perpetrated. Wearing no other disguise than a black beard, which he had evidently grown since his last appearance in public, he had approached the housekeeper, introduced himself as Mr. Adair, of Boston, a criminal investigator, and requested to inspect the scene of the murder. The unsuspecting housekeeper had admitted him, little guessing that her visitor was one of the most celebrated criminals of the age.
The Gray Phantom had been in the room only a few minutes when Officer Joshua Pinto appeared on the scene. With laudable perspicacity the officer recognized the Phantom almost immediately, despite the disguising beard, and by clever maneuvering managed to lock him in the room, standing guard outside the door while the housekeeper telephoned headquarters. In a few moments an impenetrable cordon had been thrown around the house, and the capture of the Phantom seemed an absolute certainty. Yet, when the door was battered down, the astonished officers saw that the room was empty and that the notorious rogue had achieved another of his miraculous escapes.
Apparently, so the article stated, the Phantom had accomplished the impossible, but then the Phantom’s entire career had been a series of incredible accomplishments. How he had managed to leave the room and elude the cordon of police would probably remain a mystery forever unless the criminal himself should divulge the secret. His capture, which had taken place while the police were making a systematic search of the houses in the block, had been due to one of the strange aberrations which seize even the astutest criminals. A brawl had occurred in a “blind pig” in Bleecker Street, and the commotion had attracted the attention of a passing sergeant. After sending in a hurry call for help the sergeant had raided the place, and among the prisoners taken was one who was almost instantly recognized as the Gray Phantom. The identification was rendered all the easier by the fact that he had removed his beard after making his sensational escape from the East Houston Street establishment. The belief was expressed that the prisoner would be induced to make a statement as soon as he had recovered from the effects of the raw whiskey he had consumed in the dive, presumably in celebration of his latest coup.
“Rot!” ejaculated the doctor, throwing the paper down with a gesture of disgust. “A fool would know that a man of the Gray Phantom’s temperament, whatever other folly he might commit, would not get intoxicated at a critical moment like this. This proves—But what’s become of Miss Hardwick?”
The Phantom looked up with a start. The girl was gone. Evidently she had taken advantage of the other’s absorption in the newspaper article to slip out unnoticed. Jerome, a crestfallen look on his long face, hastily left the laboratory, returning in a few moments with the report that Miss Hardwick was nowhere in sight. The Phantom imagined that there was an expression of sharp reproach in the doctor’s eyes as they rested on the servant, but the impression was fleeting.
“The young lady has probably gone home,” ventured the anthropologist. “She must have been tired, and in a measure her task was accomplished. The question is, can you rely on her not to communicate what she knows to the police?”
The Phantom looked a trifle doubtful. He had perceived that the impulses of her heart had been swamped by logic. It was possible she had gone away hating him, firmly convinced he was a murderer, and in that event her sense of duty might easily overcome everything else.
“Frankly, I don’t know,” he declared. “At any rate, I am about as safe here as anywhere for the present. I should like a bath, if I may presume on your hospitality.”
“By all means. And as soon as you have rested a bit we shall dine. Dear me, it is almost nine o’clock! Jerome!”
He instructed the servant, and the Phantom followed the silent and soft-footed man to the bathroom. As he splashed about in the tub, he tried to forget the bitter ache which Helen’s words had left in his heart. Her frigid attitude and her abrupt going away had merely strengthened his determination to convince her of his innocence. He saw that he must act quickly and take advantage of the comparative security which he could enjoy until the police discovered that they had arrested the wrong man.
His mind was at work on a plan while he hurried into his clothes, which Jerome had brushed and pressed while he was in the tub. A question that troubled him greatly was how far he could safely take Bimble into his confidence. The sharp-witted anthropologist, with his keen insight into human nature, would prove a valuable ally, but the Phantom felt a great deal of mystification in his presence. There was something about the man which his senses could not quite grasp. Likely as not, it was only the scientific temperament, which gave him an appearance of secretiveness and dissimulation, but of this the Phantom could not be sure.
The dinner, which he ate in the doctor’s company, was excellent, and Jerome served them in a faultless manner, proving that the anthropologist’s devotion to his science had not blunted his taste for physical comforts. The host discoursed learnedly and brilliantly on Lucchini’s theory in regard to the responsibility of the criminal, and it was not until the servant had withdrawn and they had reached their coffee and cigars that he mentioned the subject on the Phantom’s mind.
The dining room, furnished with an approach to elegance that one would scarcely have expected to find on such a shabby street, was lighted by a heavily shaded electrolier. The lights and shadows playing across Bimble’s face as he gesticulated with his head gave him an added touch of mystery and accentuated the general air of inscrutability that hovered about his person. He broached the subject of Gage’s death while lighting his cigar.
“Come now, Vanardy, let us be confidential. It was you who murdered Gage. Why deny it?”
Smiling faintly, the Phantom shook his head.
Bimble regarded him curiously. “The only thing about the crime that interests me is your denial. But I think I understand. In some criminals there is an æsthetic sense which revolts against the vulgar and sordid. Having, on the impulse of the moment, committed a sordid crime, your æsthetic sense reasserts itself, and you want to forget the ugly affair as quickly as possible. Am I right?”
The Phantom laughed. “You clothe the thing in such attractive phrasing that I almost wish I could plead guilty. But I didn’t kill Gage, and that’s all there is to it.”
“You still insist that Pinto did?”
“Until two or three hours ago I was firmly convinced of it.”
“Ah! Now we are getting down to facts. Until two or three hours ago you were certain Pinto was the murderer. Why?”
“Because at the time I felt sure that no one else could have committed the crime. The mysterious circumstances could be explained in no other way than on the assumption that Pinto was the perpetrator.”
“Exactly. Your logic was not at all bad. But I infer that within the last three hours you have changed your mind.”
“Not quite; I have merely modified my opinion. I am no longer positively certain that Pinto committed the murder.”
“Why?” A shrewd grin twisted the anthropologist’s lips. “What has caused you to modify your view—the tunnel?”
“Yes, the tunnel. The existence of the tunnel makes it possible for someone other than Pinto to have committed the murder. It suggests another hypothesis, in the light of which all the circumstances are explainable. Without the tunnel I should be morally certain of Pinto’s guilt; with it in existence I am no longer sure.”
“Bravo, my friend! You are doing very well for an amateur detective. Your idea is that the murderer entered Gage’s bedchamber by way of the tunnel and took his departure the same way. Do you know,” with a broad grin, “that I thoroughly agree with you? The only point of difference between us is the identity of the human mole.”
The Phantom’s face darkened a trifle. “I advanced the idea only as a hypothesis,” he declared a little testily, “and as yet I am not at all sure that it has any value. For instance, in order to reach Gage’s bedroom by way of the tunnel, the murderer had to go through your house and get down in the cellar.”
“Which could easily be done. Both Jerome and myself are sound sleepers and the house has no burglar protection.”
“But that isn’t all. After traversing the tunnel, the murderer had to enter the bedroom. In order to do so he had to work the mechanism which controls the revolving window frame. From the inside of the chamber it is worked by the nail. Can it be manipulated from the outside as well?”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the doctor, almost jumping out of the chair. “I never thought of that.”
The Phantom eyed him keenly, though he seemed wholly absorbed in contemplation of the salt shaker. The exclamation, he thought, had not sounded quite natural.
“You invented the contraption,” he pointed out. “Surely you ought to know whether the mechanism can be worked by a man approaching the room by way of the tunnel.”
“So I thought. An inventor ought to know the children of his brain.” He gave a forced chuckle, as if fencing for time in which to frame an answer. “The fact of the matter is that the contrivance was intended to be an emergency exit and nothing else. The spring by which the mechanism is operated can’t be reached by a man approaching the room by way of the tunnel. But that,” with a grin which wrinkled his whole face, “does not exclude the possibility of a man getting through by the use of force. For instance, the frame could be budged by prying.”
“Perhaps. As matters stand, the whole question hinges on whether the room can be entered from the tunnel. If it can’t, then it is certain that Pinto committed the murder. If it can, there is a possibility that someone else did it, though the preponderance of evidence still points in Pinto’s direction, for it is extremely unlikely that the murderer was aware of the existence of the tunnel. However——”
He checked himself, deciding to let the thought remain unspoken. The anthropologist, having recovered from his temporary embarrassment, gave a hearty laugh.
“You are incorrigible, my friend. You are willing to admit almost any theory but the plain and obvious one, which is that the Gray Phantom committed the murder. Reminds me of Pinel’s excellent treatise on the psychology of the criminal. But you must be tired. Please excuse me while I make a telephone call.”
The Phantom regarded him narrowly as he trundled from the room and closed the door behind him. The doctor intrigued and baffled him. He was almost certain that Bimble had been guilty of equivocation in regard to the tunnel and the revolving frame. On the other hand, this and other peculiarities might be due to an erratic temperament. His stubborn insistence on the Phantom’s guilt could be the result of mental laziness and a disinclination to exert himself over a case which did not interest him. Yet, after making all due allowances, the Phantom could not feel wholly at ease.
The doctor, smiling placidly and without a sign of guile in his face, interrupted his reflections.
“I’ve just had my friend Inspector Wadhane on the wire,” he announced. “It has been decided to let the prisoner sleep off the effects of his debauch. He will not be questioned until along toward morning. So, my friend, you can sleep in peace. Shall I show you to your room?”
The Phantom, blinking his eyes drowsily, expressed a desire to retire at once. Doctor Bimble conducted him to a pleasant bedroom with two large windows facing the street, saw that everything was in order, and wished his guest a hearty good night. Even before he was out of the room the Phantom had started to remove his clothes.
Yet, no sooner had the door closed than he hurried back into the garments. Though only a few moments ago he had showed signs of great drowsiness, he was now fully awake, and his springy motions and the twinkle in his eyes hinted that sleep was farthest from his mind.
CHAPTER X—IN THE TUNNEL
The Phantom waited for fifteen minutes, then he quietly opened the door and looked down the hall. The lights were turned low and not a sound broke the stillness. Apparently the anthropologist and the manservant had retired. Stepping inside the room, he took from an inside pocket the little metal box he always carried, examined the snugly packed tools it contained, and made sure that each was in good condition. Finally, he switched off the light, noiselessly closed the door behind him, and tiptoed down the stairs.
Stealing down a corridor through the main part of the house, he reached the extension formed by the laboratory. He stopped at the door, tilted his ear to the keyhole, and listened carefully. It had occurred to him that Doctor Bimble might be at work, and an encounter with his host would have proved embarrassing. His keen ears detected no sounds, however, and in another moment he had passed through the door and was groping his way across the floor of the laboratory.
Of a sudden he stopped. A faint sound seemed to come from the direction where the skeletons stood in their glass-framed cages. He strained his ears to catch a repetition, but none came. Evidently he had been mistaken. He knew how sounds are magnified at night, and what he had heard was probably nothing but the rattling of a windowpane or the creaking of a board under his foot. He proceeded to the opposite wall, darting swift glances to left and right, as if half suspecting that someone was lurking in the shadows. Again a door swung noiselessly on its hinges, and the Phantom glided down the stairs leading to the cellar. From his hip pocket he took a small electric flash and let its beam play over the floor while he looked for the entrance to the tunnel.
For a time he searched in vain, traversing the length of the murky brick walls and carefully scanning each square foot of space without finding a trace of the opening. The mouth of the passage seemed to have disappeared in the three or four hours that had passed since he emerged from the subterranean tube. He tried to locate it by tracing backward the course he had followed in reaching the stairs, but it proved a difficult task, for he had floundered about in total darkness, not daring to use his flash for fear of attracting attention. He had a hazy impression, however, that the opening was in a diagonal line with the foot of the stairway.
The gleam of his flash leaped over the grimy bricks, and presently he detected a narrow fissure in the wall. It extended in a quadrangular course and was barely wide enough to admit a match or a nail. Inserting one of the sharp-nosed tools from his metal case, he pried outward, and a narrow portion of the wall swung open. He saw now that the little fissures constituted the boundaries of a door. It was composed of bricks threaded on iron rods and resembling in color and general appearance those in the surrounding wall, and it was so deftly concealed that only a careful search would reveal its existence. Evidently it had stood open when the Phantom crawled out of the tunnel, which explained why he had not noticed it. He suspected that the thoughtful anthropologist, not caring to have too many outsiders discover the tunnel, had closed it while the officers were searching the front of the house.
The Phantom waited for a few minutes while a little of the dank air in the cellar found its way into the passage. He did not relish the task ahead of him, but he was determined to settle a point on which the doctor had been singularly evasive. The problem he had set out to solve would be simplified to a great extent, and he would save himself needless efforts and loss of valuable time by ascertaining whether the bedchamber of the late Sylvanus Gage could be entered by way of the tunnel.
Having buttoned his coat tightly and made certain that his instrument case was within easy reach, he inserted head and shoulders in the opening and began the weary crawl toward the other end. His progress was painfully slow, and the smell of the moist earth gave him a sense of oppression which he found hard to shake off. The air, dank and insufficient, was almost stifling, and the walls of the narrow passage, bruising his body at each twist and turn, seemed to exude a sepulchral atmosphere that insinuated itself into body and mind.
At length he reached the point where the tunnel slanted upward into the wall, and here his progress became even more difficult. Time and again he slipped, and he could maintain a footing only by bracing the tips of his shoes against rough spots along the sides. He was puffing from exertion when finally he struck a solid obstruction which told him he had reached the end of the passage.
Finding a precarious foothold, he took out his flash and closely scrutinized his surroundings. On two sides were walls of brick, while directly in front of him was the flank of the window frame. He pushed against the latter with all his strength, but it presented a firm and solid resistance to his efforts. Next he went over it inch by inch, looking for a hidden lever or spring, but the most careful search revealed nothing that suggested a means of operating the mechanism. Finally he took out one of his tools and, inserting it in the tiny rift between the wall and the edge of the frame, began to pry steadily. After several minutes of constant effort he gave up the task as hopeless.
He leaned back against the wall and bent the full force of his wits to the task of finding a way through the obstruction. Evidently there was none. He had tapped every inch of the surface and looked everywhere for a concealed knob or wire by which the mechanism might be operated. A larger and heavier tool than the instrument in his metal case would have been of no avail, for in those narrow quarters he could not have obtained leverage. His search, though thorough and infinitely painstaking, had netted nothing.
The conclusion was clear. The revolving door could not be operated from the outside; hence the murderer of Sylvanus Gage could not have entered the room through the tunnel. Again the Phantom’s mind reverted to the inevitable deduction that no one but Officer Pinto could have committed the crime.
His lungs, which had been straining for air for the last quarter of an hour, felt as though they were on the point of bursting, and he was about to release his foothold and start back through the tunnel when a faint tapping sound caught his ears. He could not tell how long it had been going on, for until now his whole attention had been focused on the problem before him. For all he knew it might just have begun, or it might have started long before he entered the tunnel.
He pressed his ear against the side of the frame and listened. The sounds, quick and sharp, were coming in rapid succession, and at first he wondered whether someone was trying to attract his attention. Then he noticed that the sounds skipped and jumped, as if the tapping covered a considerable area, and his next surmise was that the person on the other side was making a systematic search for something.
“For what?” he wondered; and in the next moment the answer flashed through his mind. He remembered how, while he was imprisoned in the bedroom, momentarily expecting the police to force the door and pounce upon him, he had looked to the window as the only possible means of escape, and how finally he had discovered the nail that proved his salvation. Evidently the person on the other side was now doing the very thing the Phantom himself had been doing a few hours ago.
But who could it be? As far as he knew, no one but Helen, Doctor Bimble and himself was aware of the existence of the revolving door, and the tunnel. It did not seem likely that anyone should be searching at random for an opening. And who could be prowling about the Gage house at such an hour? Again he put his ear to the frame. The tapping had ceased, but now he heard another and different sound that caused him to quiver with excitement. A slight metallic noise, like that produced by the contact of two objects of steel, told him that the person on the inside had found the nail.
In a twinkling he had forgotten his cramped position, the dank air and the sickening smell of moist earth. All his senses were centered on the sounds coming from the other side, so slight that his keen ears could scarcely detect them. Something told him that in a few minutes he would make a discovery of tremendous importance in relation to the Gage murder mystery. Everything depended upon whether the person on the other side would give the nail the proper twist.
Minutes dragged by on leaden feet. The Phantom felt his heart pound chokingly against his ribs, its loud beats almost drowning the slight metallic sounds coming from the other side. After what seemed hours of nerve-racking suspense, a sharp and sudden click caused him to start violently, and he almost lost his insecure footing.
Then the window frame began to turn. A glare of light struck his eyes as the opening wedge widened. With great, eager gulps he drank in the air coming from the aperture. A minute passed, and then a face, strained and ashen, was thrust into the opening.
It was Mrs. Trippe, the housekeeper. For an instant she stared into the Phantom’s startled eyes.
“He’s killing me!” she cried. “He’s afraid I’ll tell! He locked me in——”
She jerked her head to one side. Slight though she was, she almost filled the narrow opening, and he could see only a small strip of the room at her back. Suddenly a shiver coursed down her spine. A hand was projected beyond the wall, and he caught a glimpse of steel flashing in the light. Then, in quick succession, came a scream and a thud, and the woman slid from the window sill.
It had happened so quickly that the Phantom had not time to utter a word or raise a hand. Now, before he could move a muscle, the window frame slammed shut. He heard a click, signifying that the frame was caught in the steel clutches of the mechanism. He pressed his shoulders against it, but to no avail, and he knew from his previous attempt that the effort was useless. Filled with horror at what he had just seen, he slid down the incline between the walls and began to work back toward the cellar.
Finally, after endless jerks and twistings, he reached the end of the tunnel—and there a fresh shock awaited him. His feet brought up against a solid obstruction. Shove against it as he might, the little door would not yield to his frenzied pressure. For a little he laid still on his back, thinking. His mind was heavy and his thoughts flitted about in circles, but finally it came to him that while he was at the other end of the tunnel someone must have placed a heavy weight against the door.
He was trapped.
CHAPTER XI—A BLOW FROM BEHIND
Only one thought stood out clearly in the Phantom’s mind as he lay on his back in the tunnel breathing the suffocating fumes of the damp earth, and surrounded by a silence and a darkness so profound that he felt as if a vast void was separating him from the world of the living. His senses were numbed and his brain had ceased to function, but somehow his mind grasped the realization that this was the end of the Gray Phantom’s career.
The fate awaiting him seemed as inexorable as the darkness that surrounded him. He had faced great dangers and had found himself in fearful predicaments before, but never had death appeared as certain and inevitable as now. Through his dazed consciousness filtered a resolution to meet death, even in this hideous form, with the same unconcern and stoicism with which he had accepted the favors destiny had strewn in his path. The thought brought a feeble smile to his lips, and he hoped the end would come before the thought faded away. He wanted the world in general and Helen Hardwick in particular to know he had died smiling.
Something, he did not know what, stirred faintly in his mind. Instinctively his thoughts groped for a memory that seemed dim and far away, a memory that caused his body to vibrate with a reawakening desire to live. Slowly, out of the whirling chaos in his mind, it came to him. He could not—must not—die! He could not pass out into oblivion with a foul crime staining his name. He must live in order to revive and vindicate the faith Helen Hardwick had once reposed in him.
The resolve buoyed him a little, causing his body to throb with a renascent life impulse. Already his mind felt a little clearer, and his nerves and sinews were beginning to respond to the driving force of his will. If his parched lungs could only get a little air!
Again he placed his feet against the door and pushed with all the strength he could summon. He might as well have tried to dislodge a mountain. The implements in his pocket case had helped him out of many a tight dilemma in the past, but they were of no avail now. He still had the pistol he had taken from Helen’s hand while they stood in the closet, and for an instant it occurred to him that the report of a shot might penetrate the roof of the tunnel and bring him assistance. A moment later he reconsidered bitterly. If the shot were heard, it would more likely bring the police; besides, the fumes released by the explosion might smother him to death in a few minutes.
With a great effort he crawled away from the door thinking the air might be not so stifling toward the center of the tunnel. He moved only two or three paces when the terrific pounding of his heart and the protest of his tortured lungs forced him to lie still and rest. For several minutes he lay motionless, save for the heaving of his chest, matching his wits against the hardest problem he had ever faced.
Of a sudden something chill and wet fell upon his face. It was a mere drop of moisture, but it felt like ice to his parched skin, causing every nerve to quiver. The contact acted like an electric stimulant on his mind. He lay rigid, expectant, wondering why the trivial occurrence should affect him so strangely, and presently another drop of moisture splashed against his forehead, sending an icy shiver down his spine.
Suddenly he jerked up his head, striking it against the roof of the tunnel. In a twinkling he had grasped the significance of the dropping moisture. There must be a leak in the vault of the passage, and the soil above was probably soft and porous, enabling the tiny globules of water to percolate.
The deduction jolted the last remnant of stupor out of his body. He was still weak, but the play of his wits kindled his nervous energy. He ran his hand along the roof, locating the point where the moisture was seeping through. The arched vault was supported by boards running in a longitudinal direction and braced at intervals by diagonal props. He gave a hoarse shout of elation as he noticed that the boards were rotting from infiltration of moisture.
He had forgotten the agonized straining of his lungs for air. His exploring fingers found a point where the ends of two boards came together. Taking a tool from the metal case, he inserted it in the joint and pried. After a few vigorous wrenches the board bent downward. Now he gripped its edges with his fingers and, lifting himself from the floor of the tunnel, forced it down by the sheer weight of his body. It snapped, and he pushed it down the passage, then attacked the next board. It gave more easily than the first, and now he began to claw and scratch his way through the damp earth. Remembering the length of the incline at the farther end of the passage, he judged that the layer of soil could not be more than four or five feet deep.
More than once he felt on the point of utter exhaustion, but the prospect of ultimate release fortified him. Clump after clump of dirt fell at his feet, and now and then he struck a stratum of gravelly soil that yielded more easily to his efforts. From time to time he had to stop digging and brush aside the accumulation at his feet. A wall of dirt was gradually forming on each side of him, cutting down the scant supply of humid air that had so far sustained him, but he kept at his work with the frenzied persistence of one battling for his life. There was a dull roaring in his head and a burning torment in his lungs, and there came moments of despair when he wondered whether his strength would last until he had clawed through the remaining layer of earth.
Then, after what seemed hours of agonizing toil, a cascade of small stones and loose dirt tumbled down over his head and shoulders. Momentarily blinded, he could scarcely realize that his hand had thrust through the obstruction and was now clutching at empty air.
The suspense over, he felt suddenly limp and shaky. His legs doubled up under him and he sank back against the wall of the tunnel, greedily sucking in the fresh air that poured down through the opening. For a time he was content to do nothing but rest his racked limbs and drink in huge lungfuls of air.
Through the rift overhead he caught a glimpse of leaden sky. A myriad of strident noises told that the city was awakening. The discordant sounds were like jubilant music in his ears, for a while ago he had thought he would never see the light of another day. After his terrifying experience in the subterranean passage it was hard to realize that he was again one of the living. He struggled to his feet, lurched dizzily hither and thither, and rubbed the dirt out of his eyes. Then, steadying himself with one hand, he cautiously pushed his head through the opening. No one being in sight, he scrambled to the surface.
He stood in the center of the narrow space between Doctor Bimble’s laboratory and the rear of the Gage establishment. On the other sides of the inclosure were a squatty structure that might have been a laundry and a slightly taller building that, judging from the barrels and boxes piled against the wall, was probably a grocery. Evidently the stores and shops had not yet opened, for there was no sign of life in either direction.
The Phantom took a few steps forward, then stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on the small window in the rear of the cigar store. A recollection sent a shiver through his body. He remembered the hand that had appeared so suddenly in the narrow opening, the swift, murderous stroke and the groan that had died so quickly. There was an air of peace and tranquillity about the building that struck him as weirdly incongruous, in view of the scene that had been enacted within.
He was about to turn away when a quick, light step sounded behind him. Before he could move, two sinewy hands had gripped him about the throat, forcing him down. He tried to resist, but he was still too weak to exert much physical effort. A sickeningly sweetish smell assailed his nostrils, he felt his body grow limp, there was a roaring in his head that sounded like a distant waterfall, and then he had a sensation of sinking—sinking.
CHAPTER XII—THE PHANTOM HAS AN INSPIRATION
“Remarkable, sir; most remarkable! May I feel your pulse?”
The Gray Phantom knew, even before he opened his eyes, that the speaker was Doctor Tyson Bimble. He was lying in bed, undressed, in the same room his host had assigned him the night before. The lights were on, so he must have slept through the day, and he felt correspondingly refreshed.
The anthropologist, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was timing his pulse beats. The doctor’s thin legs were wrapped in the same tight trousers he had worn on their first meeting, and an acid-stained coat was tightly buttoned across his plump stomach.
“Normal,” he declared admiringly, pocketing his watch. “You possess extraordinary recuperative powers, my friend. What a constitution!”
The Phantom’s lips tightened. Scraps of recollection were coming to him. He gazed narrowly into the doctor’s guileless face.
“A little chloroform goes a long way even with a constitution like mine,” he remarked pointedly.
“Ah, but you were utterly exhausted, my friend. Otherwise my excellent Jerome would not have had quite such an easy time with you. A little strong-arm play and a whiff or two of chloroform were all that was necessary. The effect soon wore off, and you lapsed into a natural and invigorating sleep.”
“So, it was Jerome. I guessed as much.” The Phantom looked perplexedly at the doctor. “But wasn’t it a rather rough way of putting a man to bed?”
“It was the only safe way of dealing with an impulsive and strong-headed man like you. But for the timely appearance of my admirable Jerome, you would undoubtedly have walked straight into the arms of the police.”
The argument sounded plausible enough. The Phantom realized that the reaction following his escape from the tunnel might have caused him to do several foolish things.
An astute grin creased the doctor’s face. “Even the Gray Phantom is at times very transparent. Last night, when you started removing your clothes in my presence, I knew that you had no intention of going to bed. However, I reasoned that you were an intelligent man and could be trusted to take care of yourself. I woke up at an early hour this morning and stepped to your door. You had not returned. Greatly alarmed, I told Jerome to look for you. The estimable fellow found you shortly after you had dug your way out of the tunnel. You ought to feel deeply indebted to him, sir.”
“I do,” with a faint trace of sarcasm. “But I should like to wring the neck of the practical joker who blockaded this end of the passage while I was at the other.”
The words were no sooner spoken than the doctor’s face underwent a startling transformation. The affable smile vanished, giving way to a look of such violent wrath that even the Phantom felt a little awed.
“The hound shall get his just deserts, sir,” declared the doctor in snarling tones. Then, as if regretting his display of temper, he laughed easily. “Provided, of course, we learn who perpetrated the outrage.”
Again the Phantom was puzzled. He was certain the anthropologist’s ferocious outburst had been genuine. It had been far too real and convincing to be feigned even by a clever actor. Yet he sensed a contradiction. Whoever was responsible for the blockaded door must have traversed the doctor’s house on his way to the cellar. It did not seem likely that strangers could be taking such liberties in a private residence without the knowledge of its occupant.
“I really ought to have new locks put on the doors,” observed Bimble, addressing himself rather than his guest. “That collection of mine is too valuable to be left unprotected.”
It sounded convincing, and the casual tone went a long way toward quieting the Phantom’s misgivings. He knew that an unduly suspicious nature is as bad as a gullible one. Hadn’t he been too prone to put the wrong construction on the eccentricities of a scientist? Everything considered, the doctor’s actions had certainly been friendly. Had his intentions been hostile, he could easily have turned his guest over to the police.
The Phantom shifted the subject. “Well, at any rate, I proved to my satisfaction that Gage’s bedchamber can’t be entered by way of the tunnel.”
The twinkle behind the lenses expressed doubt and amusement. “And so you have convinced yourself that Pinto committed the murder?”
“That nobody else could have committed it,” corrected the Phantom.
“Which means precisely the same thing. Even if we grant that you are being frank with me—which I strongly doubt, by the way—you seem to have a passion for drawing obvious inferences. From the fact that you were unable to operate the mechanism from the outside you deduce that the murderer could not have entered the room via the tunnel. That, my friend, is very superficial reasoning. For instance, Gage himself might have admitted the murderer through the revolving frame.”
The Phantom’s brows went up. The possibility suggested by the doctor had not occurred to him. The next moment he grinned at the sheer preposterousness of the idea. “But few men are obliging enough to welcome their murderers with open arms.”
“Not if they come as murderers.” The doctor gave him a keen, searching look. “But suppose they come in the guise of friends? That’s only a random suggestion, but you will admit the possibility exists.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject. “Jerome has repaired the damage you wrought in the tunnel last night, covering up all traces of your little adventure, so there is no danger of the police tracing you here.”
“Thoughtful,” murmured the Phantom a little absently.
“Which reminds me,” added the anthropologist, “that you are again a hunted man. The police have seen their mistake and the prisoner was released this morning. He bears a superficial resemblance to you, but comparison of his finger prints with those of the Gray Phantom proved conclusively he was not the man they wanted, and he seems to have given a satisfactory account of himself in every way.”
“What else?” asked the Phantom, deeply interested.
Doctor Bimble laughed merrily. “Every newspaper in town is poking fun at the stupid police—and well they might. The prisoner proved to be a reporter employed by the Sphere, whose only offense is an inclination to forget that these are dry times. A reporter, of all persons! It’s delicious!”
“A reporter—on the Sphere!” echoed the Phantom, sensing a possible significance in the combination. “Not, by any chance, the one who reported the Gage murder?”
“The same. That’s what lends an extra touch of humor to the silly blunder. Imagine a journalist, confronted with a scarcity of news, going out and committing a murder in order to have something to write about!”
The Phantom joined in the doctor’s laughter, but his face sobered quickly. “Is this unfortunate journalist wearing a beard?”
“No; but I understand your photograph in the rogues’ gallery shows you smooth shaven, so the absence of a beard really enhances the resemblance to the pictures published.”
The Phantom was silent for a time. There was a hint of deep thought in the lines around his eyes. His hand passed slowly across his beard, still gritty and tangled from his experience in the tunnel. Suddenly the muscles of his face twitched.
“Anything else in the papers, doctor?”
“Only the usual silly doings of a silly world.”
“I mean in connection with the murder. No new developments?”
“None whatever, except that the search for the Gray Phantom has been renewed with increased vigor. There is an interview with the police commissioner, in which that optimistic soul declares the rascal cannot have left New York and that he will surely be captured within the next few hours.”
The Phantom smiled amusedly, but there was a fog in his mind. Was it possible no one had yet discovered that a second murder had been perpetrated in the Sylvanus Gage house? With his own eyes the Phantom had seen the housekeeper’s face fade into the ashen hue of death, and it seemed incredible that the body had not been found.
“By the way,” remarked Doctor Bimble, as if carrying out the other’s train of thought, “I wonder what has become of Gage’s housekeeper. I walked over there this morning to see if I could do anything for the poor lady. The front door was unlocked, but Mrs. Trippe wasn’t about.”
It required a little effort on the Phantom’s part to keep his voice steady. “H’m. She has had quite a shock. Perhaps she is lying ill and helpless in some part of the house.”
“The same thing occurred to me, and so I looked in every room in the house. The lady was nowhere in sight, however. Naturally she found it unpleasant to live alone in the place after the murder. She may have gone away for a visit.”
“Yes, quite likely.” It was on the Phantom’s tongue to tell what he had seen, but for a reason not quite clear to himself he desisted. Doctor Bimble’s revelation was somewhat staggering, and the disappearance of the housekeeper’s body was a poser that baffled the Phantom’s astuteness. The mystery seemed to grow more tangled and intricate with every passing hour, and he felt that, so far, his progress had been dishearteningly slow. Yet, with the whole city and its environs converted into a vast man trap, what could he do?
“Dear me!” The anthropologist jumped up with the abruptness of a rabbit. “I sit here babbling like a garrulous old woman while you must be famishing. I shall have Jerome bring you some food at once. I suppose,” stopping on his way to the door and regarding the Phantom with a serio-comic expression, “it isn’t necessary to warn you that it would be unwise to go out on the streets a night like this.”
A grin masked the Phantom’s searching look. “You seem deeply concerned in my welfare, doctor.”
“Naturally.” Bimble drew himself up. “With me a bargain is always a bargain. I hope you haven’t forgotten our understanding.”
“I see,” the Gray Phantom replied. “You want my skeleton to come to you intact. Yes, doctor, I’m aware of the inclemency of the weather. You needn’t worry on my account.”
The doctor tarried a moment longer, cleared his throat as if about to say something else, then swung around on his heels and left the room. The Phantom looked about him. On a chair near the bed hung his clothes, neatly brushed and pressed, and on the dresser, laid out in an orderly row, were the contents of his pockets, including pistol, metal case, and watch. The Phantom slipped out of bed and examined the articles. Nothing was missing and nothing had been disturbed. Evidently Doctor Bimble trusted to his guest’s good sense to keep him indoors.
And well he might, was the Phantom’s grim thought. There were excellent reasons why he should remain under the anthropologist’s roof—reasons which only a fool or a desperado would ignore. The police, goaded by ridicule and incensed at the way they had been made game of, were undoubtedly exerting every effort and using every trick and stratagem to ensnare their quarry. There were pitfalls at every crossing, traps in every block, prying eyes in a thousand places. To defy such dangers would be sheer madness.
Yet there were equally urgent reasons why the Phantom should not remain idle. One of them, and the most potent of them all, had to do with Helen Hardwick. Another was the Phantom’s irrepressible passion for flinging his gauntlet in the face of danger. A third was the firm conviction that he could rely on his mental and physical agility to see him through, no matter what hazards he might encounter.
He sprang back into bed as a noise sounded at the door. The cat-footed and tight-lipped manservant entered with a folding table, a stack of newspapers, and a trayful of steaming dishes. The Phantom watched the nimble play of his long, prehensile fingers as he set the table.
“You’re quite a scrapper, Jerome,” he observed good-naturedly.
“Yes, sir.” The man’s gloomy face was unreadable.
“You didn’t give me much of a chance to use my fists on you.”
“No, sir.”
The Phantom attacked the hot and savory soup. “Pugilistic and culinary talents are a rare combination, Jerome.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you are not very much of a conversationalist.”
“No, sir.”
The man, standing with his back to the wall, apparently immovable save when he unbent to pass a dish or replenish the water tumbler, piqued the Phantom’s curiosity. A grenadier turned to stone while standing at attention could not be more rigid and impassive than Jerome, yet there was a hint of constant alertness about the dull eyes and the lines at the corners of his mouth.
“There are moments when silence is golden,” observed the Phantom. “Perhaps this is one of them.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
The Phantom finished the meal in silence. When Jerome had gone, he turned to the newspapers, noticing that the front pages were largely given over to himself. His own photograph was published side by side with that of the Sphere reporter, whose name appeared to be Thomas Granger. Many thousands of dollars were being wagered on the outcome of the contest between the Phantom and the police, with the odds slightly in favor of the latter. A yellow journal was offering prizes to those of its readers who furnished the best suggestions for the capture of the famous outlaw. There were interviews with leading citizens in all walks of life, expressing amazement and indignation over the murder of Sylvanus Gage and the dilatory tactics of the officials. Even Wall Street was disturbed, for who knew but what the celebrated rogue was planning another of the stupendous raids that had rocked the financial world on two or three occasions in the past?