CHAPTER XXII—THE PHANTOM’S RUSE

The words had an electrifying effect on The Phantom’s nerves. Not more than a minute could have passed since Starr’s departure, and his imagination pictured the scene that soon would be enacted in Helen’s room. He strove valiantly to shake off the numbness that had been brought on him by horror and loss of blood.

Out of his half-closed eyes he saw Slade standing in a listless attitude a few feet from where he lay. Evidently he was depending on The Phantom’s unconsciousness to last a while longer, for he was idly toying with his pistol and seemed rather bored. Two of the other men were removing their wounded comrades, and for the moment no one was observing The Phantom. A sharp realization that he must act at once quickened his thoughts and stirred his energies. His mental picture of Helen and her desperate peril stimulated his reserve forces of mental and physical vigor.

Warily he glanced about him, then crawled swiftly and silently toward the point where Slade stood. Suddenly he rose to his knees and jerked the pistol from Slade’s hand. In another moment he was on his feet, stifling Slade’s loud cry for help by a blow with the weapon. Without a glance behind, he ran as fast as he could in the direction taken by Starr. His mind was already at work on a plan. A new force, more powerful than mere bodily strength, seemed to speed him on. Despite physical weariness and the sharp twinges in his shoulder, he felt as if nothing could resist him. If only there was yet time——

Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned at random in the hall. A low, drawling chuckle, uttered in a voice he recognized as Starr’s, drew his attention to one of the doors near the end of the corridor. He approached cautiously and looked in.

What he saw assured him that he had arrived in time. He took in the scene with a single glance. A powerful man, one of those he had fought in the hall below, was seated on the edge of the cot, holding Helen’s weakly resisting hand in his huge paws. In the center of the room, with a smile of gratification on his lips, stood Vincent Starr, and The Phantom saw that he was transferring the contents of the bottle to the syringe. Evidently it was a slow and tedious task.

The Phantom waited until Starr had finished. He flexed his muscles, then lunged forward. Before either of the two men could move, the handle of his pistol crashed down on the head of the individual seated on the cot. With a queer, fragmentary squeal, he slid from his seat and lay prone on the floor. In an instant The Phantom had whirled on Starr, who seemed completely taken back by the sudden interruption, and jerked the syringe and the empty bottle from his hands. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he crashed his fist into Starr’s jaw and sent him spinning to the floor. Thrusting the empty bottle into his pocket and gingerly handling the syringe, he fled from the room.

Despite his pain and weakness, he smiled as he sped on. Once more The Gray Phantom’s quick mind and elastic energies were about to reverse a seemingly hopeless situation. But the danger was not yet past, and the hardest task was still to come. Starr, only partly stunned, would soon recover his wits, and then, with a hue and a cry, the pursuit would start. The thought made The Phantom quicken his pace as he ran toward the entrance of the hidden chamber.

A din and clamor sounded in the distance as he reached the point where a sliding panel in the wall afforded egress to the spiral stairway. Quickly closing the opening behind him, he ran down the steps. The pursuers, he knew, would never be able to locate the entrance, and for the present he was safe. He stepped inside the room and switched on the light, then placed his automatic, the syringe, and the empty bottle on the table.

Doctor Tagala was lying on the bed, just as The Phantom had left him. As the light went on, he gave a hoarse gasp of amazement and tried desperately to rise.

“Didn’t expect to see me so soon again—eh, doctor?” The Phantom removed his coat and proceeded to clean and bandage his wound as well as he could. “You tricked me very neatly, I’ll admit, but the ruse didn’t quite succeed. Even if it had, don’t you realize that you would have been left here to starve to death?”

The doctor continued to stare at The Phantom, who rather enjoyed his stupefaction. He glanced at the bed from time to time while he took several articles from a cupboard and dressed his wound. When he had finished, Tagala began to strain uneasily at the cords fettering his hands and feet.

“Useless exertion, doctor,” advised The Phantom. He walked to the bed and regarded the physician with a frown. Then he quickly took the syringe from the table and placed a knee on Tagala’s chest. Tagala squirmed and heaved, but to no avail. With his left hand The Phantom took one of the scientist’s arms and pressed it firmly downward.

“Steady now, doctor. This is only a dose of your own medicine, you know. You seemed quite proud of it when you told me how you discovered it.” The Phantom took the syringe in his right hand, between thumb and third finger, and pricked the doctor’s flesh with the needlelike point. “I’m a rank amateur at this, but I’ll try to manage. I believe the proper way is to inject the stuff into a vein, but that’s a ticklish job, and I won’t attempt it. This method is a little slower, but just as effective.”

The scientist, at last perceiving The Phantom’s aim, struggled frantically to free himself, but the ropes and the pressure against his chest rendered him helpless. Slowly and firmly The Phantom pressed against the piston with his index finger, gradually discharging the contents of the syringe into the physician’s tissue. Tagala soon ceased struggling, and the look of mute agony in his face told that he had an acute realization of his extremity.

Finally The Phantom tossed the empty syringe aside and removed his knee from the doctor’s chest. Then he picked up the empty bottle and held it so Tagala could read the label.

“Series A!” gasped the doctor, and a grayish pallor overspread his hideous features.

“You seem to know what it means,” observed The Phantom. “Starr took pains to assure me that the contents of this particular bottle would produce death in thirty minutes. Now, doctor, don’t you think you had better tell me where the antidote is hidden—truthfully this time?”

Every trace of color had fled from the scientist’s face. He glared at The Phantom with a mingling of dread and rage in his eyes.

“Yes!” he groaned at length. “I will tell you. You have me where I can do nothing else. But, if I tell you, you will bring me a bottle of the antidote?”

“Assuredly. I am not a murderer. It isn’t for me to punish you for your crimes. I am resorting to this method only because it seems the only way to influence you and save eight lives.’

“You give me your word of honor?”

“My word of honor.”

Tagala heaved a vast sigh. “Very well, then. The other time I gave you an accurate description of the bottles, although I deliberately deceived you in regard to where they were.” He spoke fast and raspingly, as if realizing that every moment was precious. “Listen carefully,” he went on; and then he gave The Phantom clear and detailed directions which the latter memorized. He knew that this time Tagala, actuated by mortal fear, was telling the truth.

His pulses throbbed exultantly as he left the room and hurried up the steps. Shouts and scurrying feet told that Starr’s men had not yet given up their search for him. The hardest and most dangerous part of the task was still ahead of him. The slightest accident or misstep might yet cheat him out of the hard-earned success that now seemed so near. He groped forward cautiously, tightly clutching his pistol, infinitely alert against the slightest sign or sound of danger. The searchers were evidently in another part of the house, for he reached the laboratory without encountering anyone.

He throbbed and tingled with suspense and excitement as he entered. Doubts and fears came back to him. Had Doctor Tagala lied to him, after all? Did the wily Mr. Shei have still another ruse in reserve? Was he once more walking into a trap? Would Helen and himself be able to escape from Azurecrest with the precious antidote in their possession? He was torn between maddening misgivings and serene hopes as he crossed the floor of the laboratory. Tagala had mentioned a closet in a corner of the room where, in an ingeniously concealed hiding place, he would find the bottles. His heart raced fast and hard as he stepped inside. His hands trembled and there was an insistent throbbing at his temples as he began to follow out the scientist’s directions.

Ten minutes later, with pockets bulging and a great joy in his heart, he emerged from the closet. He had found ten small bottles in all, and each one, according to the directions on the label, contained a full course of treatment. The antidote in his possession was more than sufficient to save the lives of all of Mr. Shei’s victims. But he had promised to deliver one bottle to the doctor; and with The Phantom a promise was a promise, even when made to a blackguard of Tagala’s type. It would mean delay and additional risks, but he would not go back on his word. Holding the automatic in readiness for instant action, he began to make his way back to the secret chamber.

He had covered about half the distance when suddenly he heard a shout at his back. It was followed by a sharp command to halt. Other voices took up the cry until the house resounded with a chorus of harsh and excited exclamations. Clear and loud, issuing commands to right and left, the voice of Vincent Starr was heard above all the others. The Phantom paid no heed. He ran swiftly along, feeling that everything in life depended upon his ability to elude the pursuing throng. A pistol cracked spitefully; then a bullet, aimed low, whistled past his knees. The Phantom ran faster and faster, summoning all his remaining strength.

Now he was only a few feet from the wall, but a swift backward glance told him that the nearest of his pursuers was almost at his heels. He found the deftly hidden knob that controlled the sliding door, and pressed it. The wall parted, and in an instant he had passed through the opening, but someone was already tearing at his coat, and he could not close the aperture behind him. Carried on by their momentum, several men pressed and shoved against his back, pushing him precipitately down the spiral stairs. One by one his pursuers rushed through the opening at the top, shouting wildly as they slid and tumbled down the perpendicular stairway.

“Get him!” shouted Starr, one of the last to pass through the opening. “Don’t let him get away this time!”

A sense of bafflement took hold of The Phantom as he saw his pursuers pouring into the little chamber, but of a sudden the glow of an inspiration came over his face. The accident that had prevented him from closing the opening had been a thing in his favor.

He had left the light on upon leaving the room the other time, and now a touch of his finger plunged the chamber into darkness. He knew it would be some time before the others found the switch. Groping in the dark, he slowly made his way to the cot and thrust a bottle of the antidote into the hook of Tagala’s arm. The others would have to cut his ropes later. Elbowing his way among men running wildly hither and thither in the darkness, he came to the foot of the stairs once more. Quickly he tiptoed to the top and closed the sliding panel, well knowing that Starr’s men would be unable to master the mechanism that controlled it. He chuckled softly as he descended again and once more mixed with the scampering throng below.

“Where is The Phantom?” shouted a voice which he recognized as Starr’s. “Get him, men—get him! We may lose millions if he slips away from us. Can’t someone make a light?”

The Phantom was crouching in a corner. “Better give Tagala a hand,” he called out. “He is badly in need of help. And don’t worry about your millions. They will be the least of your troubles after this.”

He darted across the floor before the others had recovered from their amazement. Pushing and wriggling, he reached the opposite wall. He fumbled along its surface until he found a hidden lever. At his touch a narrow door slid noiselessly open. Beyond it was the tunnel by which he had entered the house upon his arrival. For an instant, before closing the door behind him, he paused in the opening.

“Starr,” he called, an ecstatic throb in his tones, “The Gray Phantom always wins in the end.”

The door closed, and The Phantom started toward the other end of the tunnel. Starr and his men would remain prisoners in the chamber until the police could reach Azurecrest and take them into custody.

With a brisk step, wholly unconscious of the pain in his shoulder, The Gray Phantom hurried toward the light of day—and Helen.

CHAPTER XXIII—THE END OF THE GRAY PHANTOM

A thin and stoop-shouldered old man, with a kindly gleam in his sunken eyes, gave The Phantom a warm handclasp when, three days later, he walked into the drawing room of the Hardwick’s residence.

“How is Miss Hardwick?” was his first question.

“As well as ever, sir,” declared her father. “The antidote seems to have worked like a charm. I needn’t tell you that I am deeply grateful to you, and——” He paused and looked uncertainly at The Phantom. “I wonder if you can ever forgive me for intercepting those letters. I was a meddlesome old fool.”

“You did what you thought best, Mr. Hardwick. Anyway, all’s well that ends well. Please don’t think about the matter.”

“Thank you for saying that. I’ll call my daughter immediately.”

He withdrew, and The Phantom sat down. His eyes were keen and bright and there was a new vim and confidence in his manner. He had several reasons for feeling highly elated. Starr and his men, trapped in the secret chamber, had been lodged in jail. The seven capitalists were recovering rapidly following the administration of the antidote. Starr, after a thorough sweating by the police, had grudgingly revealed the whereabouts of Culligore and Fairspeckle, and they had been rescued from their uncomfortable position under the Thelma Theater. Incidentally, the room had been found to contain a great amount of loot stored up by Starr’s organization. The full story of The Gray Phantom’s achievements had been published in the newspapers, and strong efforts were being made to have all outstanding indictments against him quashed. His adventure had been successful in every respect.

He sprang up as Helen, with a wild-rose flush in her rather pale cheeks, ran into the room.

“Gray Phantom!” she whispered.

His smile was a trifle sad. “The Gray Phantom is dead,” he murmured. Then his face brightened. A whimsical light came into his eyes. “But in my gardens at Sea Glimpse I am trying to bring out a little gray orchid that is to be planted on his grave, symbolizing whatever was good in him. I am thinking of calling it The Phantom Orchid.”

“How poetic!” she exclaimed. “But I don’t quite like to think of The Gray Phantom as dead. He was so splendid in many ways, just like the hero of my poor little play. All he needed was to have the good in him brought to the surface. And that reminds me—the hero of my play was you!”

The Phantom nodded. “I was conceited enough to suspect it as soon as I saw the reviews in the papers.”

Helen looked as if her thoughts were wandering away from the present. “The weirdest experience of my life was when I saw Starr enact the rôle of the hero in my play. He actually lived the part. And it was then I first suspected he was Mr. Shei.”

The Phantom seemed puzzled.

“I am not sure I can explain. The idea that Starr was Mr. Shei came to me like a flash, yet there was quite a little feminine logic behind it. My hero was modeled after you, but Starr enhanced the resemblance. He introduced things that were not in my play, but which made the similarity between my hero and you all the more striking. His gestures and mannerisms were all yours. As I sat there marveling at it, the name of Mr. Shei suddenly leaped into my mind. I think Virginia Darrow must have felt the same thing. From time to time she looked at Starr in the strangest way, as if she had suddenly made a startling discovery.”

“Hm,” mumbled The Phantom. “Perhaps that was why she sent Starr that facetious note.”

“Afterward my impressions grew somewhat confused,” Helen continued. “The whole thing—Starr’s acting and Miss Darrow’s strange conduct—seemed sort of unreal. It was as if an illusion had been shattered the moment Starr disappeared from the stage and the curtain went down. The officers argued that Mr. Shei could be nobody but The Gray Phantom. Their arguments made me very uneasy, and after my talk with Culligore the next day I felt I must see you. On the impulse of the moment I got on a train.” She shuddered a little, as if some horrifying recollection had come back to her. “It all seems like an ugly dream—and I am not sure even now that I am quite awake.”

For a time they sat silent, gazing dreamily into the soft sunlight.

“Helen,” said The Phantom at length, “I feel as if a great black cloud had lifted from my life.”

“I feel that way too.”

He found her hand and held it. For a moment his thoughts went back to the day when his fingers had first touched hers.

“Helen,” he murmured, “you and I have schemed together and dreamed together and shared all sorts of dangers together. I wonder if we couldn’t——”

Her misty-bright eyes met his. A smile, warm, radiant, and tender, came to her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, “why couldn’t we?”

THE END

Transcriber’s notes:

Original publication data:

  Publisher: W. J. Watt & Company, New York
  Copyright: 1921, by W. J. Watt & Company
  Printer: Braunworth & Co., Book Manufacturers, Brooklyn, N. J.

Original dedication:

  To H. B., The Other Helen