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.