The Phantom scarcely breathed. He stood utterly still while the doctor
came down the remaining steps and halted at the foot of the stairs. The
pistol, pointed at Helen with a steadiness that bespoke a deadly aim,
inspired him with a sense of awe a thousand times greater than if it had
been leveled at himself.
The girl's hand was still on his sleeve, and, without looking directly
at her, he knew that she was facing the menacing pistol without
flinching. Her slight touch on his arm gave him a feeling of tenderness
and strength. Already his wits were at work. In his hip pocket was the
weapon he had taken from Granger, but he could not reach for it without
jeopardizing the girl's life.
"Cruel trick you played on Granger," observed the doctor, standing a
dozen feet away. "I don't know how you managed it, but you seem to have
a special talent for such performances. Fortunately one of my men
happened to enter the room in which you left the poor fellow, and he saw
how things were. Well, Phantom, one thing is sure, you have played your
last trick."
The Phantom maintained his attitude of immobility, but Bimble's words
had given him an inward twinge. As far as he could see, the doctor had
appraised the situation with accuracy. The windows, with their shutters
and iron bars, seemed impregnable. The murky walls and the low ceiling
gave forth an impression of solidity that accentuated his sense of
bafflement. The way to the stairs was barred by Bimble with his pistol,
and the rooms and corridors above were swarming with the Duke's men. And
meanwhile the Phantom dared not bend a muscle, for fear of causing Helen
Hardwick's death.
"You will admit that you are very neatly cornered?" taunted the doctor.
"It would seem so," admitted the Phantom dryly, "but I have been
cornered many times before. There's nothing very original in the
situation."
"No, nothing except that you wriggled out of the others, while this one
will hold you till I am through with you. Don't you think it would be
the part of wisdom to submit and tell me what I want to know?"
"Never!" declared the Phantom with emphasis.
"Wouldn't it be better?" whispered Helen. "He'll kill us both unless we
do."
"It's his intention to kill us, anyway," the Phantom whispered back.
"The only reason he hasn't killed us already is that he hopes to
persuade us to give him the information he wants. Afraid?"
"Not for myself. But you----"
"Then step behind my back as quickly as you can."
The girl looked up at him with an expression of uncertainty.
"Hurry!" whispered the Phantom. "It's our only chance."
She hesitated a moment longer; then, with the swift motion of a startled
doe, she darted aside and stood at his back. The blue steel of the
pistol barrel flickered for an instant as the doctor transferred his aim
to the Phantom. Evidently the sudden movement had disconcerted Bimble.
"A fairly clever maneuver," he acknowledged, "but you have gained
nothing by it."
"I am satisfied," declared the Phantom, his spirits rising again. "You
can't reach Miss Hardwick with a bullet without first perforating me,
and you have no intention of killing me until you have learned what you
want to know. Eh, Bimble?"
The doctor's lips twisted into an ugly sneer. "We shall see," he
muttered irately. "You are a clever man, Phantom, but your cleverness
can't help you now."
He plucked a small metallic instrument from his vest pocket and brought
it to his lips. Three short, shrill whistles pierced the silence. With a
gratified grin on his lips the doctor restored the little metal tube to
his pocket. The third blast had no sooner sounded than a tumult of
discordant noises came from above. Bimble looked gloatingly at the
Phantom as the sounds drew nearer. A man ran down the stairs, quickly
followed by a second and a third. Others kept arriving, in groups of
three or more, until the Phantom had counted twenty-four.
Like a great human fan, the crowd spread out in a triangle along the
walls and about the foot of the stairs. As each man took his place in
the line, the Phantom gave him a quick appraising glance. In their faces
he read low cunning, brutish instincts, and stolid obedience to orders,
but the keener wit and subtler intellect which the Phantom had always
demanded of his men were lacking.
He read each face as if it were an open page, and finally his gaze
rested on Doctor Bimble. The anthropologist was a craftier man by far
than his subalterns, but at a glance the Phantom's keen eye picked out
the weak spot in his moral fiber. Already a plan was forming in his
mind. All he was waiting for was a favorable combination of
circumstances that would enable him to act.
The pistol in the doctor's hand was still pointing straight at the
Phantom's chest. Bimble's expression was a repulsive mixture of cruelty
and smug satisfaction.
"I trust you are convinced that resistance is useless, my dear Phantom,"
he declared in drawling tones. "There are more than twenty of us, as you
see."
"Excellent!" remarked the Phantom. "I am glad to see so many of you
here."
"Glad?" The doctor seemed a little dumfounded. "Why, pray?"
"Because having you all here in this room will make my task much
easier."
"Your task?"
The Phantom laughed easily. "You must surely know that it is my
intention to hand you all over to the police?"
Bimble stared. Twice he opened his mouth, but no words came. The
Phantom's cool audacity seemed to have silenced his tongue.
"Are you crazy?" he asked at length.
"Never was saner in my life. It is my firm intention to turn every one
of you over to the police. That's why I am glad to see so many of you
gathered in one room."
He smiled as he spoke, but his heart was not in his smile. He was
turning an audacious plan over in his mind, but he was not at all sure
that he would have a chance to put it into execution. At his back he
heard Helen's quick, nervous intakes of breath, and he turned his head
slightly.
"The Gray Phantom's star has never yet set," he whispered.
A low, quavering laugh was the girl's response.
Bimble was still staring at him as if doubting his sanity. "_You_ think
you are going to turn _us_ over to the police!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!
Still in a jocular mood, I see. It won't last long. For the last time I
ask if you will accept my terms."
The Phantom sent him a contemptuous glance. "One doesn't make terms with
sneaking hyenas like you," he declared.
"Very well." Bimble ran his eye over the triangle of faces, and his gaze
fell on a stout, tough-limbed man with a reddish face.
"Wilkes," he directed, "pull that devoted pair apart and carry the young
lady to the room upstairs where the skeletons are. Be careful not to get
in front of my pistol."
The stout man stepped out of the line. A coarse grin wreathed his face
as he approached the Phantom and the girl from the side.
"Get back!" whispered the Phantom to Helen. Slowly, step by step, the
two moved backward until Helen stood against the wall. Then the Phantom,
looking straight into the muzzle of Bimble's pistol, reached back and
wound his arms around the girl's slender waist.
"Pull us apart if you can," he told Wilkes as he interlocked his fingers
behind Helen's back.
The stout man stopped and scratched his head, as if confronting a
problem too complex for his wits to solve. A look of diffidence crossed
Bimble's face as he noticed that the Phantom had once more balked him.
"Knock him down if you can't part them any other way," he commanded
wrathfully. "Tap him on the head with something."
Chuckling, Wilkes drew a long revolver from his pocket, gripping it
tightly by the barrel as he cautiously approached the Phantom from the
side. Helen gasped.
"Keep cool!" whispered the Phantom. "And whatever happens, stay right at
my back."
He watched Bimble's pistol out of one eye, while with the other he
followed Wilkes' movements. For an instant, as Wilkes swung the heavy
weapon over his shoulder, he tensed his muscles for action. Then, with a
motion so swift that the eyes of the onlookers could scarcely register
it, his arm darted out and gripped the other's wrist just as the
revolver was about to crash down on the Phantom's head.
Once more his arm shot out and with a quick and powerful wrench he swung
Wilkes directly in front of him, coiling the fingers of one hand around
the man's neck and windpipe. In almost the same instant he whipped out
his pistol and, using the bulky figure of Wilkes as a shield, took aim
and fired.
Bimble uttered a sharp yell of pain. The pistol dropped from his
fingers, and he looked dazedly at his blood-spattered hand.
"Fairly good shot!" ejaculated the Phantom with a chuckle. At his back
was Helen, trembling with excitement, and in front of him stood Wilkes,
spluttering and gasping for breath as a result of the Phantom's clutch
at his throat.
The whole episode had been enacted within the space of a few seconds.
The Phantom had acted so swiftly and taken them all so completely by
surprise that on one had had time to interfere. Now, before the men
huddled against the wall and in front of the stairs could gather their
wits, a powerful shove sent Wilkes sprawling headlong to the floor, and
in another moment the Phantom had seized Helen's hand and made a rush
for Bimble.
He snatched up the pistol the doctor had dropped as the bullet struck
his wrist, and handed it to Helen.
"Shoot the first man who makes a move," he directed, "and shoot to
kill!"
Helen looked into his cool, determined eyes, flashing with the ecstasy
of combat. With a faint audacious smile on her lips, she drew herself up
and handling the weapon with the sure touch of an expert, faced the
staring and muttering crowd. For a few moments the men stood immobile,
as if the swift succession of events had cast a numbing spell over their
bodies and minds; then, with ominous grumblings and curses, a few of the
more daring ones started forward.
In the meantime the Phantom had jabbed his pistol against Bimble's body
with a force that brought a sickly groan from the doctor's lips. He
glanced aside out of the corner of an eye as a crack and a gleam of fire
issued from Helen's weapon. A bullet in the fleshy part of the hip had
checked a furtive movement on the part of one of the gang, and instantly
the others, impressed by the girl's exhibition of marksmanship, fell
back.
The Phantom nodded approvingly. His glittering eyes and a smile on his
lips gave no hint of what he felt.
"Let me warn you that Miss Hardwick is an expert," he remarked coolly.
"She once got a perfect bull's-eye at six hundred yards."
The men looked at the girl, then at their ashen-faced and quavering
leader. The Phantom pushed the pistol a little harder against the
doctor's body.
"If anyone raises a hand against Miss Hardwick, you die instantly," he
declared sharply. "I could kill you with no more compunction than if I
were killing a rat."
The doctor gulped, and for the moment all his cunning seemed to have
deserted him.
"Anyone who cares to fire a bullet at me is welcome to do so," the
Phantom went on, speaking in quick accents that sounded like the
clinking of metal. "My index finger, you will notice, is on the trigger.
The slightest pressure will send a chunk of lead into your vitals. If I
die, the muscular contraction that always accompanies sudden and violent
death would be very likely to snap the trigger. You get the idea, I
hope?"
It was evident that Bimble did. His absurdly thin legs wabbled as if he
were in the grip of a great terror and the spasmodic twitching of his
fingers indicated that this was a situation against which his habitual
craftiness was helpless.
Helen stood at the Phantom's side, sweeping the crowd with cool, alert
eyes, and holding the pistol in readiness for instant action. Her slim
figure was erect, and there was a proud tilt to her head, as if the
contagion of the Phantom's fighting spirit had gripped her. Again there
were surly mutterings among the men, but with rare exceptions they were
of the type that is impotent without a leader to urge them on.
Not a word came from Bimble's lips, but there was a look in his eye
which told that the tentacles of his mind were reaching for a solution
of the difficulty. The Phantom, keeping one eye on the doctor and the
other on the crowd, detected a stealthy movement in the rear of the
group. Someone had dropped to his knees and was crawling toward a huge
box.
Instantly the Phantom saw the meaning of the stealthy movement. For a
moment, as the crawling figure appeared around the edge of the group, he
turned his pistol from the doctor, took a quick aim, pressed the
trigger, and again thrust the muzzle of his weapon against Bimble's
diaphragm.
A cry told that the bullet had found its mark. As the smoke drifted
toward the ceiling, the man rose to his feet with a look of distress in
his face, caressing a portion of his arm as he slunk away toward the
rear. A few of the others, who had sought to take advantage of the
Phantom's temporary abstraction, fell back to their places.
The Phantom drew a long breath as he realized how narrowly Helen and
himself had escaped disaster. They had the advantage for the present,
but the slightest faltering might easily reverse the situation and
release the pent-up savagery of their foes.
"Bimble," he remarked, "it would be extremely unfortunate for you if any
of your men should get reckless. I see some of them are impatient. If
anything happens to Miss Hardwick or me, you will be a dead man. Hadn't
you better tell your friends to throw down their guns?"
The doctor glanced uneasily at his men. His looks told plainly that the
Phantom had read him accurately, that there was nothing he valued quite
so highly as he did his life, and that his swagger and bland assurance
would wilt the moment he faced a personal danger. There was venom in his
eyes, and his pale, distorted features bespoke impotent rage.
"Drop your guns," he commanded after another despairing look about the
basement.
The men regarded him diffidently and did not move. Their faces showed
that they were torn between the conflicting impulses of
self-preservation and an ingrained habit of obedience.
"You're first." The Phantom pointed a finger at a tall, barrel-chested
man at the end of the line. "Step forward and empty your pockets."
The Phantom was in a state of high tension. He was exercising a mastery
of mind over the situation, but all might yet be lost if the man should
refuse to obey and set the others an example of resistance.
"Miss Hardwick," he said quickly, realizing that each moment of delay
might cost them their lives, "you will count five. If our friend at the
end of the line has not emptied his pockets when you are through, shoot
to kill."
The girl signified with a slight nod that she understood. As she began
to count, her pistol was pointing straight at the man the Phantom had
indicated. The fellow's sullen obstinacy yielded gradually to an
over-powering respect for Helen's marksmanship, of which he had already
witnessed an exhibition. Just before she reached "five," he lumbered
forward and turned the lining of his pockets inside out. A knife, an
automatic, and several other implements clattered to the floor.
"Now get back in the corner," commanded the Phantom pointing. He
thrilled at the thought that the crisis was past and the victory almost
won.
The second man hesitated only for an instant before he followed the
example of the first. After that the process of disarming the gang went
on swiftly and without interruptions. Man after man stepped out of the
line, emptied his pockets, and joined the others in the corner. When the
last man had divested himself of his belongings there was a small pile
of oddly assorted articles in the middle of the floor.
The Phantom felt a little dazed, now that the tremendous tension was
over. At last he lowered the pistol and turned to the girl. Her face was
pale and a little haggard but a smile of triumph hovered about her lips.
"You're the grandest little woman I ever knew," he declared feelingly.
"Oh, I don't know," she confessed a little wearily. "I don't think I
could have stood it if you hadn't been so close to me. I felt as though
you were holding me under a spell all the time."
The Phantom laughed. "Bimble, you have seen how one man, with the
assistance of a plucky little woman, has vanquished a gang of
twenty-five cutthroats and ruffians. The yellow streak in you made it
fairly easy. I should like to see the Duke's face when he hears about
this."
The doctor swallowed hard. His putty-hued face reflected the depths of
mental agony.
"What--what are you going to do with us?" he inquired weakly.
"Precisely what I said I would do--hand you over to the police."
"Not that!" The doctor looked as though he had received a blow. "Listen!
Down below, in the cellar, are several million dollars' worth of
valuables. You can have it all if you will let us go."
"You're a rather poor sort, Bimble," said the Phantom contemptuously.
"There isn't gold enough in the world to buy your freedom. To see you
get your just deserts is worth more to me than all the millions the Duke
and his gang ever stole."
The doctor staggered back against the wall, utterly dejected. Of a
sudden the Phantom's expression of elation faded out and a worried look
took its place. Where was Granger? The reporter had not been among those
who had answered the doctor's summons, and the Phantom had seen nothing
of him since he left him chained to the wall in one of the upper rooms.
Without doubt he had been released, for Bimble had said that a member of
the gang had entered the room and found him shortly after the Phantom
had started for the basement. His absence was somewhat disturbing, for
the Phantom's task would not be finished until Granger had been caught.
Admonishing Miss Hardwick to keep an eye on the gang, he walked toward
the farther wall. In the corner was a door which he had not seen before.
It was locked, but he guessed that it led to the cellar in which the
doctor kept the gang's treasures, and he noted that it was of hard and
solid material and would resist almost any amount of pressure.
"Doctor," he said, walking back to where Bimble stood, "I'll trouble you
for your bunch of keys."
With an air of a broken and defeated man, Bimble complied, and the
Phantom made sure that one of the keys fitted the lock on the door
leading to the cellar. Keeping one eye on the gang, he gathered the
weapons they had discarded and placed them on the cellar stairs. Then he
carefully locked the door and put the keys in his pocket. Motioning
Helen to precede him, he backed up the stairs, covering the huddled and
dejected group with his pistol till he reached the top. Here was another
door, almost as substantial as the one communicating with the cellar.
They stepped through, and the Phantom closed it and turned a key in the
lock.
"Our precious friends are trapped," he remarked with a chuckle. "I'll
wager they won't get out of that basement till the police drag them out.
Now we must find Granger."
Passing swiftly down the hall, they opened one door after another,
glancing quickly into each room before proceeding to the next. Finally,
on the floor above, they reached a door through which faint sounds came.
For an instant the Phantom listened, then jerked the door open and
entered. Taking in the scene at a glance, he drew his pistol.
"Hands up, Granger!" he commanded.