THE GREY PHANTOM’S ROMANCE

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 801, 23 October 1929, Page 5

THE GREY PHANTOM’S ROMANCE

The Astonishing Adventures of a Lovable Outlaw. Copyright by Street and Smith Corp.

CHAPTER XI. 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 liis 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 agonising toil, a cascade of small stones and loose dirt tumbled down over his head and shoulders. Momentarily blinded, he could scarcely realise 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. A BLOW FROM BEHIND. 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 realise 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 centre of the narrow space between Doctor Brimble’s laboratory and the rear of th.e Gage establishment. On the other sides of the enclosure 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 "as 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 aud tranquillity ahput 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. THE PHANTOM HAS AX INSPIRATION. ' “Remarkable, sir; most remarkable! May I feel your pulse?’* The Gr.ey 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 watcli. “You possess extraordinary recuperative powers, my friend. What a constitution!” The Phantom’s lips tightened. Scraps of recollection were coming to him. He gazed narrow'ly into the doctor’s guileless face. “A little chloroform goes a long way even with a constitution like mine,” he remarked pointedly. “Ah, blit 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 strongheaded 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 realised 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 Grey Phantom is at times very transparant. 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 w'ring the neck of the practical ‘joker who

blockaded this end of the passage while.l 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 tlie 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 oil 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 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. Tlie possibility suggested by the doctor liad 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, hut you will admit the possibility exists.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subjects. “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 fingerprints with those of the Grey Phantom proved conclusively that 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. Dr. 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 offence 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 humour 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, hut his face sobered quickly. “Is this unfortunate journalist wearing a beard?” “No; hut 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 elee 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 Grey Phantom has been renewed with increased vigour. 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 degree 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 Dr, 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, hut 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, aud 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. Dr. 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 seriocomic expression, “it isn’t necessary to warn you that it would he unwise to go out on the streets a night like 1 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 Grey 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.” tTo he continued tomorrow.)