“Stop!” cried The Phantom. The gong had ceased ringing, and his voice rang sharp and clear down the hall. “The first man that moves will get a bullet.”
Momentarily awed by the metallic tones, the crowd fell back. The Phantom’s glittering eyes seemed to encompass them all in their sweep, and there was an air of desperate determination about his tense, slightly crouching figure that impressed them strongly.
The situation was the most critical The Phantom had ever faced, yet he felt a tingle of triumph as he surveyed the huddled throng. Any one of them could have crippled or killed him with a well-aimed shot, but not a hand moved. For the moment, at least, he was holding them in subjection through the sheer strength of his domineering personality and his attitude of utter fearlessness.
Someone laughed, and The Phantom’s eyes turned to Slade, standing on the outer fringe of the crowd. He held a pistol in his hand, but the muzzle was pointed downward.
“You must be crazy,” he said contemptuously. “Can’t you see that you are outnumbered eleven to one?”
“I hadn’t taken time to count,” said The Phantom calmly. In the same instant a crack and a flash of fire came from his automatic. One of the crowd, more intrepid than the others, had ventured forward as he spoke, and now a yell of pain signified that The Phantom had aimed straight.
Slade scowled. On his face was a look of mingled wonder and rage.
“Mr. Shei’s orders are not to kill you unless necessary,” he explained, “and I have been hoping you wouldn’t make it necessary. Mr. Shei has the highest admiration for you.”
“Thanks,” said The Phantom dryly, and for a mere instant his thoughts went back to the ludicrous figure of Fairspeckle. “It’s too bad I can’t say that the sentiment is mutual.”
Slade’s scowl deepened. He seemed inclined to instruct his men to advance, but something evidently restrained him.