“—five—six—seven——”
The Phantom jerked up his head as an inspiration flashed through his mind. He still had an advantage, though his aching mind had not been able to grasp it until this very minute. Again his eyes sought the pistol drooping from his nerveless right hand.
“—eight—nine——” A note of hesitancy crept into Slade’s accents, and he looked expectantly at The Phantom. Evidently he was reluctant to pronounce the final word, the word that would mean Helen’s death. He vastly preferred that The Phantom should accept his terms, but his face showed no sign of yielding from his purpose.
His lips opened, and in another moment the fatal word would have been spoken. But in that brief interval The Phantom acted, and the word never left Slade’s lips. Instead he uttered a long-drawn-out exclamation of amazement.
The Phantom’s maneuver had been both swift and surprising. The blue steel of his automatic had flashed for an instant in the dim light, and then he had pressed its muzzle firmly against his heart. For a few moments the crowd stared in dumfounded amazement; then a startled look in Slade’s face showed that he understood. He bit his lip and suppressed a cry of rage.
“If Miss Hardwick dies, I die, too,” declared The Phantom in gritty accents; and the metallic gleam of his eye and the note of grim earnestness in his voice left no doubt of his sincerity. “And you can’t afford to let me die, Slade. With me dead, you would never find Tagala, and then the bottom would drop out of Mr. Shei’s scheme.”
Slade fumed and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. A glance at The Phantom’s face, smiling and yet grimly determined, seemed to increase his fury. But The Phantom’s airy confidence was all on the surface. He knew that his dramatic gesture had only postponed the crisis, and already his mind was planning another move.
At last Slade’s rage cooled and his reason reasserted itself. Pointing to the stairway, he bawled an order to the man behind Helen to take her back to her room. The Phantom drew a long breath of relief as she was half led, half carried up the remaining steps; but the comfort the sight gave him was of brief duration.
Now Slade’s finger was pointing at himself. “Take his gun away,” he ordered the men lined up behind him. “Make a rush for him, all at once, but don’t shoot. Go!”
The men bounded forward, but in the same instant The Phantom’s pistol spoke twice. Two yells of pain followed the sharp cracks of the weapon, and the leaders of the rush sank to the floor. The others stopped, stared diffidently at the steadily pointing pistol, then wavered and fell back. Once more The Phantom had triumphed. He cast a quick glance at the two who had fallen. He had aimed to cripple, not to kill, and he could see that their wounds were not serious.