The scientist, at last perceiving The Phantom’s aim, struggled frantically to free himself, but the ropes and the pressure against his chest rendered him helpless. Slowly and firmly The Phantom pressed against the piston with his index finger, gradually discharging the contents of the syringe into the physician’s tissue. Tagala soon ceased struggling, and the look of mute agony in his face told that he had an acute realization of his extremity.
Finally The Phantom tossed the empty syringe aside and removed his knee from the doctor’s chest. Then he picked up the empty bottle and held it so Tagala could read the label.
“Series A!” gasped the doctor, and a grayish pallor overspread his hideous features.
“You seem to know what it means,” observed The Phantom. “Starr took pains to assure me that the contents of this particular bottle would produce death in thirty minutes. Now, doctor, don’t you think you had better tell me where the antidote is hidden—truthfully this time?”
Every trace of color had fled from the scientist’s face. He glared at The Phantom with a mingling of dread and rage in his eyes.
“Yes!” he groaned at length. “I will tell you. You have me where I can do nothing else. But, if I tell you, you will bring me a bottle of the antidote?”
“Assuredly. I am not a murderer. It isn’t for me to punish you for your crimes. I am resorting to this method only because it seems the only way to influence you and save eight lives.’
“You give me your word of honor?”
“My word of honor.”
Tagala heaved a vast sigh. “Very well, then. The other time I gave you an accurate description of the bottles, although I deliberately deceived you in regard to where they were.” He spoke fast and raspingly, as if realizing that every moment was precious. “Listen carefully,” he went on; and then he gave The Phantom clear and detailed directions which the latter memorized. He knew that this time Tagala, actuated by mortal fear, was telling the truth.