“It’s hard work for a leopard to change his spots. Some people say it can’t be done. The Phantom’s human, like the rest of us. Maybe he’s got tired of the straight and narrow path and gone back to his old tricks under a new name. Just for the sake of argument we’ll say he has. And I’ve got a hunch that last night you saw or heard something that made you think that Mr. Shei is The Gray Phantom.”
The assertion staggered her, though she had known all the time that he was leading up to it. Using almost the same words, her father had expressed the same idea at the breakfast table, and it was the similarity of the phrasing that startled her.
“No—no!” was all she could say.
“Then will you please tell me,” said Culligore, his tones both gentle and insistent, “why didn’t you come out with what you knew last night?”
She fell back a step, feeling suddenly weak as she realized that his question was unanswerable. A confusion of ideas churned and simmered in her mind. Her lips moved, but no words came.
“You’ve answered me,” declared Culligore. “You think Mr. Shei is The Phantom. Maybe you’re right, and maybe you’re wrong. What I wanted to know was what you thought. And let me tell you something.” A foolish grin, one of Lieutenant Culligore’s infrequent ones, wrinkled his face. “I hate my job less whenever I meet up with one of your kind.”
Helen did not hear what he said. She felt as if the swirl of thoughts and emotions within her had suddenly turned into a leaden lump. She glanced involuntarily at the chair in which Virginia Darrow had sat, and of a sudden she fancied she heard laughter—slow, tinkling laughter that sounded like a taunt flung in the face of an approaching specter. She knew the sounds existed only in her imagination, but with a low, long drawn-out cry she turned abruptly and fled toward the door, conscious only of a fierce desire for sunlight and air.
No one detained her. She ran across the street. An idea was slowly working its way out of the turmoil in her mind. She opened her bag and counted her scant supply of bills. Then she looked about her. Half a block down the street she saw the sign of a district messenger office. In a few moments she was inside, hastily scrawling a note which she had addressed to her father. A taxicab was passing as she stepped out on the street. She hailed the driver, and he drew in at the curb.
“Erie station—West Twenty-third Street,” she directed breathlessly.
As the cab started she slumped back against the cushions and gazed rigidly out the window. Despite the bright sunlight, things blurred before her eyes, and there was only one clear thought in her mind.