Starr nodded. His right hand was clutching a revolver. Coming closer, The Phantom noticed that his nose was discolored and swollen, probably the result of the attack that had preceded the disappearance of Virginia Darrow’s body.
“I owe you an apology for intruding like this,” he went on, “but the formalities can wait. There was a shot fired here a few moments ago, and I believe it was meant for me.”
“I was at work in my office upstairs when I heard something that sounded like a revolver shot,” explained Starr. “I armed myself and came down to investigate.” His voice, at other times perfectly modulated, was a little husky, and he seemed unduly conscious of his disfigured nose. He maintained a tight grip on his pistol while regarding The Phantom with a look of suspicion.
“We ought to search the house at once,” suggested The Phantom. “The scoundrel can’t have gone far.”
Starr readily acquiesced, but from time to time while they went on with the search The Phantom felt the other’s stealthy gaze searching his face, and each time he saw a look of dawning recognition in Starr’s eyes. He thought nothing of it, for the capture of the man who had fired the shot seemed of far greater importance. Deep in his mind was a faint and remote hope that the fellow, if caught, might be persuaded to tell something of what had happened to Helen Hardwick.
They searched every conceivable space in the auditorium, back of the stage, and finally in the storerooms and dressing rooms down below, but without avail. As they abandoned their quest The Phantom thought he saw signs of increasing nervousness on Starr’s part.
“Strange how the scoundrel disappeared,” he remarked when once more they stood in the back of the auditorium.
“No stranger than what happened here night before last.” Starr spoke with a touch of petulance in his voice and manner. “Mr. Shei and his henchmen seem to have a knack of walking through solid walls. What I object to most is his evident determination to make my theater the scene of his diabolical activities. By the way,” and he fixed The Phantom with a look of mingled perplexity and suspicion, “haven’t you and I met before?”
“Not in person, unless I am mistaken.” The Phantom, alert against the slightest threatening move on the other’s part, smiled faintly. “The newspapers have been kind enough to give me some publicity from time to time, and you may have seen my photograph. Suppose we let it go at that.”
“As you wish, of course,” murmured Starr, his lips twitching, “but we shall be able to talk to better advantage if we first complete the introductions. I was almost certain I recognized you at first glance. You are The Gray Phantom. But don’t get startled,” he quickly added as The Phantom suddenly stiffened. “My interest in life is purely esthetic. I am trying, in my small and humble way, to uplift the drama from the sordid depths into which it has fallen through the stupidity and avarice of managers. The capture and punishment of criminals interest me not at all. To be perfectly frank with you, as between the police and a fascinating rogue like yourself, my sympathies are with the latter.”