“How can I find him?”
“The coffee joint is in Catharine Street, not far from East Broadway. You can easily locate it, and you will probably find your man there about ten or eleven at night. But hadn’t you better take me along?”
The Phantom shook his head emphatically. “You have just told me to what extremes you are willing to go in order to get a good story for your paper. The capture of the Gray Phantom would make an even bigger story than the one you were after. I can’t quite trust you, Granger. You love your liquor not wisely but too well, and you’re likely to give the show away. Besides, it wouldn’t do for us two to be seen together.”
“That’s so,” said Granger resignedly. “Well, anyhow, you might send me something for a bracer.”
The Phantom promised to try. He got up and rapped on the wall, eyeing Granger steadily as he stepped through the opening that appeared as if by magic. But the reporter, evidently realizing that any attempt to escape would be useless, made no move.
An opium lamp was sizzling in a corner of the room. At a table sat Peng Yuen, his face as impassive as granite. If he had overheard any part of the conversation he showed no sign of it.
“You need food and sleep,” he remarked tonelessly, pointing to the table, on which a meal was spread out.
The Phantom thanked him and sat down. He was famished and fagged out, and he could accomplish nothing until night came, so he gladly accepted the Chinaman’s hospitality. As he ate, Peng Yuen regarded him stolidly while he smoked his acrid pipe of li-un. He did not speak until the Phantom had finished his meal.
“‘The Book of the Unknown Philosopher,’” he remarked, without looking directly at his guest, “says that the overwise sometimes go far afield in search of truths that may be found at home.”
The Phantom looked up, bewildered. “I suppose there is a priceless gem of wisdom hidden somewhere in that sentence, but I don’t see how it can apply to me.”