“All the facts seem to point to the Phantom’s guilt.”
“That’s just the trouble.” Culligore scowled a little. “There’s such a thing as having too many facts. If the evidence wasn’t so perfect I’d be more sure of my ground. As it is, I wouldn’t bet more than a pair of Bowery spats on the Phantom’s guilt. I’m not sure he killed either Gage or the housekeeper.”
The Phantom eyed him intently, trying to read his mind.
“I see,” he murmured. “You don’t want to believe the Phantom has fallen so low as to——”
“You’re talking rot!” snorted the lieutenant, as if touched on a sensitive spot. “What I want to believe makes no difference. If I could lay my hands on the Phantom this minute, I’d put the links on him so quick it would take his breath away. Even if he didn’t kill Gage and Mrs. Trippe, there are one or two other things we can send him up for.”
“I suppose so,” said the Phantom thoughtfully. “Much as you would hate to pinch him, you can’t let sentiment interfere with duty.”
“Sentiment be damned!” grumbled the lieutenant, reddening a trifle as he saw the knowing grin on the Phantom’s face. “I never was long on that kind of stuff. By the way, what’s your opinion of the case, Granger?”
“I haven’t any.” The Phantom wondered what was going on in the back of Culligore’s mind. He knew the dull features were a mask and that the lieutenant, practicing a trick cultivated by members of his profession, was studying his face every moment without appearing to do so. “You seem to be holding something back,” he added.
“Think so?” Culligore uttered a flat, toneless chuckle. “Aren’t you holding something back yourself? What’s the use trying to hog it all for your paper?”
“Didn’t I tip you off on the doings in the Gage house this morning?”