Suddenly he thought of Thomas Granger. The reporter’s journalistic instincts, coupled with his fondness of strong drink, had given the Phantom the feeling that he was not to be trusted. Those two qualities aside, he had rather liked the fellow. Granger had traits that appealed to him strongly. He reconsidered the question as he stood on the corner, glancing furtively in all directions to see whether he was being spied upon.
In a few moments his mind was made up. For Helen’s sake he must seek assistance somewhere, and he was in no position to be squeamish about his choice. A glance at his watch told him that it was half past eleven. Pell Street was only a dozen short blocks away, and a brisk walk brought him to Peng Yuen’s door.
The wooden-featured Chinaman scanned his face as he held the door open and bade him enter.
“There is fire in your eyes,” he observed as he conducted his guest into the den. “Is it the little Lotus Bud who is troubling the Gray Phantom? The ‘Book of the Unknown Philosopher’ says——”
The Phantom interrupted him with a short laugh. “Peng Yuen, for a man who doesn’t read the newspapers, you are surprisingly well informed. I have come to have a talk with my double.”
The Chinaman regarded him stonily. Two incense sticks, burning before a hideous joss idol, filled the air with acrid fumes. Peng Yuen, sucking a bamboo pipe with gorgeous tassels, seemed to be turning over a question in his mind.
“I think your friend is sleeping,” he said at length.
“Then wake him,” directed the Phantom impatiently.
The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders and touched a button on the wall, then motioned the Phantom to enter. Granger was in bed, but he looked up gloomily and stretched himself. There was a litter of cigarette ends on the table, and torn and crumpled newspapers were scattered over the floor.
“Hope you’ve brought me a drink,” said Granger.