“But what about me?” inquired Granger, making a wry face.
“Give the dicks and bulls as wide a swath as you can. At worst, they can only pick you up again and take another impression of your finger prints, and you will have to explain why you have shed your gaudy feathers. If we have a bit of luck we’ll pull off a stunt that the police won’t forget in many a day. They’ll be so busy explaining their own mistakes and blunders that they won’t ask many questions.”
He had found a whisk broom and was removing from his clothing some of the grime and dust he had gathered in the tunnel. He glanced impatiently at his watch, while Granger dressed with time-consuming care.
“Which way?” inquired the reporter.
“Do you suppose it’s too late to find the coffeehouse pirate?”
“Doubtful, but you might try. Sometimes he hangs around the Catharine Street joint till late.”
“What’s his name?”
“You might call him Matt Lunn. He has several names, and he isn’t particular which one you use.”
The Phantom considered. “Is he close to the inner circle of the gang? Does he share its secrets?”
“I think he does, but I wouldn’t swear to it. Anyhow, he is a lot closer to the big chief than I ever got.”