The Phantom looked thoughtful. Rumor had it that he had taken a few carefully selected members of his former organization with him to his place of retirement. His lips twitched a little.
“It would take sometime to get them here,” he murmured, “and we must act in a hurry.”
“But it’s our only chance. We’ll wire them to get a fast car and burn up the roads. I’m rather stuck on the idea of organizing an expedition and rushing to the rescue of a fair lady in distress. Write out your telegram, and I’ll sneak out and file it.”
The Phantom, chuckling as though he had caught the contagion of the other’s enthusiasm, made as if searching his pockets for pencil and paper. “All right. I guess, after all, it is the only thing we can do. A pitched battle in the heart of New York will be something of a novelty. Have you a pencil and a scrap of paper?”
Granger stepped up to the table and handed out the desired articles. With the reporter standing at his elbow, the Phantom placed the paper on the table, poised the pencil over it, and stood as if framing a message in his mind. Suddenly, with a motion as quick as that of a metallic spring, his hand darted out and gripped Granger’s. Then, with another surprisingly swift movement, he jerked the reporter down on the cot and shoved a knee against his chest.
“Tommie Granger,” he said in low, measured tones that throbbed with exultation, “I’ve been waiting a long time to lay my hands on the murderer of Gage and Mrs. Trippe.”
CHAPTER XXX—THE ROOM IN THE BASEMENT
The reporter’s face went white.
With lips gaping, he lay rigidly still, staring into the Phantom’s hard face. There was a look of great fear in his eyes, and for several moments he seemed incapable of motion. Then he began to wriggle, twist, and squirm, but his efforts were rendered futile by the knee on his chest and the firm clutch in which his hands were held.
“When did you guess it?” he muttered, forcing a sneering grin to his face.