She hesitated a moment longer; then, with the swift motion of a startled doe, she darted aside and stood at his back. The blue steel of the pistol barrel flickered for an instant as the doctor transferred his aim to the Phantom. Evidently the sudden movement had disconcerted Bimble.
“A fairly clever maneuver,” he acknowledged, “but you have gained nothing by it.”
“I am satisfied,” declared the Phantom, his spirits rising again. “You can’t reach Miss Hardwick with a bullet without first perforating me, and you have no intention of killing me until you have learned what you want to know. Eh, Bimble?”
The doctor’s lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “We shall see,” he muttered irately. “You are a clever man, Phantom, but your cleverness can’t help you now.”
He plucked a small metallic instrument from his vest pocket and brought it to his lips. Three short, shrill whistles pierced the silence. With a gratified grin on his lips the doctor restored the little metal tube to his pocket. The third blast had no sooner sounded than a tumult of discordant noises came from above. Bimble looked gloatingly at the Phantom as the sounds drew nearer. A man ran down the stairs, quickly followed by a second and a third. Others kept arriving, in groups of three or more, until the Phantom had counted twenty-four.
Like a great human fan, the crowd spread out in a triangle along the walls and about the foot of the stairs. As each man took his place in the line, the Phantom gave him a quick appraising glance. In their faces he read low cunning, brutish instincts, and stolid obedience to orders, but the keener wit and subtler intellect which the Phantom had always demanded of his men were lacking.
He read each face as if it were an open page, and finally his gaze rested on Doctor Bimble. The anthropologist was a craftier man by far than his subalterns, but at a glance the Phantom’s keen eye picked out the weak spot in his moral fiber. Already a plan was forming in his mind. All he was waiting for was a favorable combination of circumstances that would enable him to act.
The pistol in the doctor’s hand was still pointing straight at the Phantom’s chest. Bimble’s expression was a repulsive mixture of cruelty and smug satisfaction.
“I trust you are convinced that resistance is useless, my dear Phantom,” he declared in drawling tones. “There are more than twenty of us, as you see.”
“Excellent!” remarked the Phantom. “I am glad to see so many of you here.”