“No wonder he acted so shaky,” murmured the Phantom. “Well, I am glad the ugly mess has been disposed of. The wily old Peng Yuen must have had an inkling of the truth when he quoted something to me from one of the Chinese philosophers. I didn’t get his meaning then, but I do now. Anyway,” with a soft laugh, “the bloodstain has been washed from the Gray Phantom’s name. There will never——”
Granger, who had been leaning back against his chair as if in a drunken stupor, made a sudden movement. The Phantom was about to interfere, but the reporter was only pouring himself a drink from the bottle. He rose unsteadily and held the glass aloft.
“It was fun while it lasted,” he declared thickly. “I’m going to have one more drink—just one. Here goes!”
He gulped down the contents of the glass, swayed for an instant and regarded the others with an odd expression. Then, before either of them could interfere, he picked up the pistol he had dropped upon the Phantom’s entrance.
A crack sounded. Helen uttered a sharp cry, and Culligore limped toward the reporter’s chair just as Granger went staggering to the floor.
“Killed himself!” muttered the lieutenant. “Shot himself through the heart. Well, that’s one way of dodging the electric chair.”
Helen shuddered convulsively and the Phantom led her gently toward the door. He drew the doctor’s keys from his pockets and tossed them to Culligore.
“I forgot to tell you,” he remarked in casual tones, “that Bimble and his gang are locked up in the basement. Miss Hardwick and I rounded them up and took their guns away from them while you and Granger were discussing the crime. I understand, too, that there’s a large amount of swag salted in the cellar. It will be quite an important catch for you, Culligore, and ought to help toward promotion for you.”
The lieutenant stared.
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he muttered at last.