CHAPTER XI—A BLOW FROM BEHIND
Only one thought stood out clearly in the Phantom’s mind as he lay on his back in the tunnel breathing the suffocating fumes of the damp earth, and surrounded by a silence and a darkness so profound that he felt as if a vast void was separating him from the world of the living. His senses were numbed and his brain had ceased to function, but somehow his mind grasped the realization that this was the end of the Gray Phantom’s career.
The fate awaiting him seemed as inexorable as the darkness that surrounded him. He had faced great dangers and had found himself in fearful predicaments before, but never had death appeared as certain and inevitable as now. Through his dazed consciousness filtered a resolution to meet death, even in this hideous form, with the same unconcern and stoicism with which he had accepted the favors destiny had strewn in his path. The thought brought a feeble smile to his lips, and he hoped the end would come before the thought faded away. He wanted the world in general and Helen Hardwick in particular to know he had died smiling.
Something, he did not know what, stirred faintly in his mind. Instinctively his thoughts groped for a memory that seemed dim and far away, a memory that caused his body to vibrate with a reawakening desire to live. Slowly, out of the whirling chaos in his mind, it came to him. He could not—must not—die! He could not pass out into oblivion with a foul crime staining his name. He must live in order to revive and vindicate the faith Helen Hardwick had once reposed in him.
The resolve buoyed him a little, causing his body to throb with a renascent life impulse. Already his mind felt a little clearer, and his nerves and sinews were beginning to respond to the driving force of his will. If his parched lungs could only get a little air!
Again he placed his feet against the door and pushed with all the strength he could summon. He might as well have tried to dislodge a mountain. The implements in his pocket case had helped him out of many a tight dilemma in the past, but they were of no avail now. He still had the pistol he had taken from Helen’s hand while they stood in the closet, and for an instant it occurred to him that the report of a shot might penetrate the roof of the tunnel and bring him assistance. A moment later he reconsidered bitterly. If the shot were heard, it would more likely bring the police; besides, the fumes released by the explosion might smother him to death in a few minutes.
With a great effort he crawled away from the door thinking the air might be not so stifling toward the center of the tunnel. He moved only two or three paces when the terrific pounding of his heart and the protest of his tortured lungs forced him to lie still and rest. For several minutes he lay motionless, save for the heaving of his chest, matching his wits against the hardest problem he had ever faced.
Of a sudden something chill and wet fell upon his face. It was a mere drop of moisture, but it felt like ice to his parched skin, causing every nerve to quiver. The contact acted like an electric stimulant on his mind. He lay rigid, expectant, wondering why the trivial occurrence should affect him so strangely, and presently another drop of moisture splashed against his forehead, sending an icy shiver down his spine.
Suddenly he jerked up his head, striking it against the roof of the tunnel. In a twinkling he had grasped the significance of the dropping moisture. There must be a leak in the vault of the passage, and the soil above was probably soft and porous, enabling the tiny globules of water to percolate.
The deduction jolted the last remnant of stupor out of his body. He was still weak, but the play of his wits kindled his nervous energy. He ran his hand along the roof, locating the point where the moisture was seeping through. The arched vault was supported by boards running in a longitudinal direction and braced at intervals by diagonal props. He gave a hoarse shout of elation as he noticed that the boards were rotting from infiltration of moisture.