“You didn’t give me much of a chance to use my fists on you.”
“No, sir.”
The Phantom attacked the hot and savory soup. “Pugilistic and culinary talents are a rare combination, Jerome.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you are not very much of a conversationalist.”
“No, sir.”
The man, standing with his back to the wall, apparently immovable save when he unbent to pass a dish or replenish the water tumbler, piqued the Phantom’s curiosity. A grenadier turned to stone while standing at attention could not be more rigid and impassive than Jerome, yet there was a hint of constant alertness about the dull eyes and the lines at the corners of his mouth.
“There are moments when silence is golden,” observed the Phantom. “Perhaps this is one of them.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
The Phantom finished the meal in silence. When Jerome had gone, he turned to the newspapers, noticing that the front pages were largely given over to himself. His own photograph was published side by side with that of the Sphere reporter, whose name appeared to be Thomas Granger. Many thousands of dollars were being wagered on the outcome of the contest between the Phantom and the police, with the odds slightly in favor of the latter. A yellow journal was offering prizes to those of its readers who furnished the best suggestions for the capture of the famous outlaw. There were interviews with leading citizens in all walks of life, expressing amazement and indignation over the murder of Sylvanus Gage and the dilatory tactics of the officials. Even Wall Street was disturbed, for who knew but what the celebrated rogue was planning another of the stupendous raids that had rocked the financial world on two or three occasions in the past?