A clock struck one. In scrupulous obedience to his orders the jehu was urging his nag over the darkest and most dismal streets he could find. The Phantom looked out, and a glance at a corner sign told him that they were crossing Mott Street and were not far from the heart of old Chinatown. A recollection flashed through his mind, and in its wake came an idea.
“Stop,” he called through the trap. The hansom jolted to the curb and halted. The street was silent and the sidewalks, as far as eyes could reach, were deserted. There was a thin, lazy drizzle in the air and the atmosphere was a trifle heavy.
“Listen, Granger,” he spoke sharply. “We are getting out here, but I intend to keep you covered every instant. The slightest sound or the least false move will cost you your life. Is that clear?”
The reporter’s response was surly, but the Phantom knew that his warning had had the effect he desired. Holding the pistol with one hand, he took out his wallet with the other and selected a bill. Then he stepped down on the curb, ordering the reporter to follow.
“Here, cabby.” He extended the bill, which, with the other the Phantom had previously given him, was surely enough to make the jehu forget any little irregularity he might have observed. With a fervent “Thank you, sir,” he whipped up the scrawny nag and drove away.
“Now, Granger.” The Phantom spoke in low but commanding tones. “My life depends on the success of this little undertaking. I’ll shoot you the instant you show the least intention to spoil my plan. Understand?”
Granger nodded, seemingly convinced that he was dealing with a desperate man and that, for the time at least, it behooved him to obey orders and ask no questions. The Phantom wound his arm about the other’s back, firmly jabbing the muzzle of the pistol against the fellow’s armpit, thus giving the appearance of steadying a slightly incapacitated friend.
They approached the center of Chinatown, keeping in the shadows whenever possible. Granger was sullenly silent, and he seemed to be hoping and watching for a sign of relaxing vigilance on his captor’s part. The Phantom understood, and as they left the shelter of darkness and turned the corner at Pell Street, he pressed the pistol a little harder against the reporter’s armpit.
A slumberous gloom hung over the district, as if the famous old quarter were brooding over memories of a lurid past, when terror stalked in subterranean crypts and strange scenes were enacted under cover of Oriental splendor. There were a few stragglers in the streets and some of the shops and restaurants were lighted; but, on the whole, the section presented a dull and lifeless appearance. The Phantom scanned the signs and numbers as he hurried along with his captive, keeping the latter close to his side, and constantly on the alert against lurking dangers.
Finally he stopped before one of the smaller establishments and, after descending a few steps, knocked on the basement door. Signs painted across the window in Chinese and English announced that the place was occupied by Peng Yuen, dealer in Oriental goods. Once, years ago, while the district was ripped and rocked by one of its frequent tong wars, the Phantom had chanced to do Peng Yuen a great favor, and the Chinaman had sworn undying gratitude and promised to show his appreciation in a practical way if the opportunity should ever come. A strange friendship had developed, and Peng Yuen, though wily and rascally in his dealings with others, had impressed the Phantom as a man whom he could safely trust.