The front of the store was dark, but through an open door in the rear came a shaft of light. As he waited, the Phantom threw an uneasy glance up and down the street. Luck had been with him so far, but the tension was beginning to tell on his nerves.
A puny figure crossed the path of light, then the door opened a few inches, and the two arrivals were given a keen, slant-eyed scrutiny. The Phantom knew a little Chinese, and a few words spoken in that tongue had a magic effect on the man inside. With a curious obeisance, he drew back and motioned them to enter. The Phantom, pushing his quarry ahead of him through the door, spoke a few more words in Chinese, and their host pointed invitingly to the door in the rear.
The three entered, and Peng Yuen, arrayed in straw-colored garments embroidered with black bats, shot the bolt. His face was as impassive as that of the image of Kuan-Yin pu tze which stood on a shelf over a lacquered teak-wood cabinet, and he was so slight of stature that it seemed as though a puff of wind would have blown him to the land of his ancestors. The air in the little den was heavy with scents of the East.
The light, filtering through shades of green and rose, gave Granger his first clear view of the Phantom’s face. With a start he fell back a step and stared at his captor out of gradually widening eyes. The last signs of stupor fled from his face, and a startled cry rose in his throat as the Phantom smilingly snatched the false mustache from his lips.
The Chinaman, standing with arms folded across his chest, viewed the scene with supreme indifference. Granger slowly ran his hand across his forehead, as if wondering whether his senses were playing him tricks. His lips came apart, and a startled gleam appeared in his bleary, heavy-lidded eyes.
“The—the Gray Phantom!” he muttered shakily, wetting his lips and falling back another step.
The Phantom looked amused. “Just think what a scoop you’ve missed, Granger.” He turned to the Chinaman. “Peng, you old heathen, I guess you know they are accusing me of murder?”
“So?” said Peng Yuen in his slow, precise English. “I did not know. I never read the newspapers.”
“Then, of course, you are not aware that the police are conducting a lively search for me?”
“My friend,” said the Chinaman, unimpressed, “I have told you that I do not read the papers.”