Slossdick snatched up the telephone and called a department. “First page make-over,” he snapped when the connection had been established. Then, turning to the Phantom: “Think you can see the typewriter keys this morning?”
The Phantom quavered inwardly. Typewriting was not among his accomplishments, and the entire proceeding was strange to him. He hesitated, noticing that the rumble of the presses had already ceased.
“Well, never mind,” grumbled Slossdick, his pencil already at work on an eight-column caption. “Give the dope to Fessenden and let him write it. Then go home and get some sleep. You look as if you needed it. And, for the love of Mike, steer clear of the booze! Fessenden!”
In response to the explosive shout, a lanky and dyspeptic-looking man appeared at the door to the cubby-hole. After receiving a few terse directions from Slossdick, he led the Phantom to his desk and sat down before his typewriter. He inserted a sheet of paper in the machine while listening, and his fingers were racing over the keys even before the Phantom had finished his recital.
“Bully yarn you’ve turned up,” came his appreciative comment over the clatter of the keys. “A peach!”
The Phantom walked away. The story would, of course, rouse another storm of indignation against himself, but there was no help for that. On the whole, he had bettered his chances and enhanced his temporary safety by giving the Sphere a start of twenty minutes or half an hour in its race against competing newspapers.
His shadow was nowhere in sight as he emerged from the building. Either the man’s suspicions had been disarmed by the Phantom’s move, or else he had grown tired of waiting and dropped into a near-by restaurant for a bite of food. Standing at the curb, the Phantom glanced stealthily to right and left. There was no sign of espionage in either direction. At last he was free to begin his search for Helen Hardwick, but the trail seemed to have neither beginning nor end. In vain he searched his mind for a starting point.
His hands were in his pockets, and presently his absently groping fingers touched a piece of paper. He drew it out, starting as his eyes fell on the ducal coronet.
“Guess I’ll see Granger,” he reflected. “I have a strong hunch he is my starting point.”