“How is your guest, Peng Yuen?” was the Phantom’s first question after entering the shop on Pell Street.
The Chinaman’s eyes widened. “The guest? Ah, yes, I remember. I think the gentleman is well.”
“Has he telephoned anyone, or sent out any messages?”
“No; he has remained in his room all the time. He asked me this morning for something to read, and I gave him a translation of ‘Chin-Kong-Ching.’”
“Good. I have come to have a talk with him.”
“Very well.” The slight figure, arrayed in loose-fitting, straw-colored garments, stepped to the wall with the softly gliding gait characteristic of his race. He pressed a button, and the Phantom passed through an opening which instantly closed behind him.
Granger, lying on a couch, looked up drowsily. The little room had neither windows nor visible door. Air was wafted in through a mysterious recess in a corner of the ceiling, and a shaded lamp shed a greenish light over the scene. The walls were covered with yellow satin embroidered with quotations from Chinese philosophers. On a table standing near the couch were the remnants of a breakfast.
“Fairly comfortable, I see.” The Phantom sat down. His glance, though seemingly casual, was taking in every detail of the reporter’s appearance, “How are you feeling?”
“Rotten!” Granger rubbed his eyes and scowled disgustedly. “I asked the chink for something to drink, and he brought me a mess that tasted like vinegar and molasses. Then I dropped a hint that I would like some reading matter, and he handed me a book that put me to sleep before I had turned the first page. Say, how much longer are you going to sport my clothes and wear my name?”
“No longer than I have to. Your name suits me well enough, but our tastes in clothes differ.”