"Splendid!" ejaculated Slade. "I see you have already glimpsed the idea. At this very moment the muzzle of a pistol is pressing against Miss Hardwick's back. The slightest pressure on the trigger will send a bullet through her heart. You cannot fire at him, much as you would like to do so, for Miss Hardwick's figure makes an excellent bulwark. Will you admit you are beaten?"
Torn between rage and despair, The Phantom gazed rigidly at Helen. The stolid expression on her face showed plainly that she had not the faintest inkling of what was going on. Now and then her lips twitched as if she were on the point of laughing. Of the figure crouching behind her only an elbow and a narrow strip of shoulder were visible. An anguished cry rose in The Phantom's throat as he saw the full infamy of Slade's ruse.
"I shall begin to count," said Slade in triumphant tones. "If, by the time I come to ten, you have not signified by throwing down your pistol that you are willing to surrender, Miss Hardwick will die instantly."
A hush, charged with an electric tension, followed the ultimatum. Then, slowly and evenly, Slade began to count:
Walking with his usual listless and shuffling gait, Lieutenant Culligore mounted the steps in front of police headquarters and entered the office of Inspector Stapleton of the detective bureau. It was late in the afternoon, and Culligore might have quickened his steps and carried himself with more animation if he could have known that at this very moment The Gray Phantom, seated in the secret chamber at Azurecrest, was planning his second move against the redoubtable Mr. Shei.
Stapleton, a huge, thick-necked man with a reddish face and a tendency toward irascibility, looked up with a scowl as the lieutenant walked in.
"Nothing," said Culligore patiently and flopped into a chair beside the inspector's desk, "except that our friend Mr. Shei seems to be getting away with it."
Stapleton glared at a pile of newspapers he had been reading. His temper was on edge from his perusal of several editorials that chided the bureau for its failure to circumvent Mr. Shei.
"Two of the seven moneybags are already showing the white feather," Culligore continued, "and two or three of the others are getting wabbly. By the end of the week I guess most of 'em will be ready to pay Mr. Shei's price. I don't know how he means to manage the transaction, but I'll bet a pair of pink socks he'll figure out a safe way."