The Phantom awoke with a start, vaguely conscious that he had been sleeping for several hours. Shortly after his interview with Doctor Bimble, he had been removed to a small dark room with a single shuttered window, through which no sunlight or air entered. The ropes around his wrists and ankles had been removed, but his movements were restricted by a chain only a few feet long, one end of which was padlocked to his right leg while the other was clamped to the wall.

Jerome, more tight-lipped than ever, had brought him a meal, and he had eaten with relish, after which he had lain down on the cot and gone to sleep. A lessening of his mental tension had come with the conviction that Helen was in no immediate danger and would be safe until the doctor heard from his messengers, which he probably would not do until after midnight.

He had slept soundly, and now he was refreshed in body and mind. He inspected his surroundings with a keen eye. The little room was admirably adapted to the purposes of a cell. Even if he were inclined to shout for help, the shutters doubtless would render such an effort useless. The room was sparsely lighted by an electric bulb in the ceiling, and he noted that the door, walls, and floor had a substantial appearance. The only objects within his reach were the cot and a table.

His face fell as he took an inventory of his pockets, noticing that all that remained of his belongings was a watch and a handkerchief. His wallet, with Dan the Dope’s pistol, was gone, and so was the little metal box that on so many occasions had enabled him to squeeze out of tight corners. The chain was not heavy, but strong enough to resist all the force he could muster, and each end was fastened in a way that left him no hope of escape.

“The worthy doctor is taking no chances,” he muttered. “He has left me as helpless as a newborn babe. Wonder where I am.”

He had no idea where the black limousine had taken him, for it had traveled a devious course, and he had been chloroformed before it reached its destination. He was certain he was not in Doctor Bimble’s house, for he had searched that dwelling from cellar to attic and there had been no room in it that resembled this one. Probably he was in some other house controlled by Doctor Bimble or one of his associates.

After all, where he was did not matter, greatly. The one thing that concerned him was his helplessness, for evidently the doctor had taken every conceivable precaution against his prisoner’s escape. Everything considered, it was as hopeless a situation as the Phantom had ever faced.

A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four o’clock. He had eight hours in which to accomplish the seemingly impossible before the doctor should learn from his agents that they had been sent out on a wild-goose chase. He shuddered as he contemplated what would be the consequences if he failed. Yet, he told himself, the course he had taken was the only one possible under the circumstances. If he had directed the doctor’s agents to Sea-Glimpse, Helen’s usefulness to the organization would have been ended, and then——

He turned quickly as the door opened, admitting Doctor Bimble, with a newspaper in his hand.

“Thought you would be interested in the news about Pinto,” began the doctor, advancing somewhat cautiously and taking care not to step within the narrow half circle that bounded his prisoner’s movements. The Phantom regarded him languidly, for his mind was on other things.

“Has Pinto recovered consciousness?” he asked indifferently.

Bimble nodded. “Much sooner than the doctors expected, and he has celebrated his return to consciousness by making a rather interesting statement.”

“Not a confession?” The Phantom was still speaking in dull tones. In the last few days he had almost lost sight of the purpose that had called him to New York. The danger threatening Helen Hardwick had seemed far more important than the mystery of the two murders.

“Well, you might call it that, though it probably isn’t the kind of confession you have in mind. Pinto has made a clean breast of everything, but he still insists that you murdered Gage.”

“That’s a contradiction,” mumbled the Phantom. “He is not making a clean breast of things so long as he denies his guilt.”

“His statement sounds fairly convincing, nevertheless. He admits practically everything except that he committed the murder. For instance, he frankly admits that he concealed the body of the housekeeper and——”

“That in itself is evidence of his guilt.”

“But Pinto has what looks like a satisfactory explanation. He seems to be an honest, hard-working, unimaginative fellow, not overintelligent, and deeply devoted to his wife and baby. You probably know the type. He says that for months before Gage was murdered he had a queer premonition that something of that kind was to happen, and he never passed the house without an uneasy feeling. I suppose what he really means is that he had noticed signs of strange doings about the place, and that without analyzing his impressions he found it getting on his nerves.

“Pinto reiterates his previous assertion that Gage made a dying statement accusing you of the crime. He admits, however, that he felt nervous about the whole affair. The poor fellow was in a very trying position. After forcing the door, which was bolted on the inside, and listening to Gage’s dying words, he made a careful examination of the room, paying particular attention to the little window which was so narrow that no grown person could possibly have crawled through it. He did not understand how even an accomplished person like the Phantom could have committed the murder and escaped from the room.

“Then, all of a sudden, Pinto got panicky. Even his crude intellect perceived that it looked as though nobody but himself could have committed the murder. He thought of his wife and his baby, and he did not relish the idea of being tried for murder. As he saw it, he might easily be convicted and sent to the chair. However, his fears proved unfounded, for nobody accused him of the crime, and Pinto could breathe freely once more.”

“But what about the housekeeper?” inquired the Phantom, gradually becoming more interested.

“I am coming to that. After the murder of Gage Pinto got into the habit of visiting the house between rounds. He was still hoping to discover a way whereby the Phantom could have escaped from the room. Late one night, according to his statement, he found the housekeeper’s body in the same room where Gage had been murdered. He says the body was still warm, so the woman could not have been dead long. At the discovery all his fears returned with trebled force. The supposition, he thought, would be that the murderer of Gage had also killed Mrs. Trippe. The Gray Phantom was supposed to be in jail at the time and therefore could not be accused of having murdered the housekeeper.

“Pinto was in a terrible quandary. Since, as he thought at the time, the Phantom could not have murdered Mrs. Trippe, it might be questioned whether he had murdered Gage. The whole case might be reopened, in which event he feared the finger of suspicion must inevitably point to him. Again Pinto thought of his wife and baby, and, the more he thought of them, the more nervous he became. He did a foolish thing, as men often do when fear conquers reason. He could think of nothing to do but cover up the crime until he could get a chance to think the thing over, and so he carried the body upstairs and concealed it behind some packing cases. Later, after it developed that the Phantom had not been in jail and had no alibi, he saw no reason for concealing the body longer. He explains at length what happened when he went to the storeroom to drag it out and was interrupted by you.”

Bimble smiled blandly, but he was studying the Phantom’s face out of the corner of an eye. “What do you think of Pinto’s confession?”

The Phantom considered while he glanced at the papers Bimble handed him. The statement was there, just as summarized by the doctor. Granting a crude intellect and a mind not too analytical, he thought it quite possible that an innocent man might act exactly as described in Pinto’s statement. Further, the story had all the earmarks of truth, for a guilty mind would have tried to invent a less grotesque tale. Of a sudden the Phantom found that all his calculations and theories in regard to the murder had been upset by Pinto’s surprising and unexpected explanation.

“Why ask me?” was his reply. “You know the murderer.”

“Perhaps. I was just curious to hear what you would think.”

There was a wrinkle of perplexity on the Phantom’s brow. Assuming that Pinto was innocent, the difficulties in the way of solving the mystery and exculpating himself had been vastly complicated.

“If Pinto didn’t do it,” persisted the doctor suavely, “who do you suppose did?”

The Phantom could not tell why, but the question gave him a mental jolt. In the past few hours his concern for Helen had claimed all his thoughts, and before that he had been so firmly convinced of Pinto’s guilt that there had been no room in his mind for other suspicions. The possibility that someone other than the policeman might be involved had not occurred to him.

He looked up and found the doctor’s soft eyes searching his face with an odd intensity. Bimble seemed intent on ascertaining what deductions his prisoner would make from Pinto’s statement, and apparently this had been the only reason for his call.

“My question seems to have stumped you,” he observed.

The Phantom shrugged his shoulders. “With Pinto eliminated, I’m entirely at sea. In view of the bolted door and the size of the window, I don’t see how anyone else could have murdered Gage, unless——” He checked himself abruptly, and of a sudden he saw a great light. In the next instant a smile masked his agitation. “Unless,” he finished with a chuckle, “I did it myself.”

Bimble seemed satisfied. “Excellent logic, my friend,” he murmured as he stepped to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned and fixed his gaze on the Phantom’s face. “I shall pay you another visit as soon as I hear from my men.”

His tone carried a sinister emphasis, but the Phantom scarcely noticed it.

“With Pinto eliminated,” he said half aloud when the door had closed, “only one other person could have committed the murders. And I know that person!”