Erik knew he was being followed and darted into an alley several blocks from Chinatown's main entrance. His uncanny sense of direction told him he was close to his club. He hoped he'd be able to evade Ping's men long enough to get back there. Once there, he knew they'd scatter. He knew how Ping Sai worked; he'd sent the men to intimidate him, deliver a beating, but not kill. No. That would come later unless Erik worked quickly to squash the man's plans.

Ping Sai thought he was dealing with a rough businessman. He had no idea that once the Phantom raised his head, there would be war until one of them was dead. Erik hoped it wouldn't come to that. He'd had enough killing in his life.

"Why," Erik muttered, pushing the wool felt fedora down farther on his head to secure it and hurriedly dodging through a short artery branching off the main alley, "Why can't I have peace? That's all I want, to live out the remainder of my days quietly. I know I won't get a loving wife or a family, but can't I just, finally, be left alone?"

He stopped in the shadows to catch his breath, leaning against a wall just a few feet from the bustling street. Then they were on him. An arm snaked around his neck and two others grabbed for his forearms. A fourth punched him in the stomach and the air exploded from his lungs.

Adrenaline surged and he managed to shake them off, then turned to face them wielding his heavy walking stick. "A message from Ping Sai, yes?" he panted, swinging at the nearest man and clipping his kneecap with the heavy silver head of the stick. He jabbed his elbow into another's midsection then turned to face three more. He was overwhelmed and he knew it, but he refused to give up without doing some damage himself. Inside his head he heard maniacal laughter, the Phantom had returned and he would not be stopped.

Erik gave himself over to the fury, kicking, punching, and using his stick. Two men were down, semiconscious in the alleyway when the others suddenly retreated, grabbing their fallen comrades and shouting to each other in their native tongue.

"Stop! Leave him alone! Help! Help! Police!"

A woman's voice cut through the red haze in his mind. He stopped, whirling to face her, glimpsing a blue daytime suit and large matching hat. Then a gunshot rang out and fire lanced across his upper right arm, throwing him hard against a brick wall. For a few seconds, he forgot how to breathe.

"Are you hurt?" The woman's voice again. He felt hands running over his shoulders and arms. Then something touched the wound; pain exploded and he cried out, sagging against the rough wall. "Let go," he gasped, pushing at her.

"You're hurt; I can't leave you here."

"They'll come back, with others." The sky was tilting dangerously, but he refused to give in. He grabbed her gloved hands, pulling them from his body. "You've got to get away. Leave me."

"Not bloody likely."

Did he really hear that, or was he hallucinating from the pain of the gunshot and the blow to his head from hitting the wall? He shook his head, clearing it enough to get a look at the woman. Her head was down and he could barely see her hands past her large hat. She was pushing a wadded up handkerchief against his bleeding arm. "Leave it." He pushed her hand away. "We've got to get out of here now."

"Where's the nearest hospital?" she asked. "I'll get you there."

"No, no hospital." Entering a hospital wearing a mask and with what was clearly a gunshot wound would only lead to more problems. The last thing he needed was the police with their intrusive questions. His club was legitimate, and the corrupt amongst them hated that. He'd already gotten feelers from crooked politicians and while the beat cops were generally good men, he knew from personal experience that some of those with political connections in the upper echelon of the force weren't above coming around with their hands out and threats to shut him down.

He grabbed her arm with his good hand, turning her away from him and toward the street. "My club's not far. I can get there by myself." He gave her a slight push. He felt his knees starting to fold and he fought to stay upright. Then her arm slid around his waist as she maneuvered herself under his good shoulder. "Go on, get out of here."

"Like hell I will," she snapped. "I'm stronger than I look. Lean on me and tell me which way we're going."

"Club Incognito." He managed to point in the general direction of the building. "It's only a few blocks. We can cut through the alleys and be there quickly."

"Good." She hefted his shoulder once more. "Damn, for a slender man, you're very heavy."

"And for a lady, you swear like a stevedore on the docks."

She laughed at his comment. "I know." She took a step forward, half dragging him with her. "It used to horrify my husband, god rest his soul, but he got used to it. I'm afraid I do have a temper and he learned it was better to let me swear than to dodge whatever object was close enough at hand to throw."

"Wise man," Erik gasped, doing his best to move under his own power and take his weight from her.

They staggered forward for a few blocks until Erik stopped abruptly, bending over and breathing hard.

"Are you going to be sick?" she asked, trying to balance against the pull of his body.

Yes. "No." He pulled in a few deep breaths and managed to stand upright again. "It's just over there." He pointed to a black door with small white lettering set in the brick wall. He fumbled with his bad arm, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a key that quickly covered with blood.

She took it unhesitatingly. "You're bleeding badly, we've got to get that taken care of quickly. Is there someone here who can help?"

He shook his head, remembering that Nasir was gone to Sacramento. "Alone. Closed on Monday."

Lillian bit her lip, thinking hard. So it was just her alone with this strange man. All right, she could handle this situation by herself. She turned the key in the lock and helped him up the step into a dark hallway. "Which way?"

"Upstairs, on the left, my apartment." He was close to passing out. His legs felt numb and it took all his concentration to climb the stairs. He leaned heavily against the doorway, resting his head while she fumbled with the key. Surprisingly, he still wore the wide brimmed black fedora.

"There." She pushed the door open and guided him inside to the sofa. Then she stripped off her bloody gloves and looked around. "Towels? Bandages?"

"Hallway. On the right. Bathroom." He pushed the fedora off, closed his eyes, and leaned his back against the pillows.

Lillian followed the man's directions, quickly finding towels draped across a bar on the wall. It took her longer to find the bandages. She returned to the front room to find him slumped halfway across the cushions, his head tilting downward toward his chest.

"Don't you dare pass out now," she said through clenched teeth. She took his chin to raise his head and gasped. Between her wide hat brim and the blood dripping down his arm, she hadn't noticed the mask under the fedora he was wearing when she first saw him.

His eyes fluttered open and he pulled away. "Sorry. Don't let the mask frighten you. I won't hurt you." His eyes closed again.

She saw his head hit the wall when he was shot, but there was no blood and he'd been coherent. He didn't appear to have a serious head injury, so she banished the mystery mask from her mind. It wasn't important. She shook him again, waiting until he lifted his head. "You must listen to me," she insisted in her best Lady Lillian-giving-orders voice. "We must get your coat off so I can get a look at your wound."

He nodded, fumbling with his left hand to unbutton the coat. It took the two of them, but they were able to slide it from him with a minimal amount of jostling. The necktie, waistcoat, and suspenders were simple enough to remove, although she was very careful sliding the waistcoat over his right arm. The shirt would be another matter. The buttons were smaller and then she'd have to pull it over his head.

"Let's take the cufflinks off and then we'll work on the shirt." After removing the heavy sterling links, Lillian stepped back, thinking for a moment about the best way to remove the shirt, when he grabbed the bloody sleeve at the shoulder and tore it from the seam.

He looked up, smiling weakly. "Seemed like the simplest solution."

"Indeed." The bullet tore through the muscle of his arm, leaving a long, deep gash that was still bleeding. She knew she'd have to clean it quickly and get a tight wrapping around it to stop the blood before he lost much more.

Ideally she'd boil water then wait for it to cool before washing out the wound with soap. She watched for a few seconds, mesmerized as blood dripped down his arm, forming a small pool on the rug beside his foot. No. Soap and boiled water would take too long. She had to find something to act as an antiseptic.

Her eyes fell on a small freestanding bar against the far wall. Crystal decanters caught the afternoon sunlight, throwing rainbows across the room. That's just what she needed.

Erik opened his eyes in time to see her run to the bar. "Good thinking," he murmured. "Pour a small one for me."

"Oh, no, mister. You're getting a large one." She crossed the room in two steps and poured a bit of brandy directly over his wound.

He yelled, lunging up from the sofa. "Damnit, woman!"

"I'm sorry." She pushed him down forcefully, and started wiping at the wound with a brandy-soaked towel. "This will clean and disinfect the wound and hopefully prevent any infection." Then she pressed another clean brandy-soaked cloth against the gash, frowning as she saw it quickly redden. She began wrapping it with bandages which were staining even as she pulled them into place. She knew they wouldn't be enough.

He was starting to look ashen. She could see him fighting to stay upright. She had to do something. "Needle and thread?" She shook his shoulder. "Do you have needle and thread?" She wrapped another length of bandage around his arm and tightened it forcefully.

He was panting now, trying desperately to keep from throwing up from the pain. It was bad enough he was bleeding on her blue suit. He didn't want to totally embarrass himself by vomiting on it, too. "Bedroom, dressing room," he gasped, "small drawer below shirts."

He heard her quick footsteps down the hallway and back.

"I'm sorry," she said sitting at his side and unwrapping the bandage. "The bleeding's slowed a bit, but if I don't stitch this, it will just keep bleeding until you die." She pulled out a length of silk, expertly threaded the needle, knotted the bottom and poured brandy over it and her hands. "Brace yourself."

The room was spinning along with his stomach now. He leaned back, turned his unmasked side into the pillows and crossed his good arm over his forehead. "Just do it."

The last thing he heard before the pain flared and his vision went black was her whisper. "I'm so sorry."

Erik awoke, reclining on his sofa. His arm was wrapped, cleaned of blood, and lying across his torso. He couldn't remember how it got that way.

"Ah, our sleeping beauty awakens." The clipped British accent, was accompanied by a surprisingly strong pair of arms leveraging him into a more upright position. Pillows were tucked under his back and head for added support. "There. How are you feeling?"

His head and arm were throbbing in time to his racing heartbeat and his stomach was threatening to rebel. "Fine." He closed his eyes briefly, willing his heart rate to slow and his gut to behave and then slowly opened them. A slightly blurry blue figure stood looking down at him. He remembered blue. A woman in blue? He blinked and the memory returned. "Oh. I suppose I should thank you for assisting me."

"Yes, I suppose you should."

"Thank you."

"You're most welcome." She moved forward, placing a hand on the uncovered side of his face. "You don't seem to have a fever. That's a good sign." She noticed he pulled back slightly when she touched him.

He was feeling stronger and more awake by the second. "I'm fine. Just had a bit of a knock that's all." He pushed up into a sitting position, swinging his legs on to the floor. "Really," he continued, ignoring the headache and waiting for the slight dizziness to pass before glancing up at her and then looking away. "I'm fine. You…you don't have to stay."

She just stood, watching him. It was an uncomfortable moment for them both. "Yes." She nodded briskly. "Well then, I suppose I should go."

He didn't miss the slight edge in her voice. "I'm sorry," he began, "for being rude. It's just that…." He gestured awkwardly, "there's no one else here. It's not proper."

She laughed at that. "I half-dragged you to your flat, helped you to half-undress, stitched and bound up your bullet wound, and watched while you slept to make sure you didn't have a seizure. But heaven help us if we're perceived as being improper."

He was silent, not knowing what to say to her surprising outburst.

"Oh, don't hang your head and be all gallant." She was fuming now. "Bloody hell, I helped you and all you can say is 'thanks and get out?"

"Well what do you want? My undying gratitude? You have it." He stood then, feeling a little shaky but refusing to give in to it. "Madam, I am grateful for your help, truly. I can see that you're a lady of quality and if it became known, in any way, that you were alone with me in my apartment, your reputation would be in tatters."

"Why?"

She seemed genuinely puzzled. Was she that naive? "Aside from being unmarried, I'm no gentleman," he said harshly. "And these rooms are above a gambling hall located on a busy street. You helped me. I am grateful. And now all I want to do is help you leave here with your reputation intact." The room started to tilt and he sat down abruptly.

"What's wrong; are you dizzy?"

Her solicitude was getting on his nerves. "Will you please get out of my home? Now."

"Very well." She was fed up with this rude impossible man. If he wanted her gone, she'd go. She gathered up her hat and jacket and started slipping on the garment. "Oh, no. Where's my reticule? Do you see it?"

He looked around, eyes darting over the room. He didn't see anything resembling the small handbag ladies carried. "No."

"I must have dropped it somewhere in the alleys." She paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to ask, but might I borrow a little money for a carriage back to my hotel?"

If it was a regular workday, he could have one of his workers drive her home in his own carriage. But as it was, there was no one he could ask and he knew he wasn't able to drive her himself. "Of course, madam. I'd be happy to give you the fare." Moving his right arm was painful, but he managed to reach into his pocket and pull out a handful of coins along with a few other odds and bits.

"Here." He extended his arm, "take what you need."

She reached out, tentatively making contact with his hand. "What's this?" She held up a piece of grosgrain fabric, so worn and dirty she couldn't be sure of the color. Why would he carry around an old piece of ribbon? And why did it tickle something in the back of her mind?

"It's mine." He cringed at the sharpness in his voice. "It's a talisman of sorts." His eyes fell on her wrist and he froze, instantly recognizing the thin bracelet and the charm dangling from it sliding out from under her sleeve. "You're that Danby woman, from the gala at the Palace Hotel last night."

"I am," she affirmed. "The Honorable Lady Lillian Featherstone, Dowager Baroness of Danby if you want the whole bloody title. And you are?"

"Erik. I—I'm Erik Dantes." His heart was pounding again. There was no sign of recognition when she picked up the ribbon. Was it merely coincidence that she wore a small gold heart charm and told that story? Could she have heard it somewhere and appropriated it for her fundraising ventures, or was it truly she?

"Very nice meeting you, Mr. Dantes."

He noted the formality in her tone as she returned the ribbon and picked some coins from his hand, slipping them into her skirt pocket. "Thank you. I shall see that you're repaid promptly as soon as I return to the hotel." As she lifted her hat to her head she caught a flash of light out of the corner of her eye. "What's that?" She looked to the window as another flash lit the sky followed several seconds later by a rolling boom. "Oh no, it's a storm."

He'd stood at the second flash. "It's moving in swiftly. Look at how dark the sky is already."

"If I'm not back at the hotel soon, my staff will send the police out to look for me." She glanced at the window and then to the door. "I have to go."

"No." He caught her wrist, holding her in place. "It's too dangerous. You won't find a carriage now. Storms come up fast and furiously here. The drivers will all have found shelter by now." He realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. "Sorry. I—I have a telephone, you can call the hotel and leave a message."

"Yes." She nodded, eyes widening at yet another lightning flash. "Where is it?"

"Downstairs in my office. It's locked." He pointed to a key on a hook by the door. "Ask for the hotel by name, the operator should have the number. Hurry, the telephones are unpredictable in storms." Thunder boomed and he saw her flinch. "Don't be scared. Nothing will hurt you here."

She nodded and moved to the stairs. "I'll be right back."

He waited, his mind in turmoil. It was she. He was sure of it. But what was he to do? There might no longer be cage bars between them, but the distance was still too great to cross. Perhaps the best thing to do was nothing. Keep his distance and let her go as soon as the storm passed.

He started turning on the electric lights, hoping the power wouldn't fail. It was always chancy in storms. "Candles, I must find candles." He was searching through the bar when she returned, slamming the door behind her and startling them both.

"I spoke with my secretary. I told him I was safe and that I would return when I could." She looked at him. Something about him was nagging at the back of her mind. "Who are you, Mr. Dantes?"

"I already told you. I'm an unmarried businessman who owns a disreputable gambling club and is trying to protect your reputation," he said, finding candles in the bar and then lighting them. "Just in case the electricity goes out." He made sure they were secure in their holders and left them on the polished wooden surface. Then he moved back toward her.

She was certain she knew him, but how? Where? She'd heard the name Erik Dantes during the gala. Although she hadn't seen him, he was the subject of conversation among a group of ladies she'd joined during the cocktail hour. Rich. Mysterious. Owned a successful gambling club. Incognito it was called and it had become quite fashionable to go to the club masked as its owner was whenever he appeared in public. At the time, she thought it was a clever advertising ploy for his business.

But why wear the mask now? In his own home? Was it an affectation as they said, or was there another reason? "Who are you?" She approached him, reaching for his face as he flinched back. His hand shot out, stopping her advance.

"I told you. I'm Erik Dantes."

There was something in the way he looked at her. He kept glancing at her then quickly looking away. As if he didn't want her to look at him. Still, there was something familiar. "I know you," she breathed. "We've met before."