The Phantom twisted the rope one more time with the victim's own baton. The director's gasping breaths and groping hands were weakening. His pleading expression softened with the weightlessness of death. Just a second more. When the director's eyes lost their last glitter of life, the phantom still remained, breathing heavily. The maskerd figure had exerted itself more than it had initially planned, but time was running short. At last, it turned away from it's deed, it's cape floating behind like the wake of a boat on the sea at night. It strode from the room, satisfied with what it had done.