afraid Mr. Jameson and I must be back on the job before this Clutching Hand gets busy again,” he replied reluctantly.
“Oh, I hope you—we get him soon!” she exclaimed, and there was nothing lifeless about the way she gave Craig her hand, as Bennett, he and I left a moment later.
That morning I had noticed Kennedy fussing some time at the door of our apartment before we went over to the laboratory. As nearly as I could make out he had placed something under the rug at the door out into the hallway.
When we approached our door, now, Craig paused. By pressing a little concealed button he caused a panel in the wall outside to loosen, disclosing a small, boxlike plate in the wall underneath.
It was about a foot long and perhaps four inches wide. Through it ran a piece of paper which unrolled from one coil and wound up on another, actuated by clockwork. Across the blank white paper ran an ink line traced by a stylographic pen, such as I had seen in mechanical pencils used in offices, hotels, banks and such places.
Kennedy examined the thing with interest.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A new seismograph,” he replied, still gazing carefully at the rolled up part of the paper. “I have installed it because it registers every footstep on the floor of our apartment. We can’t be too careful with this Clutching Hand. I want to know whether we have any visitors or not in our absence. This straight line indicates that we have not. Wait a moment.”
Craig hastily unlocked the door and entered. Inside, I could see him pacing up and down our modest quarters.
“Do you see anything, Walter?” he called.
I looked at the seismograph. The pen had started to trace its line, no longer even and straight, but zigzag, at different heights across the paper.
He came to the door. “What do you think of it?” he inquired.
“Splendid idea,” I answered enthusiastically.
Our apartment was, as I have said, modest, consisting of a large living room, two bedrooms, and bath—an attractive but not ornate place, which we found very cosy and comfortable. On one side of the room was a big fire place, before which stood a fire screen. We had collected easy chairs and capacious tables and desks. Books were scattered about, literally overflowing from the crowded shelves. On the walls were our favorite pictures, while for ornament, I suppose I might mention my typewriter and now and then some of Craig’s wonderful scientific apparatus as satisfying our limited desire for the purely aesthetic.
We entered and fell to work at the aforementioned typewriter, on a special Sunday story that I had been forced to neglect. I was not so busy, however, that I did not notice out of the corner of my eye that Kennedy had taken from its cover Elaine Dodge’s picture and was gazing at it ravenously.
I put my hand surreptitiously over my mouth and coughed. Kennedy wheeled on me and I hastily banged a sentence out on the machine, making at least half a dozen mistakes.
I had finished as much of the article as I could do then and was smoking and reading it over. Kennedy was still gazing at the picture Miss Dodge had given him, then moving from place to place about the room, evidently wondering where it would look best. I doubt whether he had done another blessed thing since we returned.
He tried it on the mantel. That wouldn’t do. At last he held it up beside a picture of Galton, I think, of finger print and eugenics fame, who hung on the wall directly opposite the fireplace. Hastily he compared the two. Elaine’s picture was of precisely the same size.
Next he tore out the picture of the scientist and threw it carelessly into the fireplace. Then he placed Elaine’s picture in its place and hung it up again, standing off to admire it.
I watched him gleefully. Was this Craig? Purposely I moved my elbow suddenly and pushed a book with a bang on the floor. Kennedy actually jumped. I picked up the book with a muttered apology. No, this was not the same old Craig.
Perhaps half an hour later, I was still reading. Kennedy was now pacing up and down the room, apparently unable to concentrate his mind on any but one subject.
He stopped a moment before the photograph, looked at it fixedly. Then he started his methodical walk again, hesitated, and went over to the telephone, calling a number which I recognized.
“She must have been pretty well done up by her experience,” he said apologetically, catching my eye. “I was wondering if—Hello— oh, Miss Dodge—I—er—I—er—just called up to see if you were all right.”
Craig was very much embarrassed, but also very much in earnest.
A musical laugh rippled over the telephone. “Yes, I’m all right, thank you, Mr. Kennedy—and I put the package you sent me into the safe, but—”
“Package?” frowned Craig. “Why, I sent you no package, Miss Dodge. In the safe?”
“Why, yes, and the safe is all covered with moisture—and so cold.”
“Moisture—cold?” he repeated quickly.
“Yes, I have been wondering if it is all right. In fact, I was going to call you up, only I was afraid you’d think I was foolish.”
“I shall be right over,” he answered hastily, clapping the receiver back on its hook. “Walter,” he added, seizing his hat and coat, “come on—hurry!”
A few minutes later we drove up in a taxi before the Dodge house and rang the bell.
Jennings admitted us sleepily.
It could not have been long after we left Miss Dodge late in the afternoon that Susie Martin, who had been quite worried over our long absence after the attempt to rob her father, dropped in on Elaine. Wide-eyed, she had listened to Elaine’s story of what had happened.
“And you think this Clutching Hand has never recovered the incriminating papers that caused him to murder your father?” asked Susie.
Elaine shook her head. “No. Let me show you the new safe I’ve bought. Mr. Kennedy thinks it wonderful.”
“I should think you’d be proud of it,” admired Susie. “I must tell father to get one, too.”
At that very moment, if they had known it, the Clutching Hand with his sinister, masked face, was peering at the two girls from the other side of the portieres.
Susie rose to go and Elaine followed her to the door. No sooner had she gone than the Clutching Hand came out from behind the curtains. He gazed about a moment, then moving over to the safe about which the two girls had been talking, stealthily examined it.
He must have heard someone coming, for, with a gesture of hate at the safe itself, as though he personified it, he slipped back of the curtains again.
Elaine had returned and as she sat down at the desk to go over some papers which Bennett had left relative to settling up the estate, the masked intruder stealthily and silently withdrew.
“A package for you, Miss Dodge,” announced Michael later in the evening as Elaine, in her dainty evening gown, was still engaged in going over the papers. He carried it in his hands rather gingerly.
