In the hallway, looking back resentfully, for even one who is in the power of a super-criminal is still human and has feelings that may be injured.
Michael put his hand on his face where the Clutching Hand had struck him. There he waited, muttering to himself. As he thought it over, anger took the place of fear. He slowly turned in the direction of the cellar. Closing both his fists, Michael made a threatening gesture at his master in crime.
Meanwhile, Clutching Hand was standing by the electric meter. He examined it carefully, feeling where the wires entered and left it starting to trace them out. At last he came to a point where it seemed suitable to make a connection for some purpose he had in mind.
Quickly he took some wire from his bag and connected it with the electric light wires. Next, he led these wires, concealed of course, along the cellar floor, in the direction of the furnace.
The furnace was one of the old hot air heaters and he paused before it as though seeking something. Then he bent down beside it and uncovered a little tank. He took off the top on which were cast in the iron the words:
“This tank must be kept full of water.”
He thrust his hand gingerly into it, bringing it out quickly. The tank was nearly full of water and he brought his hand out wet. It was also hot. But he did not seem to mind that, for he shook his head with a smile of satisfaction.
Next, from his capacious bag he took two metal poles, or electrodes, and fastened them carefully to the ends of the wires, placing them at opposite ends of the tank in the water.
For several moments he watched. The water inside the tank seemed the same as before, only on each electrode there appeared bubbles, on one bubbles of oxygen, on the other of hydrogen. The water was decomposing under the current by electrolysis.
Another moment he surveyed his work to see that he had left no loose ends. Then he picked up his bag and moved toward the cellar steps. As he did so, he removed the muzzle from his nose and quietly let himself out of the house.
The next morning, Rusty, who had been Elaine’s constant companion since the trouble had begun, awakened his mistress by licking her hand as it hung limply over the side of her bed.
She awakened with a start and put her hand to her head. She felt ill.
“Poor old fellow,” she murmured, half dazedly, for the moment endowing her pet with her own feelings, as she patted his faithful shaggy head.
Rusty moved away again, wagging his tail listlessly. The collie, too, felt ill. Elaine watched him as he walked, dejected, across the room and then lay down.
“Why, Miss Elaine—what ees ze mattair? You are so pale!” exclaimed the maid, Marie, as she entered the room a moment later with the morning’s mail on a salver.
“I don’t feel well, Marie,” she replied, trying with her slender white hand to brush the cobwebs from her brain. “I—I wish you’d tell Aunt Josephine to telephone Dr. Hayward.”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Marie, deftly and sympathetically straightening out the pillows.
Languidly Elaine took the letters one by one off the salver. She looked at them, but seemed not to have energy enough to open them.
Finally she selected one and slowly tore it open. It had no superscription, but it at once arrested her attention and transfixed her with terror.
It read:
“You are sick this morning. Tomorrow you will be worse. The next day you will die unless you discharge Craig Kennedy.”
It was signed by the mystic trademark of the fearsome Clutching Hand!
Elaine drew back into the pillows, horror stricken.
Quickly she called to Marie. “Go—get Aunt Josephine—right away!”
As Marie almost flew down the hall, Elaine still holding the letter convulsively, pulled herself together and got up, trembling. She almost seized the telephone as she called Kennedy’s number.
Kennedy, in his stained laboratory apron, was at work before his table, while I was watching him with intense interest, when the telephone rang.
Without a word he answered the call and I could see a look of perturbation cross his face. I knew it was from Elaine, but could tell nothing about the nature of the message.
An instant later he almost tore off the apron and threw on his hat and coat. I followed him as he dashed out of the laboratory.
“This is terrible—terrible,” he muttered, as we hurried across the campus of the University to a taxi-cab stand.
A few minutes later, when we arrived at the Dodge mansion, we found Aunt Josephine and Marie doing all they could under the circumstances. Aunt Josephine had just given her a glass of water which she drank eagerly. Rusty had, meanwhile, crawled under the bed, caring only to be alone and undisturbed.
Dr. Hayward had arrived and had just finished taking her pulse and temperature as our cab pulled up.
Jennings who had evidently been expecting us let us in without a word and conducted us up to Elaine’s room. We knocked.
“Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson,” we could hear Marie whisper in a subdued voice.
“Tell them to come in,” answered Elaine eagerly.
We entered. There she lay, beautiful as ever, but with a whiteness of her fresh cheek that was too etherially unnatural. Elaine was quite ill indeed.
“Oh—I’m so glad to see you,” she breathed, with an air of relief as Kennedy advanced.
“Why—what is the matter?” asked Craig, anxiously.
Dr. Hayward shook his head dubiously, but Kennedy did not notice him, for, as he approached Elaine, she drew from the covers where she had concealed it a letter and handed it to him.
Craig took it and read:
“You are sick this morning. Tomorrow you will be worse. The next day you will die unless you discharge Craig Kennedy.”
At the signature of the Clutching Hand he frowned, then, noticing Dr. Hayward, turned to him and repeated his question, “What is the matter?”
Dr. Hayward continued shaking his head. “I cannot diagnose her symptoms,” he shrugged.
As I watched Kennedy’s face, I saw his nostrils dilating, almost as if he were a hound and had scented his quarry. I sniffed, too. There seemed to be a faint odor, almost as if of garlic, in the room. It was unmistakable and Craig looked about him curiously but said nothing.
As he sniffed, he moved impatiently and his foot touched Rusty, under the bed. Rusty whined and moved back lazily. Craig bent over and looked at him.
“What’s the matter with Rusty?” he asked. “Is he sick, too?”
“Why—yes,” answered Elaine, following Craig with her deep eyes. “Poor Rusty. He woke me up this morning. He feels as badly as I do, poor old fellow.”
Craig
