was overcome.
“Won’t you step in?” he asked suavely. “Your friend here doesn’t seem well.”
They all entered.
“And you—you say—you married this—this woman to Taylor Dodge?” queried Elaine, tensely.
The bogus minister seemed to be very fatherly. “Yes,” he assented, “I certainly did so.”
“Have you the record?” asked Elaine, fighting to the last.
“Why, yes. I can show you the record.”
He moved over to the closet. “Come over here,” he asked.
He opened the door. Elaine screamed and drew back. There stood her arch enemy, the Clutching Hand himself.
As he stepped forth, she turned, wildly, to run—anywhere. But strong arms seized her and forced her into a chair.
She looked at the woman and the minister. It was a plot!
A moment Clutching Hand looked Elaine over. “Put the others out,” he ordered the other crook.
Quickly the man obeyed, leading “Weepy Mary” and her “son” to the door, and waving them away as he locked it. They left, quite as much in the dark about the master criminal’s identity as Elaine.
“Now, my pretty dear,” began the Clutching Hand as the lock turned in the vestry door, “we shall be joined shortly by your friend, Craig Kennedy, and,” he added with a leer, “I think your rather insistent search for a certain person will cease.”
Elaine drew back in the chair, horrified, at the implied threat.
Clutching Hand laughed, diabolically.
While these astounding events were transpiring in the little church, Kennedy and I had been tearing across the country in his big car, following the directions of our fair friend.
We stopped at last before a prosperous, attractive-looking house and entered a very prettily furnished but small parlor. Heavy portieres hung over the doorway into the hall, over another into a back room and over the bay windows.
“Won’t you sit down a moment?” coaxed Gertie. “I’m quite blown to pieces after that ride. My, how you drive!”
As she pulled aside the hall portieres, three men with guns thrust their hands out. I turned. Two others had stepped from the back room and two more from the bay window. We were surrounded. Seven guns were aimed at us with deadly precision.
“No—no—Walter—it’s no use,” shouted Kennedy calmly restraining my hand which I had clapped on my own gun.
At the same time, with his other hand, he took from his pocket the small can which I had seen him place there, and held it aloft.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly. “I suspected some such thing. I have here a small box of fulminate of mercury. If I drop it, this building and the entire vicinity will be blown to atoms. Go ahead—shoot!” he added, nonchalantly.
The seven of them drew back, rather hurriedly.
Kennedy was a dangerous prisoner.
He calmly sat down in an arm chair, leaning back as he carefully balanced the deadly little box of fulminate of mercury on his knee. He placed his finger tips together and smiled at the seven crooks, who had gathered together, staring breathlessly at this man who toyed with death.
Gertie ran from the room.
For a moment they looked at each other, undecided, then one by one, they stepped away from Kennedy toward the door.
The leader was the last to go. He had scarcely taken a step.
“Stop!” ordered Kennedy.
The crook did so. As Craig moved toward him, he waited, cold sweat breaking out on his face.
“Say,” he whined, “you let me be!”
It was ineffectual. Kennedy, still smiling confidently, came closer, still holding the deadly little box, balanced between two fingers.
He took the crook’s gun and dropped it into his pocket.
“Sit down!” ordered Craig.
Outside, the other six parleyed in hoarse whispers. One raised a gun, but the woman and the others restrained him and fled.
“Take me to your master!” demanded Kennedy.
The crook remained silent.
“Where is he?” repeated Craig. “Tell me!”
Still the man remained silent. Craig looked the fellow over again. Then, still with that confident smile, he reached into his inside pocket and drew forth the tube I had seen him place there.
“No matter how much you accuse me,” added Craig casually, “no one will ever take the word of a crook that a reputable scientist like me would do what I am about to do.”
He had taken out his penknife and opened it. Then he beckoned to me.
“Bare his arm and hold his wrist, Walter,” he said.
Craig bent down with the knife and the tube, then paused a moment and turned the tube so that we could see it.
On the label were the ominous words:
Germ culture 6248A Bacillus Leprae (Leprosy)
Calmly he took the knife and proceeded to make an incision in the man’s arm. The crook’s feelings underwent a terrific struggle.
“No—no—no—don’t,” he implored. “I will take you to the Clutching Hand—even if it kills me!”
Kennedy stepped back, replacing the tube in his pocket.
“Very well, go ahead!” he agreed.
We followed the crook, Craig still holding the deadly box of fulminate of mercury carefully balanced so that if anyone shot him from a hiding place it would drop.
No sooner had we gone than Gertie hurried to the nearest telephone to inform the Clutching Hand of our escape.
Elaine had sunk back into the chair, as the telephone rang. Clutching Hand answered it.
A moment later, in uncontrollable fury he hurled the instrument to the floor.
“Here—we’ve got to act quickly—that devil has escaped again,” he hissed. “We must get her away. You keep her here. I’ll be back— right away—with a car.”
He dashed madly from the church, pulling off his mask as he gained the street.
Kennedy had forced the crook ahead of us into the car which was waiting and I followed, taking the wheel this time.
“Which
