Clutching Hand slammed shut his door and pulled down over it a heavy wooden bar.  A few steps took him to the window.  There were police in the back yard, too.  He was surrounded.

But he did not hurry.  He knew what to do with every second.

At the desk he paused and took out a piece of cardboard.  Then with a heavy black marking pencil, he calmly printed on it, while we battered at the barricaded door, a few short feet away.

He laid the sign on the desk, then on another piece of cardboard, drew crudely a hand with the index finger, pointing.  This he placed on a chair, indicating the desk.

Just as the swaying and bulging door gave way, Clutching Hand gave the desk a pull.  It opened up—­his getaway.

He closed it with a sardonic smile in our direction, just before the door crashed in.

We looked about.  There was not a soul in the room, nothing but the selenium cell, the chairs, the desk.

“Look!” I cried catching sight of the index finger, and going over to the desk.

We rolled back the top.  There on the flat top was a sign: 

Dear Blockheads: 

Kennedy and I couldn’t wait.

Yours as ever,

Then came that mysterious sign of the Clutching Hand.

We hunted over the rooms, but could find nothing that showed a clue.  Where was Clutching Hand?  Where was Kennedy?

In the next house Clutching Hand had literally come out of an upright piano into the room corresponding to that he had left.  Hastily he threw off his handkerchief, slouch hat, old coat and trousers.  A neat striped pair of trousers replaced the old, frayed and baggy pair.  A new shirt, then a sporty vest and a frock coat followed.  As he put the finishing touches on, he looked for all the world like a bewhiskered foreigner.

With a silk hat and stick, he surveyed himself, straightening his tie.  At the door of the new headquarters, a few seconds later, I stood with the police.

“Not a sign of him anywhere,” growled one of the officers.

Nor was there.  Down the street we could see only a straight well-dressed, distinguished looking man who had evidently walked down to the docks to see a friend off, perhaps.

Elaine was sitting in the library reading when Aunt Josephine turned to her.

“What time is it, dear?” she asked.

Elaine glanced at her pretty new trinket.

“Nearly three, Auntie—­a couple of minutes,” she said.

Just then there came the sound of feet running madly down the hall way.  They jumped up, startled.

Kennedy, his coat flying, and hat jammed over his eyes, had almost bowled over poor Jennings in his mad race down the hall.

“Well,” demanded Elaine haughtily, “what’s—­”

Before she knew what was going on, Craig hurried up to her and literally ripped the watch off her wrist, breaking the beautiful bracelet.