“See!” he exclaimed.  “There wasn’t anything, after all.”

He took a step toward the taxicab.

“Say,” objected the driver, nastily, interposing himself between Craig and the wheel which he seemed disposed to take now, “who’s running this boat, anyhow?”

Surprised, Kennedy tried to shoulder the fellow out of the way.  The driver resisted sullenly.

“Mr. Kennedy—­look out!” cried Elaine.

Craig turned.  But it was too late.  The rough looking fellow had wakened to life.  Suddenly he stepped up behind Kennedy with a blackjack.  As the heavy weight descended, Craig crumpled up on the ground, unconscious.

With a scream, Elaine turned and started to run.  But the chauffeur seized her arm.

“Say, bo,” he asked of the rough fellow, “what does Clutching Hand want with her?  Quick!  There’s another cab likely to be along in a moment with that fellow Jameson in it.”

The rough fellow, with an oath, seized her and dragged her into the taxicab.  “Go ahead!” he growled, indicating the road.

And away they sped, leaving Kennedy unconscious on the side of the road where we found him.

. . . . . . . .

“What are we to do?” I asked helplessly of Kennedy, when we had at last got him on his feet.

His head still ringing from the force of the blow of the blackjack, Craig stooped down, then knelt in the dust of the road, then ran ahead a bit where it was somewhat muddy.

“Which way—­which way?” he muttered to himself.

I thought perhaps the blow had affected him and leaned over to see what he was doing.  Instead, he was studying the marks made by the tire of the Clutching Hand cab.  Very decidedly, there in the road, the little anti-skid marks on the tread of the tire showed—­some worn, some cut—­but with each revolution the same marks reappearing unmistakably.  More than that, it was an unusual make of tire.  Craig was actually studying the finger prints, so to speak, of an automobile!

More slowly now and carefully, we proceeded, for a mistake meant losing the trail of Elaine.  Kennedy absolutely refused to get inside our cab, but clung tightly to a metal rod outside while he stood on the running board—­now straining his eyes along the road to catch any faint glimpse of either taxi or limousine, or the dust from them, now gazing intently at the ground following the finger prints of the taxicab that was carrying off Elaine.  All pain was forgotten by him now in the intensity of his anxiety for her.

We came to another crossroads and the driver glanced at Craig.  “Stop!” he ordered.

In another instant he was down in the dirt, examining the road for marks.

“That way!” he indicated, leaping back to the running board.

We piled back into the car and proceeded under Kennedy’s direction, as fast as he would permit.  So it continued, perhaps for a couple of hours.