At last Kennedy stopped the cab and slowly directed the driver to veer into an open space that looked peculiarly lonesome.  Near it stood a one story brick factory building, closed, but not abandoned.

As I looked about at the unattractive scene, Kennedy already was down on his knees in the dirt again, studying the tire tracks.  They were all confused, showing that the taxicab we were following had evidently backed in and turned several times before going on.

“Crossed by another set of tire tracks!” he exclaimed excitedly, studying closer.  “That must have been the limousine, waiting.”

Laboriously he was following the course of the cars in the open space, when the one word escaped him, “Footprints!”

He was up and off in a moment, before we could imagine what he was after.  We had got out of the cab, and followed him as, down to the very shore of a sort of cove or bay, he went.  There lay a rusty, discarded boiler on the beach, half submerged in the rising tide.  At this tank the footprints seemed to go right down the sand and into the waves which were slowly obliterating them.  Kennedy gazed out as if to make out a possible boat on the horizon, where the cove widened out.

“Look!” he cried.

Farther down the shore, a few feet, I had discovered the same prints, going in the opposite direction, back toward the place from which we had just come.  I started to follow them, but soon found myself alone.  Kennedy had paused beside the old boiler.

“What is it?” I asked, retracing my steps.

He did not answer, but seemed to be listening.  We listened also.  There certainly was a most peculiar noise inside that tank.

Was it a muffled scream?

Kennedy reached down and picked up a rock, hitting the tank a resounding blow.  As the echo died down, he listened again.

Yes, there was a sound—­a scream perhaps—­a woman’s voice, faint, but unmistakable.

I looked at his face inquiringly.  Without a word I read in it the confirmation of the thought that had flashed into my mind.

Elaine Dodge was inside!

. . . . . . . .

First had come the limousine, with its three bandits, to the spot fixed on as a rendezvous.  Later had come the taxicab.  As it hove into sight, the three well-dressed crooks had drawn revolvers, thinking perhaps the plan for getting rid of Kennedy might possibly have miscarried.  But the taxicab driver and the rough-faced fellow had reassured them with the sign of the Clutching Hand, and the revolvers were lowered.

As they parleyed hastily, the rough-neck and the fake chauffeur lifted Elaine out of the taxi.  She was bound and gagged.

“Well, now we’ve got her, what shall we do with her?” asked one.

“It’s got to be quick.  There’s another cab,” put in the driver.

“The deuce with that.”

“The deuce with nothing,” he returned.  “That fellow Kennedy’s a clever one.  He may come to.  If he does, he won’t miss us.  Quick, now!”