They stood before the safe a moment and Kennedy examined it closely with much interest.

“Wonderful!” he admired.

“I knew you’d approve of it,” cried Elaine, much pleased.  “Now I have something else to show you.”

She paused at the desk and from a drawer took out a portfolio of large photographs.  They were very handsome photographs of herself.

“Much more wonderful than the safe,” remarked Craig earnestly.  Then, hesitating and a trifle embarrassed, he added, “May I—­may I have one?”

“If you care for it,” she said, dropping her eyes, then glancing up at him quickly.

“Care for it?” he repeated.  “It will be one of the greatest treasures.”

She slipped the picture quickly into an envelope.  “Come,” she interrupted.  “Aunt Josephine will be wondering where we are.  She—­ she’s a demon chaperone.”

Bennett, Aunt Josephine and myself were talking earnestly as Elaine and Craig returned.

“Well,” said Bennett, glancing at his watch and rising as he turned to Elaine, “I’m afraid I must go, now.”

He crossed over to where she stood and shook hands.  There was no doubt that Bennett was very much smitten by his fair client.

“Good-bye, Mr. Bennett,” she murmured, “and thank you so much for what you have done for me today.”

But there was something lifeless about the words.  She turned quickly to Craig, who had remained standing.

“Must you go, too, Mr. Kennedy?” she asked, noticing his position.

“I’m afraid Mr. Jameson and I must be back on the job before this Clutching Hand gets busy again,” he replied reluctantly.

“Oh, I hope you—­we get him soon!” she exclaimed, and there was nothing lifeless about the way she gave Craig her hand, as Bennett, he and I left a moment later.

. . . . . . . .

That morning I had noticed Kennedy fussing some time at the door of our apartment before we went over to the laboratory.  As nearly as I could make out he had placed something under the rug at the door out into the hallway.

When we approached our door, now, Craig paused.  By pressing a little concealed button he caused a panel in the wall outside to loosen, disclosing a small, boxlike plate in the wall underneath.

It was about a foot long and perhaps four inches wide.  Through it ran a piece of paper which unrolled from one coil and wound up on another, actuated by clockwork.  Across the blank white paper ran an ink line traced by a stylographic pen, such as I had seen in mechanical pencils used in offices, hotels, banks and such places.

Kennedy examined the thing with interest.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A new seismograph,” he replied, still gazing carefully at the rolled up part of the paper.  “I have installed it because it registers every footstep on the floor of our apartment.  We can’t be too careful with this Clutching Hand.  I want to know whether we have any visitors or not in our absence.  This straight line indicates that we have not.  Wait a moment.”