Having completed fixing the batteries and wires, Clutching Hand ran the wires along the moulding on the wall overhead, from the fireplace until he was directly over Elaine’s picture.  Skillfully, he managed to fix the wires, using them in place of the picture wires to support the framed photograph.  Then he carefully moved the photograph until it hung very noticeably askew on the wall.

The last wire joined, he looked about the room, then noiselessly moved to the window and raised the shade.

Quickly he raised his hand and brought the fingers slowly together.  It was the sign.

Off in the alley, the express driver and his helper were still gazing up through the opera glass.

“What d’ye see, Bill?” he asked, handing over the glass.

The other took it and looked.  “It’s him—­the Hand, Jack,” whispered the helper, handing the glasses back.

They jumped into the wagon and away it rattled.

Jensen was smoking placidly as the wagon pulled up the second time.

“Sorry,” said the driver sheepishly, “but we delivered the cabinet to the wrong Mr. Kennedy.”

He pulled out the inevitable book to prove it.

“Wall, you bane fine fallers,” growled Jensen, puffing like a furnace, in his fury.  “You cannot go up agane.”

“We’ll get fired for the mistake,” pleaded the helper.

“Just this once,” urged the driver, as he rattled some loose change in his pocket.  “Here—­there goes a whole day’s tips.”

He handed Jens a dollar in small change.

Still grumpy but mollified by the silver Jens let them go up and opened the door to our rooms again.  There stood the cabinet, as outwardly innocent as when it came in.

Lugging and tugging they managed to get the heavy piece of furniture out and downstairs again, loading it on the wagon.  Then they drove off with it, accompanied by a parting volley from Jensen.

In an unfrequented street, perhaps half a mile away, the wagon stopped.  With a keen glance around, the driver and his helper made sure that no one was about.

“Such a shaking up as you’ve given me!” growled a voice as the cabinet door opened.  “But I’ve got him this time!”

It was the Clutching Hand.

“There, men, you can leave me here,” he ordered.

He motioned to them to drive off and, as they did so, pulled off his masking handkerchief and dived into a narrow street leading up to a thoroughfare.

. . . . . . . .

Craig gazed into our living room cautiously.

“I can’t see anything wrong,” he said to me as I stood just beside him.  “Miss Dodge,” he added, “will you and the rest excuse me if I ask you to wait just a moment longer?”

Elaine watched him, fascinated.  He crossed the room, then went into each of our other rooms.  Apparently nothing was wrong and a minute later he reappeared at the doorway.