We had dropped flat on the floor at the report.  I looked about.  Kennedy was unharmed, and so were the rest.

With a bound he was at the fireplace, followed by Elaine and the rest of us.  There, in what remained of a package done up roughly in newspaper, was a shot gun with its barrel sawed off about six inches from the lock, fastened to a block of wood, and connected to a series of springs on the trigger, released by a little electromagnetic arrangement actuated by two batteries and leading by wires up along the moulding to the picture where the slightest touch would complete the circuit.

The newspapers which were wrapped about the deadly thing were burning, and Kennedy quickly tore them off, throwing them into the fireplace.

A startled cry from Elaine caused us to turn.

She was standing directly before her shattered picture where it hung awry on the wall.  The heavy charges of buckshot had knocked away large pieces of paper and plaster under it.

“Craig!” she gasped.

He was at her side in a second.

She laid one hand on his arm, as she faced him.  With the other she traced an imaginary line in the air from the level of the buckshot to his head and then straight to the infernal thing that had lain in the fireplace.

“And to think,” she shuddered, “that it was through me that he tried to kill you!”

“Never mind,” laughed Craig easily, as they gazed into each other’s eyes, drawn together by their mutual peril, “Clutching Hand will have to be cleverer than this to get either of us—­ Elaine!”

CHAPTER V

THE POISONED ROOM

Elaine and Craig were much together during the next few days.

Somehow or other, it seemed that the chase of the Clutching Hand involved long conferences in the Dodge library and even, in fact, extended to excursions into that notoriously crime-infested neighborhood of Riverside Drive with its fashionable processions of automobiles and go-carts—­as far north, indeed, as that desperate haunt known as Grant’s Tomb.

More than that, these delvings into the underworld involved Kennedy in the necessity of wearing a frock coat and silk hat in the afternoon, and I found that he was selecting his neckwear with a care that had been utterly foreign to him during all the years previous that I had known him.

It all looked very suspicious to me.

But, to return to the more serious side of the affair.

Kennedy and Elaine had scarcely come out of the house and descended the steps, one afternoon, when a sinister face appeared in a basement areaway nearby.

The figure was crouched over, with his back humped up almost as if deformed, and his left hand had an unmistakable twist.

It was the Clutching Hand.

He wore a telephone inspector’s hat and coat and carried a bag slung by a strap over his shoulder.  For once he had left off his mask, but, in place of it, his face was covered by a scraggly black beard.  In fact, he seemed to avoid turning his face full, three-quarters or even profile to anyone, unless he had to do so.  As much as possible he averted it, but he did so in a clever way that made it seem quite natural.  The disguise was effective.