Clutching Hand was now spraying the rug close to the dressing table of Elaine and was standing near the mirror.  He stooped down to examine the rug.  Then, as he raised his head, he happened to look into the mirror.  In it he could see the full reflection of Michael behind him, gazing into the room.

“The scoundrel!” muttered Clutching Hand, with repressed fury at the discovery.

He rose quickly and shut off the spraying instrument, stuffing it into the bag.  He took a step or two toward the door.  Michael drew back, fearfully, pretending now to be on guard.

Clutching Hand opened the door and, still wearing the muzzle, beckoned to Michael.  Michael could scarcely control his fears.  But he obeyed, entering Elaine’s room after the Clutching Hand, who locked the door.

“Were you watching me?” demanded the master criminal, with rage.

Michael, trembling all over, shook his head.  For a moment Clutching Hand looked him over disdainfully at the clumsy lie.

Then he brutally struck Michael in the face, knocking him down.  An ungovernable, almost insane fury seemed to possess the man as he stood over the prostrate footman, cursing.

“Get up!” he ordered.

Michael obeyed, thoroughly cowed.

“Take me to the cellar, now,” he demanded.

Michael led the way from the room without a protest, the master criminal following him closely.

Down into the cellar, by a back way, they went, Clutching Hand still wearing his muzzle and Michael saying not a word.

Suddenly Clutching Hand turned on him and seized him by the collar.

“Now, go upstairs, you,” he muttered, shaking him until his teeth fairly chattered, “and if you watch me again—­I’ll kill you!”

He thrust Michael away and the footman, overcome by fear, hurried upstairs.  Still trembling and fearful, Michael paused In the hallway, looking back resentfully, for even one who is in the power of a super-criminal is still human and has feelings that may be injured.

Michael put his hand on his face where the Clutching Hand had struck him.  There he waited, muttering to himself.  As he thought it over, anger took the place of fear.  He slowly turned in the direction of the cellar.  Closing both his fists, Michael made a threatening gesture at his master in crime.

Meanwhile, Clutching Hand was standing by the electric meter.  He examined it carefully, feeling where the wires entered and left it starting to trace them out.  At last he came to a point where it seemed suitable to make a connection for some purpose he had in mind.

Quickly he took some wire from his bag and connected it with the electric light wires.  Next, he led these wires, concealed of course, along the cellar floor, in the direction of the furnace.

The furnace was one of the old hot air heaters and he paused before it as though seeking something.  Then he bent down beside it and uncovered a little tank.  He took off the top on which were cast in the iron the words: