. . . . . . . .

Kennedy, in his stained laboratory apron, was at work before his table, while I was watching him with intense interest, when the telephone rang.

Without a word he answered the call and I could see a look of perturbation cross his face.  I knew it was from Elaine, but could tell nothing about the nature of the message.

An instant later he almost tore off the apron and threw on his hat and coat.  I followed him as he dashed out of the laboratory.

“This is terrible—­terrible,” he muttered, as we hurried across the campus of the University to a taxi-cab stand.

A few minutes later, when we arrived at the Dodge mansion, we found Aunt Josephine and Marie doing all they could under the circumstances.  Aunt Josephine had just given her a glass of water which she drank eagerly.  Rusty had, meanwhile, crawled under the bed, caring only to be alone and undisturbed.

Dr. Hayward had arrived and had just finished taking her pulse and temperature as our cab pulled up.

Jennings who had evidently been expecting us let us in without a word and conducted us up to Elaine’s room.  We knocked.

“Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson,” we could hear Marie whisper in a subdued voice.

“Tell them to come in,” answered Elaine eagerly.

We entered.  There she lay, beautiful as ever, but with a whiteness of her fresh cheek that was too etherially unnatural.  Elaine was quite ill indeed.

“Oh—­I’m so glad to see you,” she breathed, with an air of relief as Kennedy advanced.

“Why—­what is the matter?” asked Craig, anxiously.

Dr. Hayward shook his head dubiously, but Kennedy did not notice him, for, as he approached Elaine, she drew from the covers where she had concealed it a letter and handed it to him.

Craig took it and read: 

“You are sick this morning.  Tomorrow you will be worse.  The next day you will die unless you discharge Craig Kennedy.”

At the signature of the Clutching Hand he frowned, then, noticing Dr. Hayward, turned to him and repeated his question, “What is the matter?”

Dr. Hayward continued shaking his head.  “I cannot diagnose her symptoms,” he shrugged.

As I watched Kennedy’s face, I saw his nostrils dilating, almost as if he were a hound and had scented his quarry.  I sniffed, too.  There seemed to be a faint odor, almost as if of garlic, in the room.  It was unmistakable and Craig looked about him curiously but said nothing.

As he sniffed, he moved impatiently and his foot touched Rusty, under the bed.  Rusty whined and moved back lazily.  Craig bent over and looked at him.

“What’s the matter with Rusty?” he asked.  “Is he sick, too?”