He had slipped out through a doorway leading to a flight of steps from the roof to the hallway of the tenement.  His fatal dart sent on its unerring mission with a precision born of long years in the South American jungle, he concealed the deadly blow-gun in his breast pocket, with a cruel smile, and, like one of his native venomous serpents, wormed his way down the stairs again.

. . . . . . . .

My outcry brought a veritable battalion of aid.  The hotel proprietor, the negro waiter, and several others dashed upstairs, followed shortly by a portly policeman, puffing at the exertion.

“What’s the matter, here?” he panted.  “Ye’re all under arrest!”

Kennedy quietly pulled out his card case and taking the policeman aside showed it to him.

“We had an appointment to meet this man—­in that Clutching Hand case, you know.  He is Miss Dodge’s footman,” Craig explained.

Then he took the policeman into his confidence, showing him the dart and explaining about the poison.  The officer stared blankly.

“I must get away, too,” hurried on Craig.  “Officer, I will leave you to take charge here.  You can depend on me for the inquest.”

The officer nodded.

“Come on, Walter,” whispered Craig, eager to get away, then adding the one word, “Elaine!”

I followed hastily, not slow to understand his fear for her.

Nor were Craig’s fears groundless.  In spite of all that could be done for her, Elaine was still in bed, much weaker now than before.  While we had been gone, Dr. Hayward, Aunt Josephine and Marie were distracted.

More than that, the Clutching Hand had not neglected the opportunity, either.

Suddenly, just before our return, a stone had come hurtling through the window, without warning of any kind, and had landed on Elaine’s bed.

Below, as we learned some time afterwards, a car had drawn up hastily and the evil-faced crook whom the Clutching Hand had used to rid himself of the informer, “Limpy Red,” had leaped out and hurled the stone through the window, as quickly leaping back into the car and whisking away.

Elaine had screamed.  All had reached for the stone.  But she had been the first to seize it and discover that around it was wrapped a piece of paper on which was the ominous warning, signed as usual by the Hand: 

“Michael is dead.  Tomorrow, you.  Then Kennedy.  Stop before it is too late.”

Elaine had sunk back into her pillows, paler than ever from this second shock, while the others, as they read the note, were overcome by alarm and despair, at the suddenness of the thing.

It was just then that Kennedy and I arrived and were admitted.

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy,” cried Elaine, handing him the note.

Craig took it and read.  “Miss Dodge,” he said, as he held the note out to me, “you are suffering from arsenic poisoning—­but I don’t know yet how it is being administered.”