As Slim came tumbling down, having fallen back from the window above, mortally wounded, the confederate lifted him up and carried him out of sight hurriedly.

Elaine, by this time, had turned on the lights and had run to the window to look out.  Rusty was barking loudly.

In a side street, nearby, stood a waiting automobile, at the wheel of which sat another of the emissaries of the Clutching Hand.  The driver looked up, startled, as he saw his fellow hurry around the corner carrying the wounded Pitts Slim.  It was the work of just a moment to drop the wounded man, as comfortably as possible under the circumstances, in the rear seat, while his pals started the car off with a jerk in the hurry of escape.

Jennings, having hastily slipped his trousers on over his pajamas came running down the hall, while Marie, frightened, came in the other direction.  Aunt Josephine appeared a few seconds later, adding to the general excitement.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, anxiously.

“A burglar, I think,” exclaimed Elaine, still holding the gun in her hand.  “Someone tried to get into my window.”

“My gracious,” cried Aunt Josephine, in alarm, “where will this thing end?”

Elaine was doing her best now to quiet the fears of her aunt and the rest of the household.

“Well,” she laughed, a little nervously, now that it was all over, “I want you all to go to bed and stop worrying about me.  Don’t you see, I’m perfectly able to take care of myself?  Besides, there isn’t a chance, now, of the burglar coming back.  Why, I shot him.”

“Yes,” put in Aunt Josephine, “but—­”

Elaine laughingly interrupted her and playfully made as though she were driving them out of her room, although they were all very much concerned over the affair.  However, they went finally, and she locked the door.

“Rusty!” she called, “Down there!”

The intelligent collie seemed to understand.  He lay down by the doorway, his nose close to the bottom of the door and his ears alert.

Finally Elaine, too, retired again.

. . . . . . . .

Meanwhile the wounded man was being hurried to one of the hangouts of the mysterious Clutching Hand, an old-fashioned house in the Westchester suburbs.  It was a carefully hidden place, back from the main road, surrounded by trees, with a driveway leading up to it.

The car containing the wounded Pitts Slim drew up and the other two men leaped out of it.  With a hurried glance about, they unlocked the front door with a pass-key and entered, carrying the man.

Indoors was another emissary of the Clutching Hand, a rather studious looking chap.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed, as the crooks entered his room, supporting their half-fainting, wounded pal.

“Slim got a couple of pills,” they panted, as they laid him on a couch.