Craig patted Rusty whose big brown eyes seemed mutely appealing.  Out of the doorway he went, barking still.  Craig and I followed while the rest stood in the vestibule.

Rusty was trying to lead Kennedy down the street!

“Wait here,” called Kennedy to Aunt Josephine, as he stepped with me on the running board of the cab.  “Go on, Rusty, good dog!”

Rusty needed no urging.  With an eager yelp he started off, still barking, ahead of us, our car following.  On we went, much to the astonishment of those who were on the street at such an early hour.

It seemed miles that we went, but at last we came to a peculiarly deserted looking house.  Here Rusty turned in and began scratching at the door.  We jumped off the cab and followed.

The door was locked when we tried and from inside we could get no answer.  We put our shoulders to it and burst it in.  Rusty gave a leap forward with a joyous bark.

We followed, more cautiously.  There were pieces of armor strewn all over the floor.  Rusty sniffed at them and looked about, disappointed, then howled.

I looked from the armor to Kennedy, in blank amazement.

“Elaine was kidnapped—­in the armor,” he cried.

. . . . . . . .

He was right.  Meanwhile, the armor repairers had stopped at last at this apparently deserted house, a strange sort of repair shop.  Still keeping it wrapped in blankets, they had taken the armor out of the wagon and now laid it down on an old broken bed.  Then they had unwrapped it and taken off the helmet.

There was Elaine!

She had been stupefied, bound and gagged.  Piece after piece of the armor they removed, finding her still only half conscious.

“Sh!  What’s that?” cautioned one of the men.  They paused and listened.  Sure enough, there was a sound outside.  They opened the window cautiously.  A dog was scratching on the door, endeavoring to get in.  It was Rusty.

“I think it’s her dog,” said the man, turning.  “We’d better let him in.  Someone might see him.”

The other nodded and a moment later the door opened and in ran Rusty.  Straight to Elaine he went, starting to lick her hand.

“Right—­her dog,” exclaimed the other man, drawing a gun and hastily levelling it at Rusty.

“Don’t!” cautioned the first.  “It would make too much noise.  You’d better choke him!”

The fellow grabbed for Rusty.  Rusty was too quick.  He jumped.  Around the room they ran.  Rusty saw the wide open window—­and his chance.  Out he went and disappeared, leaving the man cussing at him.

A moment’s argument followed, then they wrapped Elaine in the blankets alone, still bound and gagged, and carried her out.

. . . . . . . .

In the secret den, the Clutching Hand was waiting, gazing now and then at his watch, and then at the wounded man before him.  In a chair his first assistant sat, watching Dr. Morton.