“This is—­dangerous,” he ventured, gazing askance at the grim Clutching Hand.

“Can’t help it,” came back laconically and relentlessly.

The doctor shuddered.

The man was a veritable vampire!

. . . . . . . .

Outside the deserted house, Kennedy and I were looking helplessly about.

Suddenly Kennedy dashed back and reappeared a minute later with a couple of pieces of armor.  He held them down to Rusty and the dog sniffed at them.

But Rusty stood still.

Kennedy pointed to the ground.

Nothing doing.  In leading us where he had been before, Rusty had reached the end of his canine ability.

Everything we could do to make Rusty understand that we wanted him to follow a trail was unavailing.  He simply could not do it.  Kennedy coaxed and scolded.  Rusty merely sat up on his hind legs and begged with those irresistible brown eyes.

“You can’t make a bloodhound out of a collie,” despaired Craig, looking about again helplessly.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a police whistle.  He blew three sharp blasts.

Would it bring help?

. . . . . . . .

While we were thus despairing, the continued absence of Dr. Morton from home had alarmed his family and had set in motion another train of events.

When he did not return, and could not be located at the place to which he was supposed to have gone, several policemen had been summoned to his house, and they had come, finally, with real bloodhounds from a suburban station.

There were the tracks of his car.  That the police themselves could follow, while two men came along holding in leash the pack, leaders of which were “Searchlight” and “Bob.”

It had not been long before the party came across the deserted runabout beside the road.  There they had stopped, for a moment.

It was just then that they heard Kennedy’s call, and one of them had been detailed to answer it.

“Well, what do you want?” asked the officer, eyeing Kennedy suspiciously as he stood there with the armor.  “What’s them pieces of tin—­hey?”

Kennedy quickly flashed his own special badge.  “I want to trail a girl,” he exclaimed hurriedly.  “Can I find a bloodhound about here?”

“A hound?  Why, we have a pack—­over there.”

“Bring them—­quick!” ordered Craig.

The policeman, who was an intelligent fellow, saw at once that, as Kennedy said, the two trails probably crossed.  He shouted and in a few seconds the others, with the pack, came.

A brief parley resulted in our joining forces.

Kennedy held the armor down to the dogs.  “Searchlight” gave a low whine, then, followed by “Bob” and the others, was off, all with noses close to the ground.  We followed.

The armor was, after all, the missing link.