Through woods and fields the dogs led us.

Would we be in time to rescue Elaine?

. . . . . . . .

In the mysterious haunt of the Clutching Hand, all were still standing around Elaine and the wounded Pitts Slim.

Just then a cry from one of the group startled the rest.  One of them, less hardened than the Clutching Hand, had turned away from the sight, had gone to the window, and had been attracted by something outside.

“Look!” he cried.

From the absolute stillness of death, there was now wild excitement among the crooks.

“Police!  Police!” they shouted to each other as they fled by a doorway to a secret passage.

Clutching Hand turned to his first assistant.

“You—­go—­too,” he ordered.

. . . . . . . .

The dogs had led us to a strange looking house, and were now baying and leaping up against the door.  We did not stop to knock, but began to break through, for inside we could hear faintly sounds of excitement and cries of “Police—­police!”

The door yielded and we rushed into a long hallway.  Up the passage we went until we came to another door.

An instant and we were all against it.  It was stout, but it shook before us.  The panels began to yield.

. . . . . . . .

On the other side of that door from us, the master crook stood for a moment.  Dr. Morton hesitated, not knowing quite what to do.

Just then the wounded Pitts Slim lifted his hand feebly.  He seemed vaguely to understand that the game was up.  He touched the Clutching Hand.

“You did your best, Chief,” he murmured thickly.  “Beat it, if you can.  I’m a goner, anyway.”

Clutching Hand hesitated by the wounded crook.  This was the loyalty of gangland, worthy a better cause.  He could not bring himself to desert his pal.  He was undecided, still.

But there was the door, bulging, and a panel bursting.

He moved over to a panel in the wall and pushed a spring.  It slid open and he stepped through.  Then it closed—­not a second too soon.

Back in his private room, he quickly stepped to a curtained iron door.  Pushing back the curtains, he went through it and disappeared, the curtains falling back.

At the end of the passageway, he stopped, in a sort of grotto or cave.  As he came out, he looked back.  All was still.  No one was about.  He was safe here, at least!

Off came the mask and he turned down the road a few rods distant beyond some bushes, as little concerned about the wild happenings as any other passer-by might have been.

. . . . . . . .

At the very moment when we burst in, Dr. Morton, seeing his chance, stopped the blood transfusion, working frantically to stop the flow of blood.