Kennedy sprang to Elaine’s side, horrified by the blood that had spattered over everything.

With a mighty effort he checked a blow that he had aimed at Dr. Morton, as it flashed over him that the surgeon, now free again, was doing his best to save the terribly imperilled life of Elaine.

Just then the police burst through the secret panel and rushed on, leaving us alone, with the unconscious, scarcely breathing Elaine.  From the sounds we could tell that they had come to the private room of the Clutching Hand.  It was empty and they were non-plussed.

“Not a window!” called one.

“What are those curtains?”

They pulled them back, disclosing an iron door.  They tried it but it was bolted on the other side.  Blows had no effect.  They had to give it up for the instant.

A policeman now stood beside Elaine and the wounded burglar who was muttering deliriously to himself.

He was pretty far gone, as the policeman knelt down and tried to get a statement out of him.

“Who was that man who left you—­last—­the Clutching Hand?”

Not a word came from the crook.

The policeman repeated his question.

With his last strength, he looked disdainfully at the officer’s pad and pencil.  “The gangster never squeals,” he snarled, as he fell back.

Dr. Morton had paid no attention whatever to him, but was working desperately now over Elaine, trying to bring her oack to life.

“Is she—­going to—­die?” gasped Craig, frantically.

Every eye was riveted on Dr. Morton.

“She is all right,” he muttered.  “But the man is going to die.”

At the sound of Craig’s voice Elaine had feebly opened her eyes.

“Thank heaven,” breathed Craig, with a sigh of relief, as his hand gently stroked Elaine’s unnaturally cold forehead.

CHAPTER VII

THE DOUBLE TRAP

Mindful of the sage advice that a time of peace is best employed in preparing for war, I was busily engaged in cleaning my automatic gun one morning as Kennedy and I were seated in our living room.

Our door buzzer sounded and Kennedy, always alert, jumped up, pushing aside a great pile of papers which had accumulated in the Dodge case.

Two steps took him to the wall where the day before he had installed a peculiar box about four by six inches long connected in some way with a lens-like box of similar size above our bell and speaking tube in the hallway below.  He opened it, disclosing an oblong plate of ground glass.

“I thought the seismograph arrangement was not quite enough after that spring-gun affair,” he remarked, “so I have put in a sort of teleview of my own invention—­so that I can see down into the vestibule downstairs.  Well—­just look who’s here!”

“Some new fandangled periscope arrangement, I suppose?” I queried moving slowly over toward it.