“Now, my pretty dear,” began the Clutching Hand as the lock turned in the vestry door, “we shall be joined shortly by your friend, Craig Kennedy, and,” he added with a leer, “I think your rather insistent search for a certain person will cease.”

Elaine drew back in the chair, horrified, at the implied threat.

Clutching Hand laughed, diabolically.

. . . . . . . .

While these astounding events were transpiring in the little church, Kennedy and I had been tearing across the country in his big car, following the directions of our fair friend.

We stopped at last before a prosperous, attractive-looking house and entered a very prettily furnished but small parlor.  Heavy portieres hung over the doorway into the hall, over another into a back room and over the bay windows.

“Won’t you sit down a moment?” coaxed Gertie.  “I’m quite blown to pieces after that ride.  My, how you drive!”

As she pulled aside the hall portieres, three men with guns thrust their hands out.  I turned.  Two others had stepped from the back room and two more from the bay window.  We were surrounded.  Seven guns were aimed at us with deadly precision.

“No—­no—­Walter—­it’s no use,” shouted Kennedy calmly restraining my hand which I had clapped on my own gun.

At the same time, with his other hand, he took from his pocket the small can which I had seen him place there, and held it aloft.

“Gentlemen,” he said quietly.  “I suspected some such thing.  I have here a small box of fulminate of mercury.  If I drop it, this building and the entire vicinity will be blown to atoms.  Go ahead--shoot!” he added, nonchalantly.

The seven of them drew back, rather hurriedly.

Kennedy was a dangerous prisoner.

He calmly sat down in an arm chair, leaning back as he carefully balanced the deadly little box of fulminate of mercury on his knee.  He placed his finger tips together and smiled at the seven crooks, who had gathered together, staring breathlessly at this man who toyed with death.

Gertie ran from the room.

For a moment they looked at each other, undecided, then one by one, they stepped away from Kennedy toward the door.

The leader was the last to go.  He had scarcely taken a step.

“Stop!” ordered Kennedy.

The crook did so.  As Craig moved toward him, he waited, cold sweat breaking out on his face.

“Say,” he whined, “you let me be!”

It was ineffectual.  Kennedy, still smiling confidently, came closer, still holding the deadly little box, balanced between two fingers.

He took the crook’s gun and dropped it into his pocket.

“Sit down!” ordered Craig.

Outside, the other six parleyed in hoarse whispers.  One raised a gun, but the woman and the others restrained him and fled.

“Take me to your master!” demanded Kennedy.