The crook remained silent.

“Where is he?” repeated Craig.  “Tell me!”

Still the man remained silent.  Craig looked the fellow over again.  Then, still with that confident smile, he reached into his inside pocket and drew forth the tube I had seen him place there.

“No matter how much you accuse me,” added Craig casually, “no one will ever take the word of a crook that a reputable scientist like me would do what I am about to do.”

He had taken out his penknife and opened it.  Then he beckoned to me.

“Bare his arm and hold his wrist, Walter,” he said.

Craig bent down with the knife and the tube, then paused a moment and turned the tube so that we could see it.

On the label were the ominous words: 

Germ culture 6248A Bacillus Leprae (Leprosy)

Calmly he took the knife and proceeded to make an incision in the man’s arm.  The crook’s feelings underwent a terrific struggle.

“No—­no—­no—­don’t,” he implored.  “I will take you to the Clutching Hand—­even if it kills me!”

Kennedy stepped back, replacing the tube in his pocket.

“Very well, go ahead!” he agreed.

We followed the crook, Craig still holding the deadly box of fulminate of mercury carefully balanced so that if anyone shot him from a hiding place it would drop.

. . . . . . . .

No sooner had we gone than Gertie hurried to the nearest telephone to inform the Clutching Hand of our escape.

Elaine had sunk back into the chair, as the telephone rang.  Clutching Hand answered it.

A moment later, in uncontrollable fury he hurled the instrument to the floor.

“Here—­we’ve got to act quickly—­that devil has escaped again,” he hissed.  “We must get her away.  You keep her here.  I’ll be back—­ right away—­with a car.”

He dashed madly from the church, pulling off his mask as he gained the street.

. . . . . . . .

Kennedy had forced the crook ahead of us into the car which was waiting and I followed, taking the wheel this time.

“Which way, now—­quick!” demanded Craig, “And if you get me in wrong—­I’ve got that tube yet—­you remember.”

Our crook started off with a whole burst of directions that rivalled the motor guide—­“through the town, following trolley tracks, jog right, jog left under the R. R. bridge, leaving trolley tracks; at cemetery turn left, stopping at the old stone church.”

“Is this it?” asked Craig incredulously.

“Yes—­as I live,” swore the crook in a cowed voice.

He had gone to pieces.  Kennedy jumped from the machine.

“Here, take this gun, Walter,” he said to me.  “Don’t take your eyes off the fellow—­keep him covered.”

Craig walked around the church, out of sight, until he came to a small vestry window and looked in.