“A vocaphone,” he replied, still laughing, “the loud speaking telephone, the little box that hears and talks.  It talks right out in meeting, too—­no transmitter to hold to the mouth, no receiver to hold to the ear.  You see, this transmitter is so sensitive that it picks up even a whisper, and the receiver is placed back of those two megaphone-like pyramids.”

He was standing at a table, carefully packing up one of the vocaphones and a lot of wire.

“I believe the Clutching Hand has been shadowing the Dodge house,” he continued thoughtfully.  “As long as we watch the place, too, he will do nothing.  But if we should seem, ostentatiously, not to be watching, perhaps he may try something, and we may be able to get a clue to his identity over this vocaphone.  See?”

I nodded.  “We’ve got to run him down somehow,” I agreed.

“Yes,” he said, taking his coat and hat.  “I am going to connect up one of these things in Miss Dodge’s library and arrange with the telephone company for a clear wire so that we can listen in here, where that fellow will never suspect.”

. . . . . . . .

At about the same time that Craig and I sallied forth on this new mission, Elaine was arranging some flowers on a stand near the corner of the Dodge library where the secret panel was in which her father had hidden the papers for the possession of which the Clutching Hand had murdered him.  They did not disclose his identity, we knew, but they did give directions to at least one of his hang-outs and were therefore very important.

She had moved away from the table, but, as she did so, her dress caught in something in the woodwork.  She tried to loosen it and in so doing touched the little metallic spring on which her dress had caught.

Instantly, to her utter surprise, the panel moved.  It slid open, disclosing a strong box.

Elaine took it amazed, looked at it a moment, then carried it to a table and started to pry it open.

It was one of those tin dispatch boxes which, as far as I have ever been able to determine, are chiefly valuable for allowing one to place a lot of stuff in a receptacle which is very convenient for a criminal.  She had no trouble in opening it.

Inside were some papers, sealed in an envelope and marked “Limpy Red Correspondence.”

“They must be the Clutching Hand papers!” she exclaimed to herself, hesitating a moment in doubt what to do.  The fatal documents seemed almost uncanny.  Their very presence frightened her.  What should she do?

She seized the telephone and eagerly called Kennedy’s number.

“Hello,” answered a voice.

“Is that you, Craig?” she asked excitedly.

“No, this is Mr. Jameson.”

“Oh, Mr. Jameson, I’ve discovered the Clutching Hand papers,” she began, more and more excited.

“Have you read them?” came back the voice quickly.