Dan himself had no time to waste.  He retreated into the hallway just as Jennings was opening the door for Elaine.

Marie took her wraps and left her, while Elaine handed her numerous packages to Jennings.  Dan watched every motion.

“Put them away, Jennings,” she said softly.

Jennings had obeyed and gone upstairs.  Elaine moved toward the library.  Dan took a quiet step or two behind her, in the same direction.

In the library, Clutching Hand was now frantically searching for the spring.  He heard Elaine coming and dodged behind the curtains again just as she entered.

With a hasty look about, she saw no one.  Then she went quickly to the panel, found the spring, and pressed it.  So many queer things had happened to her since she went out that she had begun to worry over the safety of the papers.

The panel opened.  They were there, all right.  She opened the box and took them out, hesitating to break the seal before Kennedy arrived.

Stealthy and tiger-like the Clutching Hand crept up behind her.  As he did so, Dan gazed in through the portieres from the hall.

With a spring, Clutching Hand leaped at Elaine, snatching at the papers.  Elaine clung to them tenaciously in spite of the surprise, and they struggled for them, Clutching Hand holding one hand over her mouth to prevent her screaming.  Instantly Dan was there, aiding his chief.

“Choke her!  Strangle her!  Don’t let her scream!” he ground out.

They fought viciously.  Would they succeed?  It was two desperate, unscrupulous men against one frail girl.

Suddenly, from the man in armor in the corner, as if by a miracle came a deep, loud voice.

“Help!  Help!  Murder!  Police!  They are strangling me!”

The effect was terrific.

Clutching Hand and Dan, hardened in crime as they were, fell back, dazed, overcome for the moment at the startling effect.

They looked about.  Not a soul.

Then to their utter consternation, from the vizor of the helmet again came the deep, vibrating warning.

“Help!  Murder!  Police!”

. . . . . . . .

Kennedy and I had been listening over the vocaphone, for the moment non-plussed at the fellow’s daring.

Then we heard from the uncanny instrument, “For Heaven’s sake, Chief, hurry!  The falsers have fallen down.  The girl herself is coming!”

What it meant we did not know.  But Craig was almost beside himself, as he ordered me to try to get the police by telephone, if there was any way to block them.  Only instant action would count, however.  What to do?

He could hear the master criminal plainly fumbling, now.

“Yes, that’s the Clutching Hand,” he repeated.

“Wait,” I cautioned, “someone else is coming!”

By a sort of instinct he seemed to recognize the sounds.