. . . . . . . .

Although we had not dared to investigate, we knew that from a building, across the street, emissaries of the Clutching Hand were watching for our signal of surrender.

The fact was, as we found out later, that in a poorly furnished room, much after the fashion of that which, with the help of the authorities, we had once raided in the suburbs, there were at that moment two crooks.

One of them was the famous, or rather the infamous, Professor LeCroix, with whom in a disguise as a doctor we had already had some experience when he stole from the Hillside Sanitarium the twilight sleep drugs.  The other was the young secretary of the Clutching Hand who had given the warning at the suburban headquarters at the time when they were endeavoring to tranfuse Elaine Dodge’s blood to save the life of the crook whom she had shot.

This was the new headquarters of the master criminal, very carefully guarded.

“Look!” cried LeCroix, very much elated at the effect that had been produced by his infra-red rays, “There is the sign—­the vase of flowers.  We have got him this time!”

LeCroix gleefully patted a peculiar instrument beside him.  Apparently it was a combination of powerful electric arcs, the rays of which were shot through a funnel-like arrangement into a converter or, rather, a sort of concentration apparatus from which the dread power could be released through a tube-like affair at one end.  It was his infra-red heat wave, F-ray, engine.

“I told you—­it would work!” cried LeCroix.

. . . . . . . .

I did not argue any further with Craig about his sudden resolution to go away.  But it is a very solemn proceeding to pack up and admit defeat after such a brilliant succession of cases as had been his until we met this master criminal.

He was unshakeable, however, and the next morning we closed the laboratory and loaded our baggage, which was considerable, on a taxicab.

Neither of us said much, but I saw a quick look of appreciation on Craig’s face as we pulled up at the wharf and saw that the Dodge car was already there.  He seemed deeply moved that Elaine should come at such an early hour to have a last word.

Our cab stopped and Kennedy moved over toward her car, directing two porters, whom I noticed that he chose with care, to wait at one side.  One of them was an old Irishman with a slight limp; the other a wiry Frenchman with a pointed beard.

In spite of her pleadings, however, Kennedy held to his purpose and, as we shook hands for the last time, I thought that Elaine would almost break down.

“Here, you fellows, now,” directed Craig, turning brusquely to the porters, “hustle that baggage right aboard.”

“Can’t we go on the ship, too?” asked Elaine, appealingly.

“I’m sorry—­I’m afraid there isn’t time,” apologized Craig.