I must say that I could scarcely criticize the poisoned kisser’s taste, for the woman who had opened the door certainly was extraordinarily attractive.

“And you really were—­put out by a kiss?” I queried, as she led me into a neat sitting room.

“Absolutely—­as much as if it had been by one of these poisoned needles you read about,” she replied confidently, hastening on to describe the affair volubly.

It was beyond me.

“May I use your telephone?” I asked.

“Surely,” she answered.

I called the laboratory.  “Is that you, Craig?” I inquired.

“Yes, Walter,” he answered, recognizing my voice.

“Say, Craig,” I asked breathlessly, “what sort of kiss would suffocate a person.”

My only answer was an uproarious laugh from him at the idea.

“I know,” I persisted, “but I’ve got the assignment from the Star--and I’m out here interviewing a woman about it.  It’s all right to laugh—­but here I am.  I’ve found a case—­names, dates and places.  I wish you’d explain the thing, then.”

“Oh, all right, Walter,” he replied indulgently.  “I’ll meet you as soon as I can and help you out.”

I hung up the receiver with an air of satisfaction.  At least now I would get an explanation of the woman’s queer story.

“I’ll clear this thing up,” I said confidently.  “My friend, Craig Kennedy, the scientific detective is coming out here.”

“Good!  That fellow who attacked me ought to be shown up.  All women may not be as fortunate as I.”

We waited patiently.  Her story certainly was remarkable.  She remembered every detail up to a certain point—­and then, as she said, all was blankness.

The bell rang and the woman hastened to the door admitting Kennedy.

“Hello, Walter,” he greeted.

“This is certainly a most remarkable case, Craig,” I said, introducing him, and telling briefly what I had learned.

“And you actually mean to say that a kiss had the effect—­” Just then the telephone interrupted.

“Yes,” she reasserted quickly.  “Excuse me a second.”

She answered the call.  “Oh—­why—­yes, he’s here.  Do you want to speak to him?  Mr. Jameson, it’s the Star.”

“Confound it!” I exclaimed, “isn’t that like the old man—­dragging me off this story before it’s half finished in order to get another.  I’ll have to go.  I’ll get this story from you, Craig.”

. . . . . . . .

The day before, in the suburban house, the Clutching Hand had been talking to two of his emissaries, an attractive young woman and a man.

They were Flirty Florrie and Dan the Dude.

“Now, I want you to get Kennedy,” he said.  “The way to do it is to separate Kennedy and Elaine—­see?”

“All right, Chief, we’ll do it,” they replied.

“I’ve rigged it so that you’ll reach him through Jameson, understand?”