LITMIR.BIZ

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manner, but seemed to bend at the knees and waist and literally crumple down on his face.

      We ran to him. Craig turned him over gently on his back and examined him. He called. No answer. Michael was almost pulseless.

      Quickly Craig tore off his collar and bared his breast, for the man seemed to be struggling for breath. As he did so, he drew from Michael’s chest a small, sharp-pointed dart.

      “What’s that?” I ejaculated, horror stricken.

      “A poisoned blow gun dart such as is used by the South American Indians on the upper Orinoco,” he said slowly.

      He examined it carefully.

      “What is the poison?” I asked.

      “Curari,” he replied simply. “It acts on the respiratory muscles, paralyzing them, and causing asphyxiation.”

      The dart seemed to have been made of a quill with a very sharp point, hollow, and containing the deadly poison in the sharpened end.

      “Look out!” I cautioned as he handled it.

      “Oh, that’s all right,” he answered casually. “If I don’t scratch myself, I am safe enough. I could swallow the stuff and it wouldn’t hurt me—unless I had an abrasion of the lips or some internal cut.”

      Kennedy continued to examine the dart until suddenly I heard a low exclamation of surprise from him. Inside the hollow quill was a thin sheet of tissue paper, tightly rolled. He drew it out and read:

      “To know me is death Kennedy—Take Warning!”

      Underneath was the inevitable Clutching Hand sign.

      We jumped to our feet. Kennedy rushed to the window and slammed it shut, while I seized the key from Michael’s pocket, opened the door and called for help.

      A moment before, on the roof of a building across the street, one might have seen a bent, skulking figure. His face was copper colored and on his head was a thick thatch of matted hair. He looked like a South American Indian, in a very dilapidated suit of castoff American clothes.

      He had slipped out through a doorway leading to a flight of steps from the roof to the hallway of the tenement. His fatal dart sent on its unerring mission with a precision born of long years in the South American jungle, he concealed the deadly blow-gun in his breast pocket, with a cruel smile, and, like one of his native venomous serpents, wormed his way down the stairs again.

      My outcry brought a veritable battalion of aid. The hotel proprietor, the negro waiter, and several others dashed upstairs, followed shortly by a portly policeman, puffing at the exertion.

      “What’s the matter, here?” he panted. “Ye’re all under arrest!”

      Kennedy quietly pulled out his card case and taking the policeman aside showed it to him.

      “We had an appointment to meet this man—in that Clutching Hand case, you know. He is Miss Dodge’s footman,” Craig explained.

      Then he took the policeman into his confidence, showing him the dart and explaining about the poison. The officer stared blankly.

      “I must get away, too,” hurried on Craig. “Officer, I will leave you to take charge here. You can depend on me for the inquest.”

      The officer nodded.

      “Come on, Walter,” whispered Craig, eager to get away, then adding the one word, “Elaine!”

      I followed hastily, not slow to understand his fear for her.

      Nor were Craig’s fears groundless. In spite of all that could be done for her, Elaine was still in bed, much weaker now than before. While we had been gone, Dr. Hayward, Aunt Josephine and Marie were distracted.

      More than that, the Clutching Hand had not neglected the opportunity, either.

      Suddenly, just before our return, a stone had come hurtling through the window, without warning of any kind, and had landed on Elaine’s bed.

      Below, as we learned some time afterwards, a car had drawn up hastily and the evil-faced crook whom the Clutching Hand had used to rid himself of the informer, “Limpy Red,” had leaped out and hurled the stone through the window, as quickly leaping back into the car and whisking away.

      Elaine had screamed. All had reached for the stone. But she had been the first to seize it and discover that around it was wrapped a piece of paper on which was the ominous warning, signed as usual by the Hand:

      “Michael is dead. Tomorrow, you. Then Kennedy. Stop before it is too late.”

      Elaine had sunk back into her pillows, paler than ever from this second shock, while the others, as they read the note, were overcome by alarm and despair, at the suddenness of the thing.

      It was just then that Kennedy and I arrived and were admitted.

      “Oh, Mr. Kennedy,” cried Elaine, handing him the note.

      Craig took it and read. “Miss Dodge,” he said, as he held the note out to me, “you are suffering from arsenic poisoning—but I don’t know yet how it is being administered.”

      He gazed about keenly. Meanwhile, I had taken the crumpled note from him and was reading it. Somehow, I had leaned against the wall. As I turned, Craig happened to glance at me.

      “For heaven’s sake, Walter,” I heard him exclaim. “What have you been up against?”

      He fairly leaped at me and I felt him examining my shoulder where I had been leaning on the wall. Something on the paper had come off and had left a white mark on my shoulder. Craig looked puzzled from me to the wall.

      “Arsenic!” he cried.

      He whipped out a pocket lens and looked at the paper. “This heavy fuzzy paper is fairly loaded with it, powdered,” he reported.

      I looked, too. The powdered arsenic was plainly discernible. “Yes, here it is,” he continued, standing absorbed in thought. “But why did it work so effectively?”

      He sniffed as he had before. So did I. There was still the faint smell of garlic. Kennedy paced the room. Suddenly, pausing by the register, an idea seemed to strike him.

      “Walter,” he whispered, “come down cellar with me.”

      “Oh—be careful,” cried Elaine, anxious for him.

      “I will,” he called back.

      As he flashed his pocket electric bull’s-eye about, his gaze fell on the electric meter. He paused before it. In spite of the fact that it was broad daylight, it was running. His face puckered.

      “They are using no current at present in the house,” he ruminated. “Yet the meter is running.”

      He continued to examine the meter. Then he began to follow the electric wires along. At last he discovered a place where they had been tampered with and tapped by other wires.

      “The work of the Clutching Hand!” he muttered.

      Eagerly he followed the wires to the furnace and around to the back. There they led right into a little water tank. Kennedy yanked them out. As he did so he pulled something with them.

      “Two electrodes—the villain placed there,” he exclaimed, holding them up triumphantly for me to see.

      “Y-yes,” I replied dubiously, “but what does it all mean?”

      “Why, don’t you see? Under the influence of the electric current the water was decomposed and gave off oxygen and hydrogen. The free hydrogen passed up the furnace pipe and combining with the arsenic in the wall paper formed the deadly arseniuretted hydrogen.”

      He cast the whole improvised electrolysis apparatus on the floor and dashed up the cellar steps.

      “I’ve found it!” he cried, hurrying into Elaine’s room. “It’s in this room—a deadly gas—arseniuretted

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