LITMIR.BIZ

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the way back to the office he was loud in his praises and thanked us most heartily, as he put on his hat and coat and shook hands a cordial good-bye.

      Now comes the strange part of my story. After Reinstrom had gone, Dr. Holmes, the attending physician of the woman whom we had seen anesthetized, missed his syringe and the bottle of scopolamine.

      “Miss Sears,” he asked rather testily, “what have you done with the hypodermic and the scopolamine?”

      “Nothing,” she protested.

      “You must have done something.”

      She repeated that she had not.

      “Well, it is very strange then,” he said, “I am positive I laid the syringe and the bottle right here on this tray on the table.”

      Holmes, Miss Sears and Miss Stern all hunted, but it could not be found. Others had to be procured.

      I thought little of it at the time, but since then it has occurred to me that it might interest you, Professor Kennedy, and I give it to you for what it may be worth.

      It was early the next morning that I awoke to find Kennedy already up and gone from our apartment. I knew he must be at the laboratory, and, gathering the mail, which the postman had just slipped through the letter slot, I went over to the University to see him. As I looked over the letters to cull out my own, one in a woman’s handwriting on attractive notepaper addressed to him caught my eye.

      As I came up the path to the Chemistry Building I saw through the window that, in spite of his getting there early, he was finding it difficult to keep his mind on his work. It was the first time I had ever known anything to interfere with science in his life.

      I thought of the letter again.

      Craig had lighted a Bunsen burner under a large glass retort. But he had no sooner done so than he sat down on a chair and, picking up a book which I surmised might be some work on toxicology, started to read.

      He seemed not to be able, for the moment, to concentrate his mind and after a little while closed the book and gazed straight ahead of him. Again I thought of the letter, and the vision that, no doubt, he saw of Elaine making her pathetic appeal for his help.

      As he heard my footstep in the hall, it must have recalled him for he snapped the book shut and moved over quickly to the retort.

      “Well,” I exclaimed as I entered, “you are the early bird. Did you have any breakfast?”

      I tossed down the letters. He did not reply. So I became absorbed in the morning paper. Still, I did not neglect to watch him covertly out of the corner of my eye. Quickly he ran over the letters, instead of taking them, one by one, in his usual methodical way. I quite complimented my own superior acumen. He selected the dainty note.

      A moment Craig looked at it in anticipation, then tore it open eagerly. I was still watching his face over the top of the paper and was surprised to see that it showed, first, amazement, then pain, as though something had hurt him.

      He read it again—then looked straight ahead, as if in a daze.

      “Strange, how much crime there is now,” I commented, looking up from the paper I had pretended reading.

      No answer.

      “One would think that one master criminal was enough,” I went on.

      Still no answer.

      He continued to gaze straight ahead at blankness.

      “By George,” I exclaimed finally, banging my fist on the table and raising my voice to catch his attention, “you would think we had nothing but criminals nowadays.”

      My voice must have startled him. The usually imperturbable old fellow actually jumped. Then, as my question did not evidently accord with what was in his mind, he answered at random, “Perhaps—I wonder if—” and then he stopped, noncommittally.

      Suddenly he jumped up, bringing his tightly clenched fist down with a loud clap into the palm of his hand.

      “By heaven!” he exclaimed, “I—I will!”

      Startled at his incomprehensible and unusual conduct I did not attempt to pursue the conversation but let him alone as he strode hastily to the telephone. Almost angrily he seized the receiver and asked for a number. It was not like Craig and I could not conceal my concern.

      “Wh-what’s the matter, Craig?” I blurted out eagerly.

      As he waited for the number, he threw the letter over to me. I took it and read:

      “Professor Craig Kennedy, “The University, The Heights, City.

      “Dear Sir,—

      “I have come to the conclusion that your work is a hindrance rather than an assistance in clearing up my father’s death and I hereby beg to state that your services are no longer required. This is a final decision and I beg that you will not try to see me again regarding the matter.

      “Very truly yours, Elaine dodge.”

      If it had been a bomb I could not have been more surprised. A moment before I think I had just a sneaking suspicion of jealousy that a woman—even Elaine—should interest my old chums. But now all that was swept away. How could any woman scorn him?

      I could not make it out.

      Kennedy impatiently worked the receiver up and down, repeating the number. “Hello—hello,” he repeated, “Yes—hello. Is Miss—oh— good morning, Miss Dodge.”

      He was hurrying along as if to give her no chance to cut him off. “I have just received a letter, Miss Dodge, telling me that you don’t want me to continue investigating your father’s death, and not to try to see you again about—”

      He stopped. I could hear the reply, as sometimes one can when the telephone wire conditions are a certain way and the quality of the voice of the speaker a certain kind.

      “Why—no—Mr. Kennedy, I have written you no letter.”

      The look of mingled relief and surprise that crossed Craig’s face spoke volumes.

      “Miss Dodge,” he almost shouted, “this is a new trick of the Clutching Hand. I—I’ll be right over.”

      Craig hung up the receiver and turned from the telephone. Evidently he was thinking deeply. Suddenly his face seemed to light up. He made up his mind to something and a moment later he opened the cabinet—that inexhaustible storehouse from which he seemed to draw weird and curious instruments that met the ever new problems which his strange profession brought to him.

      I watched curiously. He took out a bottle and what looked like a little hypodermic syringe, thrust them into his pocket and, for once, oblivious to my very existence, deliberately walked out of the laboratory.

      I did not propose to be thus cavalierly dismissed. I suppose it would have looked ridiculous to a third party but I followed him as hastily as if he had tried to shut the door on his own shadow.

      We arrived at the corner above the Dodge house just in time to see another visitor—Bennett—enter. Craig quickened his pace. Jennings had by this time become quite reconciled to our presence and a moment later we were entering the drawing room, too.

      Elaine was there, looking lovelier than ever in the plain black dress, which set off the rosy freshness of her face.

      “And, Perry,” we heard her say, as we were ushered in, “someone has even forged my name—the handwriting and everything—telling Mr. Kennedy to drop the case—and I never knew.”

      She stopped as we entered. We bowed and shook hands with Bennett. Elaine’s Aunt Josephine was in the room, a perfect duenna.

      “That’s the limit!” exclaimed Bennett. “Miss Dodge has just been telling me,—”

      “Yes,” interrupted Craig. “Look, Miss Dodge, this is it.”

      He

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