SNESJUG! You know what? Sometimes you just gotta say screw it.  I played the hell out of Roger Clemens MVP Baseball when I was a kid, so I'm gonna do a video on it. Some of you longtime viewers might be surprised that I'm not looking at the Griffey Baseball Game Boy port instead, but this was the Game Boy baseball game I had as a kid. I bought Roger Clemens MVP Baseball for something like $20 brand new back in the mid-nineties. Hey, I even still have the box! I was obsessed with baseball back then, and needed a portable baseball game since Griffey Baseball at the time was only for the Super Nintendo, that port didn't come out until 97. But yeah, I needed something for those long, boring car rides through rural Minnesota. I remember playing the Super Nintendo version back then, and while I didn't love it, I didn't think it was that bad either. So I said, hey, why not pull the trigger on the Game Boy Edition? And just like its SNES counterpart, it's not great, but it's definitely not bad either. There's no official teams or players here other than Roger Clemens, but hey, you could pass up a chance to play as the Minnesota Hounds against the San Francisco Quakes. Pitching, hitting, and fielding all borrow the same perspectives from the SNES game. Pitching essentially has two speeds, really fast and really slow. A fastball is basically straight, but holds up on the D-pad and you can bend the ball around on a slower pitch. The two speeds are so extreme that you have to key in on one or the other and decide how you want to time it before the pitcher even releases the ball. This kind of sucks, but hey, it's a Game Boy game, and it's not like the gameplay is broken, just kind of contrived and one-dimensional. The fielding is at least fine, but you do have to have quick reflexes because a lot of line drives are hit in this game. My favorite thing about Roger Clemens MVP Baseball is the season structure. There isn't a full season here, instead the game starts you off in the middle of a pennant race toward the end of August, usually a few games out of first place in your division, so you got about 30 to 35 games or so to catch the first place team, win the division, and get to the playoffs. Considering the limitations I'm sure they had to deal with, that's a pretty badass way to do it. Unfortunately, there are passwords here, and no, there's no season stats or anything, but still, I enjoy the layout and adds a little bit of pressure when you play certain teams. So yeah, Roger Clemens MVP Baseball certainly isn't going to blow you away or anything like that, but it just goes to show you can find a decent, well-structured time-killing game just about anywhere, and this game usually only goes for about a couple bucks since it's a sports game on a system that even most retro gamers kind of stay away from, as the views on this video will attest. But you know what, screw it, I really like this game, it's a perfectly playable portable baseball game, and that's just fine with me.


Chapter 1 The Clutching Hand Jameson, here's a story I wish you'd follow up, remarked the managing editor of The Star to me one evening after I had turned in an assignment of the late afternoon. He handed me a clipping from the evening edition of The Star, and I quickly ran my eye over the headline. The clutching hand wins again. New York's mysterious master criminal perfects another coupe. City police completely baffled. Here's this murder-afflecture, the retired banker and trustee of the university. He explained, not a clue except a warning let assigned with this mysterious clutching fist. Last week it was the robbery at the Hacksworth duels and the killing of Old Hacksworth. Again that curious sign of the hand. Then there was the dastily attempt on Sherbourne, the steel magnet. Not a trace of the assailant except this same clutching fist. So it has gone. Jameson, the most alarming and most inexplicable series of murders that has ever happened in this country, and nothing but this uncanny hand to trace them by. The editor paused a moment, then exclaimed, Why, this fellow seems to take a diabolical. I might almost say pathological. Pleasure in crimes of violence, revenge, avarice and self-protection. Sometimes it seems as if he delights in the pure devil-tree of the thing. It is weird. He leaned over and spoke in a low tense tone. Strangest of all, the tip has just come to us that Fletcher, Hacksworth, Sherbourne and all the rest of those wealthy men were ensured in the consolidated mutual light. Now, Jameson, I want you to find Taylor Dodge, the president, and interview him. Get what you can at any cost. I had naturally thought first of Kennedy, but there was no time now to call him up, and besides, I must see Dodge immediately. Dodge, I discovered over the telephone, was not at home, nor at any of the clubs to which he belonged. Late though it was, I concluded that he was at his office. No amount of persuasion could get me past the door, and though I found out later and she'll tell soon what was going on there, I determined, at nine o'clock, the best way to get at Dodge was to go to his house on Fifth Avenue, if I had to camp on his front doorstep until morning. The harder I found the story to get, the more I wanted it. With some misgivings about being admitted, I rung the bell at the splendid, though not very modern, Dodge residence. An English butler with a nose that must have been his fortune, opened the door and gravely informed me that Mr. Dodge was not at home, but was expected at any moment. Once in, I was not going lightly to give up that advantage. I befought myself of his daughter, Elaine, one of the most popular debutants of the season, and sent in my card to her on a chance of interesting her and seeing her father, writing on the bottom of the card, would like to interview Mr. Dodge regarding clutching hand. Summoning up what assurance I had, which is sometimes considerable, I followed the butler down the hall as he bore my card. As he opened the door at the dooring room, I caught a vision of a slip of a girl in an evening gown. Elaine Dodge was both the ingenue and the athlete, the thoroughly modern type of girl, equally at home with tennis and tango, table talk and tea, the vacuous eyes that hinted at a stunning amber-brown sparkle beneath masses of the most wonderful orb and hair. Her pearly teeth, when she smiled, were marvellous, and she smiled often, for life to her seemed a continuous film of enjoyment. Near her I recognised from his pictures Perry Bennett, the rising young corporation lawyer, a mighty good-looking fellow, with the nathable pleasing way about him, perhaps thirty-five years old or so, but already prominent and quite friendly with Dodge. On a table I saw a book, as though Elaine had cast it down when the lawyer arrived to call on the daughter, under pretense of waiting for her father. Prumbled on the table was the star. They had read the story. Who is it, Jennings? She asked. A reporter, Miss Dodge, answered the butler, glancing super-silously back at me. And you know how your father dislikes to see anyone here at the house, he added deferentially to her. I took in the situation at a glance. Bennett was trying not to look discourteous, but this was a call on Elaine, and it had been interrupted. I could expect no help from that quarter. Still I fancied that Elaine was not averse to trying to peak her visitor, and determined at least to try it.  I've been trying to find your father all the evening. It's very important. She looked up at me, surprised, and in doubt, whether to laugh or stamp her pretty little foot, in indignation at my stupendous nerve. She laughed. You are a very brave young man, she replied, with a roguish look at Bennett's confiture over the interruption of their tete-a-tete. There was a note of seriousness in it, too, that made me ask quickly, why? The smile fitted from her face, and in its place came a frank earnest expression, which I later learned to like and respect very much. My father has declared he will eat the very next reporter who tries to interview him here, she answered. I was about to prolong the waiting time by some jolly about such a stunning girl not having, by any possibility, such a cannibal of a parent, when the rattle of the changing gears of the car outside told of the approach of a limousine. The big front door opened, and Elaine flung herself in the arms of an elderly, stern-faced grey-haired man. Why, Dad, she cried, where have you been? I missed you so much at dinner. I'll be so glad when this terrible business gets cleared up. Tell me, what is on your mind? What is it that worries you now? I noticed then that Dodge seemed wrought up and a bit unnerved, for he sunk rather heavily into a chair, brushed his face with his handkerchief, and breathed heavily. Elaine hobbled over him solicitously, repeating her question. With a mighty effort, he seemed to get himself together. He rose and turned to Bennett. Perry, he exclaimed, I've got the clutching hand. The two men stared at each other. Yes, continued Dodge, I've just found out how to trace it, and tomorrow I am going to set the alarms of the city at rest by exposing. Just then Dodge caught sight of me, for the moment I thought perhaps he was going to fulfil his threat. Who the devil? Why didn't you tell me a reporter was here, Jennings? He sputtered indignantly, pointing toward the door. Argument and treaty were of no avail. He stabbed Crustley into the library, taking Bennett with him and leaving me with Elaine. Inside I could hear them talking, and managed to catch enough to piece together the story. I wanted to say, but Elaine, smiling at my enthusiasm, shook her head and held out her hand in one of her frank, straight-arm handshakes. There was nothing to do but go. At least I reflected I had the greater part of the story, all except the one big thing, however, the name of the criminal. But Dodge would know him tomorrow. I hurried back to the star to write my story in time to catch the last morning edition. Meanwhile, if I may anticipate my story, I must tell of what we later learned had happened to Dodge so completely to upset him. Ever since the consolidated mutual had been hit by the murders, he had had many lines out in the hope of enmeshing the perpetrator. That night, as I found out the next day, he had at last heard of a clue. One of the company's detectives had brought in a red-headed lame, partly paralyzed crook, who enjoyed the expressive moniker of Limpy Red. Limpy Red was a gunman of some renown, evil-faced, and having nothing much to lose, desperate. Whoever the master criminal of the catching hand might have been, he had seen fit to employ Limpy, but had not taken the precaution of getting rid of him soon enough when he was through. Wherefore, Limpy had a grievance and now descended under pressure to the low level of snitching to Dodge in his office. No, Governor, the trembling wretch had said, as he handed over a grimy envelope. I ain't never seen his face, but here is directions how to find his hangout. As Limpy ambled out, he turned to Dodge, quivering at the enormity of his unpardonable sin in gangland. For God's sake, Governor, he implored, don't let on how you found out. And yet Limpy Red had scarcely left with his promise not to tell, when Dodge, happening to turn over some papers, came upon an envelope left on his own desk, bearing that mysterious clutching hand. He tore it open and read in amazement, destroy Limpy Red's instructions within the next hour. Dodge gazed about in wonder. This thing was getting on his nerves. He determined to go home and rest. Outside the house, as he left his car, pasted over the monogram on the door. He had found another note, with the same weird mark and the single word. Remember, much of this I had already gathered from what I overheard Dodge telling Bennett as they entered the library. Some also I had pieced together from the story of a servant who overheard. At any rate, in spite of the pleadings of young Bennett, Dodge refused to take warning. In the safe, in his beautifully fitted library, he deposited Limpy's document in an envelope, containing all the correspondence that had led up to the final step in the discovery. It was late in the evening when I returned to our apartment and, not finding Kennedy there, knew that I would discover him at the laboratory. Craig, I cried as I burst in on him, I've got a case for you, greater than any ever before. Kennedy looked up calmly from the rack of scientific instruments that surrounded him, test tubes, beakers, carefully labelled bottles. He had been examining a piece of cloth and had loaded a side in disappointment near his magnifying glass. Just now, he was watching a reaction in a series of test tubes standing on his table. He was looking dejectedly at the floor as I came in. Indeed, he remarked coolly, going back to the reaction. Yes, I cried. It is a scientific criminal who seems to leave no clues. Kennedy looked up gravely. Every criminal leaves the trace, he said quietly. If it hasn't been found, then it must be because no one has ever looked for it in the right way. Still gazing at me keenly, he added, Yes, I already knew there was such a man at large. I had been called in on that Fletcher case. He was a trustee at the university, you know? All right, I exclaimed, a little nettle, that he should have anticipated me even so much in the case. But you haven't heard the latest. What is it, he asked, with provoking calmness. Taylor Dodge, I blurted out, has the clue. Tomorrow he will track down the man. Kennedy fairly jumped as I repeated the news. How long has he known? He demanded eagerly. Perhaps three or four hours, I hesitant. Kennedy gazed at me fixily. Then Taylor Dodge is dead, he exclaimed, throwing off his acid stain laboratory smock and hurrying into his street clothes. Impossible, I ejaculated. Kennedy paid no attention to the objection. Come, Walter, he urged. We must hurry before the trail gets cold. There was something positively uncanny about Kennedy's assurance. I doubt it, yet I feared. It was well past the middle of the night when we pulled up in a Nighthawk taxi cab before the Dodge house mounted the steps and rang the bell. Jennings answered sleepily, but not so much so that he did not recognize me. He was about to bang the door shut when Kennedy interposed his foot. Where is Mr. Dodge? asked Kennedy. Is he all right? Of course he is. In bed replied the butler. Just then we heard a faint cry, like nothing exactly human, or was it our heightened imaginations under the spell of the darkness. Listen, caution, Kennedy. We did, standing there now in the hall. Kennedy was the only one of us who was cool. Jennings' face blanched. Then he turned tremblingly and went down to the library door, whence the sounds had seemed to come. He called, but there was no answer. He turned the knob and opened the door. The Dodge library was a large room. In the centre stood a big flat top desk of heavy mahogany. It was brilliantly lighted. At one end of the desk was a telephone. Taylor Dodge was lying on the floor at the end of the desk, perfectly rigid. His face distorted, a ghastly figure. A pet dog ran over, sniffed frantically at his master's legs, and suddenly began to howl dismally. Dodge was dead. Help! shouted Jennings. Others of the servants came rushing in. There was, for the moment, the greatest excitement and confusion. Suddenly a wild figure in flying garments flitted down the stairs and into the library, dropping beside the dead man, without seeming to notice us at all. Father! shrieked a woman's voice, heartbroken. Father! Oh my God! He is dead! It was Elaine Dodge. With a mighty effort the heroic girl seemed to pull herself together. Jennings, she cried, called Mr. Bennett immediately. From the one-sided, excited conversation of the butler over the telephone, I gathered that Bennett had been in the process of disrobing in his own apartment uptown and would be right down. Together Kennedy, Elaine, and myself looked at Dodge to a sofa, and Elaine's aunt, Josephine, with whom she lived, appeared on the scene, trying to quiet the subbing girl. Kennedy and I withdrew a little, and he looked about curiously. What was it, I whispered? Was it natural, and excellent, or murder? The word seemed to stick in my throat. If it was a murder, what was the motive? Could it have been to get the evidence, which Dodge had, that would incriminate the master criminal? Kennedy moved over quietly and examined the body of Dodge. When he rose, his face had a peculiar look. Terrible! he whispered to me. Apparently, he had been working, and he's a custom place at the desk, when the telephone rung. He rose and crossed over to it. See? That broad his feet on this register led him to the floor. As he took the telephone receiver down, a flash of light must have shot from it to his ear. It shows the characteristic electric burn. The motive, I queried. Evidently, his pockets had been gone through, though none of the valuables were missing. Things on his desk showed that a hasty search has been made. Just then, the door opened, and Bennett burst in. As he stood over the body, gazing down at her, repressing the emotions of a strong man, he turned to Elon, and in a low voice exclaimed, The clutching hand did this. I shall consecrate my life to bring this man to justice. He spoke tensely and, alone, looking up into his face, as if imploring his help in her hour of need, unable to speak, merely grasped his hand. Kennedy, who in the meantime had stood apart from the rest of us, was examining the telephone carefully. A clever crook, I heard in mutter between his teeth. He must have worn gloves, not a fingerprint, at least here. Perhaps I can do no better than to reconstruct the crime, as Kennedy later pieced these startling events together. Long after I had left, and even after Bennett left, Dodge continued working in his library, for he was known as a prodigious worker. Had he taken the trouble, however, to pause and peer out into the moonlight that flooded the back of his house, he might have seen the figures of two stealthy crooks, crouching in the half-shadows of one of the cellar windows.  He had a peculiar stoop of the shoulders, and more his coat collar turned up. One hand, the right, seemed almost deformed. It was that which gave him his name in the underworld, the clutching hand. The masked crook held carefully the ends of two wires attached to an electric feed, and sending his pal to keep watch outside, he entered the cellar at the Dodge house through a window whose pain they had carefully removed. As he came through the window, he dragged the wires with him, and, altering moments, reconnoitering, attached them to the furnace pipe at the old-fashioned hot air heater, where the pipe ran up through the floor to the library above. The other wire was quickly attached to the telephone, where its wires entered. Upstairs, Dodge, evidently uneasy in his mind about the precious limpy red letter, took it from the safe along with most of the other correspondence, and, pressing a hidden spring in the wall, opened a secret panel, placed most of the important documents in this hiding place. Then he put some blank sheets of paper in an envelope, and returned it to the safe. Downstairs, the masked master criminal had already attached a bulb meter to the wires he had installed, waiting. Just then could be heard the tinkle of Dodge's telephone, and the old man rose to answer it. As he did so, he placed his foot on the iron register, his hand taking the telephone and the receiver. At that instant came a powerful electric flash. Dodge sank on the floor grasping the instrument, electrocuted. Below, the master criminal could scarcely refrain from exclaiming with satisfaction, as his bulb meter registered the powerful current that was passing. A moment later, the criminal slid silently into Dodge's room, carefully putting on rubber gloves, and avoiding touching the register. He wrenched the telephone from the grasp of the dead man, replacing it in its normal position. Only for a second did he pause to look at his victim, as he destroyed the evidence of his work. Minutes were precious. First Dodge's pockets, then his desk, engaged his attention. There was left the safe. As he approached the strong box, the master criminal took two vials from his pockets, removing a bust of Shakespeare that stood on the safe. He poured the contents of the vials in two mixed masses of powder, forming a heap on the safe, into which he inserted two magnesium wires. He lighted them, sprung back, hiding his eyes from the light, and a blinding gush of flame, lasting perhaps ten seconds, poured out from the top of the safe. It was not an explosion, but just a dazzling, intense flame, that sizzled and crackled. It seemed impossible, but the glowing mass was literally sinking, sinking down into the cold steel. At last it burned through, as if the safe had been of tinder. Without waiting a moment longer than necessary, the masked criminal advanced again, and actually put his hand down through the top of the safe, pulling out a bunch of papers. Quickly he thrust them all, with just a glance into his pocket. Still working quickly, he took the bust at the great dramatist, which he had removed and placed it under the light. Next from his pocket he drew two curious stencils, as it were, which he had apparently carefully prepared. With his hands still carefully gloved, he rubbed the stencils on his hair, as if to cover them with a film of natural oils. Then he deliberately pressed them over the statue in several places. It was a peculiar action, and he seemed to fairly gloat over it when it was done, and the bust returned to its place, covering the whole. As noiselessly as he had come, he made his exit after one last malignant look at Dodge. It was now but the work of a moment to remove the wires he had placed, and climb out of the window, taking them and destroying the evidence down in the cellar. A low whistle from the masked crook, now again in the shadow, brought his pal stealthily to his side. It's all right, he whispered hoarsely to the man. Now you attend to Limpy Red. The villainous looking pal nodded, and without another word, the two made their getaway safely in opposite directions. When Limpy Red, still trembling, left the office of Dodge earlier in the evening, he had repaired as fast as his shambling feet would take him to his favourite dive upon Park Grove. There he might have been seen drinking with anyone who came along, for Limpy had money, blood money, and the recollection of his treachery and revenge must both be forgotten and celebrated. Had the bowery sinkers not got into his eyes, he might have noticed among the late revelers a man who spoke to no one, but took his place nearby at the bar. Limpy had long since reached the point of saturation, and, lurching forth from his newfound cronies, he sought other fields of excitement. Likewise did the newcomer, who bore a strange resemblance to the lookout, who had been stationed outside at the Dodge House a scant half hour before. What happened later was only a matter of seconds. It came when the hated snitch, the gangam hates being former worse than anything else, dead or alive, had turned a sufficiently dark and deserted corner. A muffled thud, a stifled groan, followed as a heavy section of lead pipe wrapped in a newspaper, descended on the crass skull of Limpy. The wilger of the improvised but fatal weapon permitted himself the luxury of an instant cruel smile, then vanished into the darkness, leaving another complete job for the coroner and the morgue. It was the vengeance of the clutching hand, swift, sure, remorseless. And yet it had not been a night of complete success for the master criminal, as anyone might have seen who could have followed his sinuous route to a place of greater safety. Unable to wait longer, he pulled the papers he had taken from the safe from his pocket. His chagrin at finding them to be blank paper found only one expression of foil fury, that menacing clutching hand. Kennedy had turned from his futile examination for marks on the telephone. There stood the safe, a moderate-sized strongbox, but of a modern type. He tried the door, it was locked, there was not a mark on it. The combination had not been tampered with, nor had there been any attempt to suit the safe. With a quick motion he felt in his pocket, as if looking for gloves. Finding none, he glanced about, and seized a pair of tongs from beside the grate. With them he ordered not to confuse any possible fingerprints on the bust. He lifted it off. I gave a gasp of surprise. There, in the top of the safe, yawned a gaping hole through which one could have thrust his arm. What is it, we asked, crowding about him. Thurman, he replied laconically. Thurman, I repeated. Yes, a compound of iron oxide and powdered aluminium, invented by a chemist at Essen, Germany. It gives a temperature of over five thousand degrees. It will eat its way through the strongest steel. Jennings, his mouth wide open with wonder, advanced to take the bust from Kennedy. No, don't touch it, he waved him off, laying the bust on the desk. I want no one to touch it. Don't you see how careful I was to use the tongs, that there might be no question about any clue this fella may have left on the marble.  Look, exclaimed Craig suddenly. We bent over. The black powder, had in fact brought out strongly some peculiar, more or less regular, black smudges. Fingerprints, I cried excitedly. Yes, not at Kennedy, studying them closely. A clue, perhaps. What those little marks, a clue, asked a voice behind us. I turned and saw Elaine, looking over our shoulders. Fascinated. It was evidently the first time she had realised that Kennedy was in the room. How can you tell anything by that, she asked. Why, easily, he answered, picking up a brass blotting pad, which lay on the desk.  You could see it even without the powder on the glass. Do you see those lines? There are various types of markings, four general types, and each person's markings are different, even if at the same general type loop. Wall, arc or composite. He continued working as he talked. Your thumb marks, for example, Ms. Dodge, are different from mine. Mr. Jameson's are different from both of us, and Ms. Fah's fingerprints are still different. It is mathematically impossible to find two alike in every respect. Kennedy was holding the brass blotter near the bust as he talked. I shall never forget the look of blank amazement on his face as he bent over closer. My God, he exclaimed excitedly, this fellow is a master criminal. He has actually made stencils or something of the sort, on which by some mechanical process he has actually forged the hitherto infallible fingerprints. I, too, bent over and studied the marks on the bust, and those Kennedy had made on the blotter to show Elaine. The fingerprints on the bust were Kennedy's own. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Exploits of Elaine. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Exploits of Elaine by Arthur B. Reave. Chapter 2. The Twilight Sleep. Kennedy had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the solution of the mysterious Dodge case. Far into the night after the challenge of the forged fingerprint, he continued at work, endeavoring to extract a clue from the meager evidence. The bit of cloth and trace of poison already obtained from other cases and now added the strange succession of events that surrounded the tragedy we had just witnessed. We dropped around at the Dodge House the next morning. Early though it was, we found Elaine a trifle paler but more lovely than ever, and Perry Bennett themselves, vainly endeavoring to solve the mystery at the catching hand. They were at Dodge's desk. She in the big desk chair. He standing beside her, looking over some papers. There's nothing there, Bennett was saying as we entered. I could not help feeling that he was gazing down at Elaine a bit more tenderly than mere business warranted. Have you found anything? queried Elaine anxiously, turning eagerly to Kennedy. Nothing yet, he answered, shaking his head, but conveying a quiet idea of confidence in his tone. Just then Jennings the butler entered, bringing the morning papers. Elaine seized the star and hostily opened it. On the first page was the story I had telephoned down very late in the hope of catching a last city edition. We all bent over and Craig read aloud. Clutching hand still at large. New York's master criminal remains undetected, perpetrates new daring murder and robbery of millionaire Dodge. He had scarcely finished reading the brief but alarming news story that followed, and laid the paper on the desk when a stone came smashing through the window from the street. Startled, we all jumped to our feet. Craig hurried to the window. Not a soul was in sight. He stooped and picked up the stone. To it was attached a piece of paper. Quickly he unfolded it and read. Craig Kennedy will give up his search for the clutching hand or die. Later I recalled that there seemed to be a slight noise downstairs, as if at the cellar window through which the masked man had entered the night before. In point of fact, one who had been outside at the time might actually have seen a sinister face at that cellar window that to us upstairs it was invisible. The face was that of the servant Michael. Without another word, Kennedy passed into the dooring room and took his hat and coat. Both Elaine and Bennett followed. I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me for the present. Craig apologized. Elaine looked at him anxiously. You will not let that letter intimidate you. She pleaded, laying her soft right hand on his arm. Oh, Mr. Kennedy, she added, bravely keeping back the tears, avenge him. All the money in the world would be too little to pay, if only. At the mere mention of money, Kennedy's face seemed to cloud, but only for a moment. He must have felt the confiding pressure of her hand, for as she paused appealingly, he took her hand in his, bowing slightly over it to look closer into her upturned face. I'll try, he said simply. Elaine did not withdraw her hand as she continued to look up at him. Craig looked at her as I had never seen him look at a woman before in all our long acquaintance. Miss Dodge, he went on. His voice steady as though he were repressing something. I will never take another case until the clutching hand is captured. The look of gratitude she gave him would have been a princely reward in itself. I did not marvel that all the rest of the day and far into the night, Kennedy was at work furiously in his laboratory, studying the notes, the texture of the paper, the character of the ink, everything that might perhaps suggest a new lead. It was all apparently, however, without result. It was some time after these events that Kennedy, reconstructing what had happened, ran across in a strange way, which I need not tire the reader by telling a Dr. Haines head of the hillside sanitarium for women, whose story I shall relate substantially as we received it from his own lips. It must have been that same night that a distinguished visitor drove up in a cab to our hillside sanitarium, rung the bell, and was admitted to my office. I might describe him as a moderately tall, well-built man, with a pleasing way about him. Chiefly noticeable, it seems to me, were his moustache and bushy beard, quite medical and foreign. I am, by the way, the super-attending physician, and that night I was sitting with Dr. Thompson, my assistant, in the office, discussing a rather interesting case, when an attendant came in with a card and handed it to me. It read simply, Dr. Ludwig Rainsstrom Cobblance. Here's that Dr. Rainsstrom, Thompson, about whom my friend in Germany wrote the other day. I remarked, nodding to the attendant to admit Dr. Rainsstrom. I might explain that while I was abroad some time ago, I made a particular study of the Damisch Club, otherwise the Twilight Sleep at Freiburg, where it was developed and at other places in Germany, where the subject had attracted great attention. I was much impressed and had imported the treatment to Hillside. While we waited, I reached into my desk and drew out the letter to which I referred, which ended, I recall. As Dr. Rainsstrom is in America, he will probably call on you. I am sure you will be glad to know him, with kindness regards I am, fraternally yours. Emil Schwartz M.D., Director, Lipsick, Institute of Medicine. Most happy to meet you, Dr. Rainsstrom. I greeted the new arrival, as he entered our office. For several minutes, we sat and chatted of things, medical here and abroad. What is it, Doctor? I asked finally, that interest you most in America. Oh, he replied quickly, with an expressive gesture. It is the broad-mindedness with which you adopt the best from all over the world, regardless of prejudice. For instance, I am very much interested in the new Twilight Sleep. Of course, you have borrowed it largely from us, but it interests me to see whether you have modified it with practice. In fact, I have come to Hillside Sanitarium, particularly to see it used. Perhaps we may learn something from you. It was most gracious, and both Mr. Thompson and myself were charmed by our visitor. I reached over and touched a call button, and our head nurse entered from a rear room. Are there any operations going on now? I asked. She looked mechanically at her watch. Yes, there are two cases now, I think, she answered. Would you like to follow our technique, Doctor? I asked, turning to Dr. Rainsstrom. I should be delighted, he acquiesced. A moment later, we passed down the corridor of the sanitarium still chatty. At the door of the ward, I spoke to the attendant who indicated that a patient was about to be anesthetised, and Rainsstrom and I entered the room. There, in perfect quiet, which is an essential part of the treatment, were several women patients lying in bed in the ward. Before us, two nurses and a doctor were in attendance on one. I spoke to the doctor, Doctor Holmes, by the way, who bowed politely to the distinguished Doctor Rainsstrom, then turned quickly to his work. Miss Sears, he asked of one of the nurses, will you bring me that hypodermic needle? How are you getting on, Miss Stern? To the other, who was scrubbing the patient's arm with antiseptic soap and water, thoroughly sterilising the skin. You will see, Dr. Rainsstrom, I interposed in a low tone, that we follow in the main your freeberg treatment. We used Gopolman and Narcissus. I held up the bottle, as I said it, a rather peculiar shaped bottle too. And the pain, he asked, practically the same as in your experience abroad. We do not render the patients unconscious, but prevent her from remembering anything that goes on. Dr. Holmes, the attending physician, was just starting the treatment, filling his hypodermic. He selected a spot on the patient's arm, where it had been scrubbed and sterilised, and injected the narcotic. How simply you do it all here, exclaimed Rainsstrom, in surprise and undisguised admiration. You Americans are wonderful. Come, see a patient who is just recovering, I added, much flattered by the praise, which from a German physician meant much. Rainsstrom followed me out of the door, and we entered a private room at the hospital, where another woman patient lay in bed, carefully watched by a nurse. How do you do, I nodded to the nurse in a modulated tone, everything progressing favourably? Perfectly, she returned, as Rainsstrom, Keynes, and myself formed a little group about the bed of the unconscious woman. And you say they have no recollection of anything that happens, asked Rainsstrom. Absolutely none. If the treatment is given properly, I replied confidently. I picked up a piece of bandage, which was the handiest thing about me, and tied it quite tightly about the patient's arm. As we waited, the patient, who was gradually coming from under the drug, roused herself. What is that? It hurts, she said, putting a hand on the bandage. I had tied tightly. That is all right, just a moment, I'll take it off. Don't you remember it? I asked. She shook her head. I smiled at Rainsstrom. You see, she has no recollection of my tying the bandage on her arm, I pointed out. Wonderful, ejaculated Rainsstrom, as we left the room. All 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 accordingly or goodbye. Now comes the strange part of my story. After Rainsstrom had gone, Dr. Holmes, the attending physician of the woman, whom we had seen and emphasised, missed his syringe and the bottle of scopolyamine. Miss Sears, he asked rather testily, what have you done with the hypodermic and the scopolyamine? 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 Dern 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 note paper 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 surmise 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 go straight ahead of him. Again I thought of the letter and the vision that, no doubt, he saw of Elaine making her a pathetic appeal for his help. As he heard my footsteps 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 covetly, 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, Ackerman. 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 usual impertable 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 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. 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 O. 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 at the clutching hand. 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. A lane 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 called to 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 dwana. That's the limit, exclaimed Bennett. Ms. Dodge has just been telling me. Yes, interrupted Craig. Look, Ms. Dodge, this is it. He handed her the letter. She almost seized it, examining it carefully, her large eyes opening wider in wonder. This is certainly my writing and my note paper, she murmured, but I never wrote the letter. Craig looked from the letter to work keenly. No one said a word. For a moment, Kennedy hesitated, thinking. Might I see your room, Ms. Dodge? He asked at length. Aunt Josephine frowned. Bennett and I could not conceal our surprise. Why, it's certainly not at Elaine, as she led the way upstairs. It was a dainty little room, breathing the spirit of its mistress. In fact, it seemed a sort of propanation, as we all followed in after her. For a moment, Kennedy stood still, then he carefully looked about.  I bent over, something gleamed in the morning sunshine, some little thin pieces of gas. As he tried deftly to fit the tiny little bits together, he seemed absorbed in thought. Quickly he raised it to his nose, as if to smell it. Ethel Clorite, he muttered, wrapping the pieces carefully in a paper and putting them into his pocket. An instant later, he crossed the room to the window and examined it. Look, he exclaimed. There plainly were marks of a chimney, which had been inserted near the lock to pry it open. Ms. Dodge, he asked. Might I trouble you to let me see your arm? Wonderingly, she did so, and Kennedy bent almost reverently over her plump arm, examining it. On it was a small dark discolouration, around which was a slight redness and tenderness. That, he said slowly, is the mark of a hypodermic needle. As he finished examining Elon's arm, he drew the letter from his pocket, still facing her, he said, in a low tone. Ms. Dodge, you did write this letter, but under the influence of the new twilight sleep. We looked at one another, amazed. Outside, if we had been at the door in the hallway, we might have seen the sinister-faced Michael listening. He turned and slipped quietly away. White Craig, I exclaimed excitedly. What do you mean? Exactly what I say. With Ms. Dodge's permission, I shall show you, by a small administration of the drug, which will injure you in no way, Ms. Dodge. I think I can bring back the memory of all that occurred to you last night. Will you allow me? Mercy, no, protested Aunt Josephine. Craig and Elon faced each other, as they had the day before, when she had asked him whether the sudden warning at the clutching hand would intimidate him. She advanced a step nearer. Elon trusted him. Elon protested Aunt Josephine again. I want the experiment to be tried, she said quietly. A moment later, Kennedy had placed her in a wing chair in the corner of the room. Now, Mrs. Dodge, he said, please bring me a basin and a towel. Aunt Josephine reconciled, brought them. Kennedy dropped an antiseptic tablet into the water, and carefully sterilized Elon's arm, just above the spot where the red mark showed. Then he drew the hypodermic from his pocket, carefully sterilizing it also, and filling it with scope holomine from the bottle. Just a minute, Ms. Dodge, he encouraged as he jabbed the needle into her arm. She did not wince. Please lie back on the couch, he directed. Then turning to us, he added, it takes some time for this to work. Our criminal got over that fact, and prevented an outcry by using ethyl chloride first. Let me reconstruct the scene. As we watched Elon going under slowly, Craig talked. That night, he said, warily, the masked criminal at the clutching hand might have been seen down below, as in the alley. Up here, Ms. Dodge, worn out by the strain of her father's death, let us say, was nervously trying to read to do anything that would take her mind off the tragedy. Perhaps she fell asleep. Just then the clutching hand appeared. He came stealthily through that window which he had opened. A moment he hesitated, seeing Elon asleep. Then he tiptoed over to the bed, let us say, and for a moment looked at her sleeping.  That was ethyl chloride, a drug which produces a quick anaesthesia. But at last only a minute or two. That was enough. As he broke the glass neck of the bulb, letting the pieces fall on the floor near the bed, he shoved the thing under Elon's face, turning his own head away, and holding a handkerchief over his own nose.  He stepped away from her a moment, and replaced the now empty vial in his pocket. Then he took a box from his pocket, opened it. There must have been a syringe and a bottle, a scapehole mine. Where they came from I do not know, but perhaps from some hospital. I shall have to find that out later. He went to Elon, quickly jabbing the needle, with no resistance from her now. Slowly he replaced the bottle and the needle in his pocket. He could not have been in any hurry now, for it takes time for the drug to work. Kennedy paused. Had we known at the time, Michael, he of the sinister face, must have been in the hallway, careful that no one saw him. A tap at the door and the clutching hand, that night, must have beckoned him. A moment parley and they separated, clutching hand going back to Elon, who was now under the influence of the second drug. Our criminal, resumed Kennedy thoughtfully, may have shaken Elon. She did not answer. Then he may have partly revived her. She must have been startled.  One word and I shoot, he probably cried.  Crembling, she must have done so. Your slippers and kimono, he would naturally have ordered. She put them on mechanically. Then he must have ordered her to go out of the door and down the stairs. Clutching hand must have followed, and as he did so, he would have cautiously put out the lights. We were following spellbound Kennedy's graphic reconstruction of what must have happened. Evidently, he had struck close to the truth. Elon's eyes were closed. Gently Kennedy led her along. Now, misdodge, he encouraged. Try, try hard to recollect just what it was that happened last night. Everything. As Kennedy paused after his quick recital, she seemed to tremble all over. Slowly, she began to speak. We still all struck. Kennedy had been right. The girl was now living over again those minutes, that had been forgotten, blotted out by the drug. And it was all real to her too, terribly real. She was speaking, plainly in terror. I see a man, oh, such a figure, with a mask. He holds a gun in my face. He threatened me. I put on my kimono and slippers as he tells me. I am in a daze. I know what I am doing, and I don't know. I go out with him, downstairs, into the library. Elon shuddered again at the recollection. Ah, the room is dark. The room where he killed my father. Moonlight outside streams in. This masked man and I come in. He switches on the lights. Go to the safe, he says, and I do it. The new soap, you know. Do you know the combination? He asks me. Yes, I reply. Too frightened to say no. Open it then, he says, waving that awful revolver closer. I do so. Hastily he rummages through it, throwing papers here and there. But he seems not to find what he is after, and turns away, swearing fearfully. Hang it, he cries to me. Where else did your father keep papers? I point in desperation at the desk. He takes one last look at the soap, shoves all the papers he has drawn on the floor back again, and slams the safe shut. Now come on, he says, indicating with the gun that he wants me to follow him. Away from the safe. At the desk he repeats the search, but he finds nothing. Almost I think he is about to kill me. Where else did your father keep papers? He heesses fiercely, still threatening me with the gun. I am too frightened to speak, but at last I am able to say, I don't know. Again he threatens me. As God is my judge, I cry. I don't know. It is fearful. Will he shoot me? Thank heaven, at last he believes me. But such a look of foiled fury I have never seen on a human face before. Sit down, he growls, adding at the desk, I do. Take some of your note paper, the best. I do that too. And a pen he goes on. My fingers can hardly hold it. Now write, he says, and as he dictates I write. This interjected Kennedy, eagerly holding up the letter that he had received from her. Elaine looked it over with her drug-gladen eyes. Yes, she nodded, then lapsed again to the scene itself. He reads it over, and as he does so, says, now address an envelope. Himself, he folds the letter, seals the envelope, stamps it, and drops it into his pocket, hastily straightening the desk. Now go ahead of me again. Leave the room. No, by the hall door. We are going back upstairs. I obey him. And at the door he switches off the lights. How I stand it, I don't know. I go upstairs, mechanically, into my own room. I and this masked man. Take off the kimono and slippers he orders. I do that. Get into bed, he growls. I crawl in fearfully. For a moment he looks about, then goes out, with a look back as he goes. Uh-uh, that hand, which he raises at me, that hand. The poor girl was sitting bulk upright, staring straight at the hall door as we watched and listened, fascinated. Kennedy was bending over, soothing her. She gave evidences of coming out from the effect of the drug. I noticed that Bennett had suddenly moved a step in the direction of the door, at which she stared. My God, he muttered, staring too. Look! We did look. A letter was slowly being inserted under the door. I took a quick step forward.  It was Kennedy. He had whipped out his automatic and had carefully levelled it at the door. Before he could fire, however, Bennett had rushed ahead. I followed. We looked down the hall. Sure enough, the figure of a man could be seen disappearing around an angle. I followed Bennett out of the door and down the hall. Words cannot keep pace with what followed. Together we rushed to the back stairs. Down there, while I go down the front, cried Bennett. I went down, and he turned and went down the other flight. As he did so, Craig followed him. Suddenly, in the drawing room, I bumped into a figure on the other side of the portiers. I seized him. We struggled, ripped. The portiers came down, covering me entirely. Over and over we went, smashing a lamp. It was vicious. Another man attacked me, too. I—I got in Kennedy. I heard a voice pant over me. A scream fired by our Josephine. Suddenly the portiers were pulled off me. The juice puffed Kennedy. It's Jameson. Bennett had rushed plump him to me, coming the other way, hidden by the portiers. If we had known at the time, our Michael at the sinister face had gained the library and were standing in the centre of the room. He had heard me coming and had fled to the drawing room. As we finished our struggle in the library, he rose hastily from behind the devan in the other room, where he had dropped and had quietly and hastily disappeared through another door. Laughing and breathing hard, they helped me to my feet. It was no joke to me. I was sore in every bone. Well, where did he go? insisted Bennett. I don't know. Perhaps back there, I cried. Bennett and I argued a moment, then started and stopped short. Aunt Josephine had run downstairs and now was shoving the letter into Craig's hands. We gathered about him curiously. He opened it. On it was that awesome, clutching hand again. Kennedy read it. For a moment he stood and studied it, then slowly crushed it in his hand. Just then Elaine, pale and shaken from the ordeal she had voluntarily gone through, burst in upon us from upstairs. Without a word she advanced to Craig and took the letter from him. Inside, as on the envelope, was that same signature of the clutching hand. Elaine Gaze did it while guide, then at Craig. Craig smilingly reached for the note, took it, folded it and unconcernedly thrust it into his pocket. My God, she cried, grasping her hands compulsively and repeating the words of the letter. You were last warning. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 At the Exploits of Elaine This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Exploits of Elaine by Arthur B. Rhee Chapter 3 The Vanishing Jewels Banging away at my typewriter the next day in Kennedy's laboratory, I was startled by the sudden insistent ringing at the telephone near me. Hello, I answered. For Craig was at work at his table, trying still to extract some clue from the slender evidence thus far elicited in the dodge mystery. Oh, Mr. Kennedy, I heard an excited voice over the wire reply. My friend Susie Martin is here. Her father has just received a message from that clutching hand, and just a moment, Miss Dodge, I interrupted. This is Mr. Jameson. Oh, came back the voice, breathless and disappointed. Let me have Mr. Kennedy quick. I had already passed the telephone to Craig, and was watching him keenly as he listened over it. The anticipation of a message from Elaine did not fade, yet his face grew grave as he listened. He motioned to me for a pad and pencil that lay near me. Please read the letter again slower, Miss Dodge. He asked, adding, There isn't time for me to see it just yet, but I want it exactly. You say it is made up of separate words and type cut from newspapers and pasted on note paper. I handed him paper and pencil.  As he wrote, he indicated to me by his eyes that he wanted me to read. I did so. Stir to thunk, Martin Dula, 739 and a half Fifth Avenue, New York City. Sir, as you have failed to deliver the $10,000, I shall rob your main diamond case at exactly noon today. Thank you, Miss Dodge, continued Kennedy, laying down the pencil. Yes, I understand perfectly, signed by that same clutching hand. Let me see. He pondered, looking at his watch. It is now just about half past eleven. Very well, I shall meet you and Miss Martin at Mr Martin's store directly. It lacked five minutes of noon when Kennedy and I dashed up before Martin's and dismissed our taxi cab. A remarkable scene greeted us as we entered the famous jewellery shop. Involuntarily, I drew back. Squealy in front of us, a man had suddenly raised a revolver and leveled it at us. Don't cry a familiar voice. That is Mr Kennedy. Just then, from a little knot of people, Elaine Dodge sprung forward with the cry and seized the gun. Kennedy turned to her, apparently not half so much concerned about the automatic that yawned at him as about the anxiety of the pretty girl who had intervened. The two-eager, plainclothes man lowered the gun sheepishly. Sturterbunt Martin was a typical society businessman, quite but richly dressed. He was inclined to be pompous and affected a pair of rather distinguished looking side whiskers. In the excitement, I glanced about hurriedly. There were two or three policemen in the shop and several plainclothes men, some armed with formidable looking sword of shotguns. Directly in front of me was a sign, tacked up on a pillar, which read, This door will be closed at noon today. Martin and Co. All the customers were gone. In fact, the clerks had had some trouble in clearing the shop, as many of them expressed not only surprise, but exasperation at the proceeding. Nevertheless, the clerks had politely but insistently ushered them out. Martin himself was evidently very nervous and very much alarmed. Indeed, no one could blame him for that. Merely to have been singled out by this amazing master criminal was enough to cause panic. Already he had engaged detectives, prepared for whatever might happen, and they had advised him to leave the diamonds in the counter, clear the store, and let the crooks try anything, if they did. I fancied that he was somewhat exasperated at his daughter's presence too, but could see that her explanation of Elanes and Perry Bennett's interest in the clutching hand had considerably mollified him. He had been talking with Bennett as we came in, and evidently had a high respect for the young lawyer. Just back of us and around the corner as we came in, we had noticed a limousine which had driven up. Three faultlessly attired dandies had entered a doorway down the street, as we learned afterwards, apparently going to a fashionable tailors, which occupied the second floor at the old-fashioned building. The first floor having been renovated and made ready for renting. Had we been there a moment sooner, we might have seen, I suppose, that one of them nodded to a taxi driver who was standing at a public hack stand a few feet up the block. The driver nodded unauthenticially back to the men. In spite of the excitement, Kennedy quietly examined the showcase, which was, indeed, a veritable treasure store of brilliance. Then, with a keen scrutinising glance, he looked over the police and detectives gathered around. There was nothing to do now but wait, as the detectives had advised.  It now lacked scarcely a minute of twelve. Slowly the hands of the clock came nearer together at noon. We all gathered about the showcase with its glittering horde of wealth, forming a circle at a respectful distance. Martin pointed nervously at the clock. In deep, lung tones, the clock played the chords written, I believe, by handle. Then it began striking. As it did so, Martin involuntarily counted off the strokes. While one of the plainclothes men waved his shotgun in unison. Martin finished counting. Nothing had happened. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Well, it is still there, exclaimed Martin, pointing at the showcase with the fourth slap. Suddenly came a rending and crushing sound. It seemed as if the very floor on which we stood was giving away. The showcase, with all its priceless contents, went smashing down into the cellar below. The flooring beneath the case had been cut through. All crowded forward, gazing at the black yawning cabin. A moment we hesitated, then gingerly creamed our necks over the edge. Down below three men, covered with linen dusters and their faces hidden by masks, had knocked the props away from the ceiling of the cellar, which they had soared almost through at their leisure. And the showcase had landed eight or ten feet below, shivered into a thousand bits. A volley of shots whizzed past us, and another. While one crook was hastily stuffing the untold wealth of jewels into a burlap bag, the others had drawn revolvers and were firing up through the hole in the floor. Desperately, Martin, his detectives and the rest of us, fell back from the edge of the chasm hastily, to keep out of range at the hail of bullets. Look out cried someone behind us, before we could recover from our surprise and return the fire. One of the Desperados had taken a bomb from under his duster, lighted it, and thrown it up through the hole in the floor. It sailed up over our heads and landed near our little group on the floor, the few sputtering ominously. Quickly we divided and backed away even further. I heard an exclamation of fear from Alayne. Kennedy had pushed his way past us and picked up the deadly infernal machine in his bare hands. I watched him, flaccid, as near as he did, he approached the hole in the floor, still holding the thing off at arm's length. Would he never throw it? He was coolly holding it, allowing the fuse to burn down closer to the explosion point. It was now within less than an insured death. Suddenly he raised it and hurled the deadly thing down through the hole. We could hear the implications of the crooks as it struck the cellar floor near them. They had evidently been still cramming jury into the capacious moor of the bag. One of them, discovering the bomb, must have advanced toward it, then retreated when he saw how imminent was the explosion. Leave the store quick, rung out Kennedy's voice. We backed away as fast as those behind us would permit. Kennedy and Bennett were the last to leave, in fact, paused at the door. Down below the crooks were beating a hasty retreat through a secret entrance which they had affected. The bag, the bag, we could hear one of them below. The bomb, run, cried another voice gruffly. A second later came an ominous silence. The last of the three must have fled. The explosion that followed lifted us fairly off our feet. A great puff of smoke came bulging up through the hole, followed by the crashing of hundreds of dollars worth of glassware in the jewelry shop. As fragments of stone, brick and mortar, and huge splinters of wood were flung with tremendous force in every direction from the miniature volcano. As the smoke from the explosion cleared away, Kennedy could be seen, the first to run forward. Meanwhile Martin's detectives had rushed down a plight of back stairs that led into a coal cellar. With coal shovels and bars, anything they could lay hands on, they attacked the door that opened forward from the coal cellar into the front basement where the robbers had been. A moment Kennedy and Bennett paused on the brink of the abyss, which the bomb had made, waiting for the smoke to decrease. Then they began to climb down cautiously over the piled-up wreckage. The explosion had set the basement afire, but the fire had not gone much headway by the time they reached the basement. Quickly Kennedy ran to the door in the coal cellar and opened it. From the other side, Martin, followed by the police and the detectives, burst in. Fire cried one of the policemen, leaping back to turn in and alarm from the special apparatus upstairs. All except Martin began beating out the flames, using such weapons as they already held in their hands to batter down the door. To Martin there was one thing paramount, the jewels. In the midst of the confusion, a lane closely followed by a friend Susie made her way fearlessly into the strife full of smoke down the stairs. There are your jewels, Mr. Martin, cried Kennedy, kicking the precious fur-like bag with his foot, as if it had been so much ordinary merchandise, and turning toward what was in his mind the most important thing at stake, the direction taken by the agents of the clutching hand. Thank heaven, ejaculated Martin, fairly pouncing on the bag and tearing it open. They didn't get away with them after all, he exclaimed, examining the contents with satisfaction. See, you must have frightened them off at just the right moment, when you sent the bomb back at them. Elaine and Susie pressed forward eagerly, as he pulled forth the sparkling stream of gems intact. Wasn't he just simply wonderful, I heard Susie whispered to Elaine. Elaine did not answer. She had eyes or ears for nothing now, in the melee but Kennedy. Events were moving rapidly. The limousine had been standing innocently enough at the curb near the corner, with the taxi cab close behind it. Less than ten minutes after they had entered, three well-dressed men came out of the vacant shop, apparently from the tailors above, and climbed leisurely into their car. As the last one entered, he half turned to the taxi cab driver, hiding from passers-by the sign of the clutching hand, which the taxi cab driver returned, in the same manner. Then the big car wheeled up the avenue. All this we learned later from a street sweeper who was at work nearby. Down below, while the police and detectives were putting out the fire, Kennedy was examining the wall of the cellar, looking for the spot where the crooks had escaped. A secret door, he exclaimed, as he paused after tapping along the wall to determine its character. You can see how the force of the explosion has loosened it. Sure enough, when he pointed it out to us, it was plainly visible. One of the detectives picked up a crowbar, and others, still with the hostily selected implements they had seized to fight the fire, started in to pry it open. As it yielded, Kennedy pushed his way through. Elaine, always utterly fearless, followed. Then the rest of us went through. There seemed to be nothing, however, that would help us in the cellar next door, and Kennedy mounted the steps of the stairway in the rear. The stairway led to a sort of storeroom, full of barrels and boxes, but otherwise characterless. When I arrived, Kennedy was gingerly holding up the dusters which the crooks had worn. We're on the right trail, commented Elaine, as he showed them to us, but where do you suppose the owners are? Craig shrugged his shoulders and gave a quick look about. Evidently they came in from and went away by the street, he observed, hurrying to the door followed by Elaine. On the sidewalk he gazed up the avenue, then catching sight of the street cleaner, called to him. Yes, sir, replied the man, stolidly looking up from his work. I see three gentlemen come out and get in to an automobile. Which way did they go? asked Kennedy. For answer, the man jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction, uptown. Did you notice the number of the car? asked Craig eagerly. The man shrugged his shoulders blankly. With keen glance, Kennedy strained his eyes, far up the avenue. He could describe the car threading its way in and out among the others, just about disappearing. A moment later Craig caught sight of the vacant taxi cab and crooked his finger at the driver, who answered promptly by cranking his engine. You saw that limousine standing there? asked Craig. Yes, nodded the chauffeur with a show of alertness. Well, follow it, ordered Kennedy, jumping into the cab. Yes, sir. Craig was just about to close the door when a slight figure flashed past us, and a dainty foot was placed on the step. Please, Mr. Kennedy, pleaded Elaine, let me go. They may lead to my father's slayer. She said it so earnestly that Craig could scarcely have resisted if he had wanted to do so. Just as Elaine and Kennedy were moving off, I came out of the vacant store with Bennett and the detectives. Craig, I call, where are you going? Kennedy stuck his head out of the window, and I'm quite sure that he was not altogether displeased that I was not with him. Chasing that limousine, he shouted back, follow us in another car. A moment later, he and Elaine were gone. Bennett and I looked about. There are a couple of cabs down there. I pointed at the other end of the block. I'll take one, you take the other. Followed by a couple of detectives. I jumped into the first one I came to, excitedly telling the driver to follow Kennedy's taxi, directing him with my head out of the window. Mr. Jameson, please, can I go with you? I turned. It was Suzy Martin. One of you fellows go in the other car. I asked the detectives. Before the man could move, Mr. Martin himself appeared. No, Susan, I won't allow it, he ordered. But Elaine went. She pouted. Well, Elaine is, ah, I won't have it, still Martin. There was no time to waste.  Who, besides Bennett, went in the other car, I don't know. But it made no difference. For we soon lost them. Our driver, however, was a really clever fellow. Far ahead now, we could see the limousine drive around the corner, making a dangerous swerve. Kennedy's cab followed, skidding dangerously near a pole. But the taxi cab was no match for the powerful limousine. On uptown they went, the only thing preventing the limousine from escaping, being the fear of pursuit by traffic police, if the driver let out speed. They were content to manage to keep just far enough ahead to be out of danger of having Kennedy overhaul them. As for us, we followed as best we could, on uptown, past the city line, and out into the country. There Kennedy lost sight altogether of the car he was trailing. Worse than that, we lost sight of Kennedy. Still, we kept on blindly, trusting to luck and common sense in picking the road. I was peering ahead over the driver's shoulder, the window down, trying to direct him, when we approached a fork in the road. Here was the dilemma, which must be decided at once rightly or wrongly. As we neared the crossroad, I gave an involuntary exclamation. Beside the road, almost on it, lay the figure of a man.  There lay Kennedy, someone had blackjacked him. He was groaning and just beginning to show signs of consciousness as I bent over. What's the matter, old man? I asked, helping him to his feet. He looked about dazed a moment. Then, seeing me and comprehending, he pointed excitedly but vaguely. Elaine, he cried, there kidnapped Elaine. What had really happened, as we learned later from Elaine and others, was that when the crossroads was reached, the three crooks in the limousine had stopped long enough to speak to and accomplish station there, according to their plan for a getaway. He was a tough-looking individual who might have been hobbling it to the city. When a few minutes later Kennedy and Elaine had approached the fork, their driver had slowed up as if in doubt which way to go.  There stood the hobo. Did a car pass here, just now, a big car called Craig? The man put his hand to his ear as if only half-comprehending. Which way did the big car go, repeated Kennedy? The hobo approached the taxi cab sullenly, as if he had a grudge against cars in general. One question after another elicited little that could be construed as intelligence. If Craig had only been able to see, he would have found out that, with his back toward the taxi cab driver, the hobo held one hand behind him and made the sign of the clutching hand. Glancing surreptitiously at the driver to catch the answering sign, while Craig gazed earnestly up the two roads.  Well, go ahead that way, he indicated, picking the most likely road. As the chauffeur was about to start, he stalled his engine. Hurry, urge Craig, exasperated at the delays. The driver got out and tried to crank the engine. Again and again he turned it over, but somehow it refused to start. Then he lifted the hood and began to tinker. What's the matter? Ask Craig, impatiently jumping out and bending over the engine too. The driver shrugged his shoulders. Must be something wrong with the ignition, I guess, he replied. Kennedy looked the car over hastily. I can't see anything wrong, he frowned. Well, there is crowd the driver. Precious minutes were speeding away as they argued. Finally, with his characteristic energy, Kennedy put the taxi cab driver aside. Let me try it, he said. Miss Dodge, will you arrange that spark and throttle? A lone equal to anything did so, and Craig bent down and cranked the engine. It started on the first spin. See, he exclaimed, there wasn't anything after all. He took a step toward the taxi cab. See, objected the driver nastily, interposing himself between Craig and the wheel, which he seemed disposed to take now. Who's running this boat anyhow? Surprised, Kennedy tried to shoulder the fellow out of the way. The driver resisted sullenly. Mr. Kennedy, look out, cried Elam. Craig turned, but it was too late. The rough-looking fellow had wakened to light. Suddenly, he stepped up behind Kennedy with a blackjack. As the heavy weight descended, Craig crumbled up on the ground unconscious. With the screen, Elam turned and started to run, but the chauffeur seized her arm. Say, Bo, he asked of the rough fellow, what does clutching hand want with her? Quick, there's another cab likely to be along in a moment with that fellow Jameson in it. The rough fellow, with an oath, seized her and dragged her in to the taxi cab.  And away they sped, leaving Kennedy unconscious on the side of the road where we found him. What are we to do? I asked helplessly, at Kennedy, when we had at last got him on his feet. His head still ringing from the force of the blow of the blackjack. Craig stooped down, then knelt in the dust of the road, then ran ahead a bit where it was somewhat muddy. Which way, which way, he muttered to insult. I thought perhaps the blow had affected him and leaned over to see what he was doing. Instead he was studying the marks made by the tyre of the clutching hand cab. Very decidedly there in the road the little anti-skid marks on the tread of the tyre showed some worn, some cut, but with each revolution the same marks reappearing unmistakably. More than that, it was an unusual make of tyre. Craig was actually studying the fingerprints, so to speak, of an automobile. More slowly now and carefully we proceeded for a mistake meant losing the trail of a lane. Kennedy absolutely refused to get inside our cab, but clung tightly to a metal rod outside while he stood on the running board, now straining his eyes along the road to catch any faint glimpse of either taxi or limousine, or the dust from them, now gazing intently at the ground following the fingerprints of the taxi cab that was carrying off a lane. All pain was forgotten by him now in the intensity of his anxiety for her. We came to another crossroads and the driver glanced at Craig. Stop, he ordered. In another instant he was down in the dirt examining the road for marks. That way he indicated, leaping back to the running board. We piled back into the car and proceeded under Kennedy's direction as fast as he would permit, so it continued perhaps for a couple of hours. At last Kennedy stopped the cab and slowly directed the driver to veer into an open space that looked peculiarly lonesome. Near it stood a one-story brick factory building, closed but not abandoned. As I looked about at the unattractive scene, Kennedy already was down on his knees in the dirt again, studying the tyre tracks. They were all confused, showing that the taxi cab we were following had evidently backed in and turned several times before going on. Crossed by another set of tyre tracks, he exclaimed excitedly, studying closer. That must have been the limousine waiting. Laborously he was following the course of the cars in the open space, when the one word escaped him, footprints. He was up and off in a moment, before we could imagine what he was after. We had got out of the cab and followed him as, down to the very shore of the sort of cove or bay he went. There lay a rusty discarded boiler on the beach, half submerged in the rising tide. At this tank the footprints seemed to go right down the sand and into the waves, which were slowly obliterating them. Kennedy gazed out as if to make out a possible boat on the horizon, where the cove widened out. Look! he cried. Farther down the shore a few feet, I had discovered the same prints, going in the opposite direction, back toward the place from which we had just come. I started to follow them, but soon found myself alone. Kennedy had paused beside the old boiler. What is it? I asked, retracing my steps. He did not answer, but seemed to be listening. We listened also. There certainly was the most peculiar noise inside that tank. Was it a muffled scream? Kennedy reached down and picked up a rock, hitting the tank a resounding blow. As the echo died down, he listened again. Yes, there was a sound, a scream perhaps, a woman's voice, faint but unmistakable. I looked at his face inquiringly, without a word I read in it the confirmation of the thought that had flashed into my mind. Elaine Dodge was inside. The first had come the limousine with its three bandits, to the spot fixed on as a rendezvous. Later had come the taxi cab. As it hove into sight, the three well-dressed crooks had drawn revolvers, thinking perhaps the plan for getting rid of Kennedy might possibly have miscarried. But the taxi cab driver and the rough-faced fella had rescued them with the sign of the clutching hand, and the revolvers were lowered. As they parlayed hastily, the rough-neck and the fake chauffeur lifted Elaine out of the taxi. She was bound and gagged. Well now we've got her. What shall we do with her? Ask one. It's got to be quick. There's another cab put in the driver. The juice with that. The juice with nothing, he returned. That fellow Kennedy's a clever one. He may come too, if he doesn't. He won't miss us, quick now. I wish I'd broken his skull, muttered the rough-neck. We'd better leave her somewhere here, remarked one of the better-dressed three. I don't think the chief wants us to kill her yet, he added, with an ominous glance at Elaine, who, in spite of threats, was not cowed, but was mainly struggling at her bonds. Well, where shall it be? asked the other. They looked about. See cried the third. See that old boiler down there at the edge of the water. Why not put her in there? No one will ever think to look in such a place. Down by the water's edge, where he pointed, lay a big boiler, such as is used on stationary engines, with its end lapped by the waves. With the hasty expression of approval, the rough-neck picked a lone-up bodily, still struggling vainly, and together they carried her, bound and gagged, to the tank. The opening, which was toward the water, was small, but they managed roughly to thrust her in. A moment later they had rolled up a huge boulder against the small entrance, bracing it so that it would be impossible for her to get out from the inside. Then they drove off hastily. Inside the old boiler lay Elaine, still bound and gagged. If she could only screen, someone might hear. She must get help. There was water in the tank. She managed to lean up inside it, standing as high as the walls would allow her, trying to keep her head above the water. Frantically she managed to loosen the gag. She screamed. Her voice seemed to be bound around by the iron walls, as was she herself. She shuddered. The water was rising, had reached her chest, and was still rising slowly, inexorably. What should she do? Would no one hear her? The water was up to her neck now. She held her head as high as she could, and screamed again. What was that? Silence. Or was someone outside? Cooley, in spite of the emergency, Kennedy took in the perilous situation. The lower end of the boiler, which was on a slant on the rapidly shelving beach, was now completely underwater, and impossible to get at. Besides, the opening was small, too small. We pulled away the stone, but that did no good. No one could hope to get in and then out again that way alive, much less with a helpless girl. Yet something must be done. The tank was practically submerged inside, as I estimated quickly. Blows had no effect on the huge iron trap, which had been built to resist many pounds of pressure. Kennedy gazed about frantically, and his eye caught the sign on the factory. Oxyacetylene Welding Company. Come, Walter, he cried, running up the shore. A moment later, breathless, we reached the doorway. It was, of course, locked. Kennedy would doubt his revolver, and several well-directed shots through the keyhole smashed the lock. We put our shoulders to it, and swung the door open, entering the factory. There was not a soul about, not even a watchman. Hasterly, we took in the place, a forge and a number of odds and ends of metal sheets, rods, pipes, and angles. Beside a workbench stood two long cylinders, started with bolts. That's what I'm looking for, exclaimed Craig. Here, Walter, take one. I'll take the other, and the tubes. He did not pause to finish, but seized up a peculiar-shaped instrument like a huge hook, with a curved neck and sharp beak. Really, it was composed of two metal tubes, which ran into a cylinder or mixing chamber above the nozzle, while parallel to them ran another tube with a nozzle of its own. We ran, but there was no time to lose, as nearly as I could estimate it, the water must now be slowly closing over Elane. What is it? I asked as he joined up the tubes from the tanks to the peculiar hook-like apparatus he carried. An oxysettlene blowpipe, he muttered back feverishly working. Used for welding and cutting too, he added. With the light, he touched the nozzle, instantly a hissing. Blinding flame needle made the steel under it insidescent. The terrific heat from one nozzle made the steel glow. The stream of oxygen from the second completely consumed the hot metal, and the force of the blast carried a fine spray of disintegrated metal before it. It was a brilliant sight, but it was more than that. Through the very steel itself, the flame, thousands of degrees hot, seemed to eat its way in a fine line, as if it were a sharp knife cutting through ordinary cardboard. With tense muscles, Kennedy skillfully guided the terrible instrument that ate cold steel, wielding the torch as deftly as if it had been, as indeed it was, a magic wand of modern science. He was actually cutting out a huge hole in the still exposed surface of the tank, all around, except for a few inches, to prevent the heavy piece from falling inward. As Kennedy carefully bent outward, the section of the tank which he had cut, he quickly reached down and lifted Elon, unconscious, out of the water. Gently he laid her on the sand. It was the work of only a moment to cut the cords that bound her hands. There she lay, pale and still, whilst she did. Kennedy worked frantically to revive her. At last, slowly, the color seemed to return to her pale lips. Her eyelids fluttered, then her great deep eyes opened. As she looked up and caught sight of Craig, bending anxiously over her, she seemed to comprehend. For a moment, both were silent. Then Elon reached up and took his hand. There was much in the look she gave him, admiration, confidence, love itself. Heroics, however, were never part of Kennedy's frank makeup. The fact was that her admiration, even though not spoken, plainly embarrassed him. Yet he forgot that as he looked at her, lying there, frail and helpless. He stroked her forehead gently, laying back the wet ringlets of her hair.  Her tone was eloquent. Elon, he whispered, still gazing into her wonderful eyes. The clutching hand shall pay for this. It is a fight to the finish between us.