little fool,—yell,” she whispered.
Obedient to his “mother’s” commands, and much to Milton’s disgust, the boy started to cry in close imitation of his elder.
Elaine was still holding the paper in her hands when they entered.
“What does all this mean?” she demanded.
“Weepy Mary,” between sobs, managed to blurt out, “You are Miss Elaine Dodge, aren’t you? Well, it means that your father married me when I was only seventeen and this boy is his son—your half brother.”
“No—never,” cried Elaine vehemently, unable to restrain her disgust. “He never married again. He was too devoted to the memory of my mother.”
“Weepy Mary” smiled cynically. “Come with me and I will show you the church records and the minister who married us.”
“You will?” repeated Elaine defiantly. “Well, I’ll just do as you ask. Mr. Bennett shall go with me.”
“No, no, Miss Dodge—don’t go. Leave the matter to me,” urged Bennett. “I will take care of her. Besides, I must be in court in twenty minutes.”
Elaine paused, but she was thoroughly aroused.
“Then I will go with her myself,” she cried defiantly.
In spite of every objection that Bennett made, “Weepy Mary,” her son, and Elaine went out to call a taxicab to take them to the railroad station where they could catch a train to the little town where the woman asserted she had been married.
Meanwhile, before a little country church in the town, a closed automobile had drawn up.
As the door opened, a figure, humped up and masked, alighted.
It was the Clutching Hand.
The car had scarcely pulled away, when he gave a long rap, followed by two short taps, at the door of the vestry, a secret code, evidently.
Inside the vestry room a well-dressed man but with a very sinister face heard the knock and a second later opened the door.
“What—not ready yet?” growled the Clutching Hand. “Quick—now— get on those clothes. I heard the train whistle as I came in the car. In which closet does the minister keep them?”
The crook, without a word, went to a closet and took out a suit of clothes of ministerial cut. Then he hastily put them on, adding some side-whiskers, which he had brought with him.
At about the same time, Elaine, acompanied by “Weepy Mary” and her “son,” had arrived at the little tumble-down station and had taken the only vehicle in sight, a very ancient carriage.
It ambled along until, at last, it pulled up before the vestry room door of the church, just as the bogus minister was finishing his transformation from a frank crook. Clutching Hand was giving him final instructions.
Elaine and the others alighted and approached the church, while the ancient vehicle rattled away.
“They’re coming,” whispered the crook, peering cautiously out of the window.
Clutching Hand moved silently and snake-like into the closet and shut the door.
“How do you do, Dr. Carton?” greeted “Weepy Mary.” “I guess you don’t remember me.”
The clerical gentleman looked at her fixedly a moment.
“Remember you?” he repeated. “Of course, my dear. I remember everyone I marry.”
“And you remember to whom you married me?”
“Perfectly. To an older man—a Taylor Dodge.”
Elaine was overcome.
“Won’t you step in?” he asked suavely. “Your friend here doesn’t seem well.”
They all entered.
“And you—you say—you married this—this woman to Taylor Dodge?” queried Elaine, tensely.
The bogus minister seemed to be very fatherly. “Yes,” he assented, “I certainly did so.”
“Have you the record?” asked Elaine, fighting to the last.
“Why, yes. I can show you the record.”
He moved over to the closet. “Come over here,” he asked.
He opened the door. Elaine screamed and drew back. There stood her arch enemy, the Clutching Hand himself.
As he stepped forth, she turned, wildly, to run—anywhere. But strong arms seized her and forced her into a chair.
She looked at the woman and the minister. It was a plot!
A moment Clutching Hand looked Elaine over. “Put the others out,” he ordered the other crook.
Quickly the man obeyed, leading “Weepy Mary” and her “son” to the door, and waving them away as he locked it. They left, quite as much in the dark about the master criminal’s identity as Elaine.
“Now, my pretty dear,” began the Clutching Hand as the lock turned in the vestry door, “we shall be joined shortly by your friend, Craig Kennedy, and,” he added with a leer, “I think your rather insistent search for a certain person will cease.”
Elaine drew back in the chair, horrified, at the implied threat.
Clutching Hand laughed, diabolically.
While these astounding events were transpiring in the little church, Kennedy and I had been tearing across the country in his big car, following the directions of our fair friend.
We stopped at last before a prosperous, attractive-looking house and entered a very prettily furnished but small parlor. Heavy portieres hung over the doorway into the hall, over another into a back room and over the bay windows.
“Won’t you sit down a moment?” coaxed Gertie. “I’m quite blown to pieces after that ride. My, how you drive!”
As she pulled aside the hall portieres, three men with guns thrust their hands out. I turned. Two others had stepped from the back room and two more from the bay window. We were surrounded. Seven guns were aimed at us with deadly precision.
“No—no—Walter—it’s no use,” shouted Kennedy calmly restraining my hand which I had clapped on my own gun.
At the same time, with his other hand, he took from his pocket the small can which I had seen him place there, and held it aloft.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly. “I suspected some such thing. I have here a small box of fulminate of mercury. If I drop it, this building and the entire vicinity will be blown to atoms. Go ahead—shoot!” he added, nonchalantly.
The seven of them drew back, rather hurriedly.
Kennedy was a dangerous prisoner.
He calmly sat down in an arm chair, leaning back as he carefully balanced the deadly little box of fulminate of mercury on his knee. He placed his finger tips together and smiled at the seven crooks, who had gathered together, staring breathlessly at this man who toyed with death.
Gertie ran from the room.
For a moment they looked at each other, undecided, then one by one, they stepped away from Kennedy toward the door.
The leader was the last to go. He had scarcely taken a step.
“Stop!” ordered Kennedy.
The crook did so. As Craig moved toward him, he waited, cold sweat breaking out on his face.
“Say,” he whined, “you let me be!”
It was ineffectual. Kennedy, still smiling confidently, came closer, still holding the deadly little box, balanced between two fingers.
He took the crook’s