She awakened with a start and put her hand to her head. She felt
ill.
"Poor old fellow," she murmured, half dazedly, for the moment
endowing her pet with her own feelings, as she patted his faithful
shaggy head.
Rusty moved away again, wagging his tail listlessly. The collie,
too, felt ill. Elaine watched him as he walked, dejected, across
the room and then lay down.
"Why, Miss Elaine--what ees ze mattair? You are so pale!"
exclaimed the maid, Marie, as she entered the room a moment later
with the morning's mail on a salver.
"I don't feel well, Marie," she replied, trying with her slender
white hand to brush the cobwebs from her brain. "I--I wish you'd
tell Aunt Josephine to telephone Dr. Hayward."
"Yes, mademoiselle," answered Marie, deftly and sympathetically
straightening out the pillows.
Languidly Elaine took the letters one by one off the salver. She
looked at them, but seemed not to have energy enough to open them.
Finally she selected one and slowly tore it open. It had no
superscription, but it at once arrested her attention and
transfixed her with terror.
It read:
"YOU ARE SICK THIS MORNING. TOMORROW YOU WILL BE WORSE. THE NEXT
DAY YOU WILL DIE UNLESS YOU DISCHARGE CRAIG KENNEDY."
It was signed by the mystic trademark of the fearsome Clutching
Hand!
Elaine drew back into the pillows, horror stricken.
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