We knocked.
"Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson," we could hear Marie whisper in a
subdued voice.
"Tell them to come in," answered Elaine eagerly.
We entered. There she lay, beautiful as ever, but with a whiteness
of her fresh cheek that was too etherially unnatural. Elaine was
quite ill indeed.
"Oh--I'm so glad to see you," she breathed, with an air of relief
as Kennedy advanced.
"Why--what is the matter?" asked Craig, anxiously.
Dr. Hayward shook his head dubiously, but Kennedy did not notice
him, for, as he approached Elaine, she drew from the covers where
she had concealed it a letter and handed it to him.
Craig took it and read:
"YOU ARE SICK THIS MORNING. TOMORROW YOU WILL BE WORSE. THE NEXT
DAY YOU WILL DIE UNLESS YOU DISCHARGE CRAIG KENNEDY."
At the signature of the Clutching Hand he frowned, then, noticing
Dr. Hayward, turned to him and repeated his question, "What is the
matter?"
Dr. Hayward continued shaking his head. "I cannot diagnose her
symptoms," he shrugged.
As I watched Kennedy's face, I saw his nostrils dilating, almost
as if he were a hound and had scented his quarry. I sniffed, too.
There seemed to be a faint odor, almost as if of garlic, in the
room. It was unmistakable and Craig looked about him curiously but
said nothing.
As he sniffed, he moved impatiently and his foot touched Rusty,
under the bed.
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