Why, I shot him."
"Yes," put in Aunt Josephine, "but--"
Elaine laughingly interrupted her and playfully made as though she
were driving them out of her room, although they were all very
much concerned over the affair. However, they went finally, and
she locked the door.
"Rusty!" she called, "Down there!"
The intelligent collie seemed to understand. He lay down by the
doorway, his nose close to the bottom of the door and his ears
alert.
Finally Elaine, too, retired again.
. . . . . . . .
Meanwhile the wounded man was being hurried to one of the hangouts
of the mysterious Clutching Hand, an old-fashioned house in the
Westchester suburbs. It was a carefully hidden place, back from
the main road, surrounded by trees, with a driveway leading up to
it.
The car containing the wounded Pitts Slim drew up and the other
two men leaped out of it. With a hurried glance about, they
unlocked the front door with a pass-key and entered, carrying the
man.
Indoors was another emissary of the Clutching Hand, a rather
studious looking chap.
"Why, what's the matter?" he exclaimed, as the crooks entered his
room, supporting their half-fainting, wounded pal.
"Slim got a couple of pills," they panted, as they laid him on a
couch.
"How?" demanded the other.
"Trying to get into the Dodge house.
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