For a moment the Clutching Hand stopped to consider. Then he
seized the regular telephone.
"Dr. Morton?" he asked as he got the number he called.
Late as it was the doctor, who was a well-known surgeon in that
part of the country, answered, apparently from an extension of his
telephone near his bed.
The call was urgent and apparently from a family which he did not
feel that he could neglect.
"Yes, I'll be there--in a few moments," he yawned, hanging up the
receiver and getting out of bed.
Dr. Morton was a middle-aged man, one of those medical men in
whose judgment one instinctively relies. From the brief
description of the "hemorrhage" which the Clutching Hand had
cleverly made over the wire, he knew that a life was at stake.
Quickly he dressed and went out to his garage, back of the house
to get his little runabout.
It was only a matter of minutes before the doctor was speeding
over the now deserted suburban roads, apparently on his errand of
mercy.
At the address that had been given him, he drew up to the side of
the road, got out and ran up the steps to the door. A ring at the
bell brought a sleepy man to the door, in his trousers and
nightshirt.
"How's the patient?" asked Dr. Morton, eagerly.
"Patient?" repeated the man, rubbing his eyes. "There's no one
sick here."
"Then what did you telephone for?" asked the doctor peevishly,
"Telephone? I didn't call up anyone, I was asleep.
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