Morton turned to the desperate criminal. "I cannot do it."
"The deuce you can't!" A cold steel revolver pressed down on Dr.
Morton's stomach. In the other hand the master crook held his
watch.
"You have just one minute to make up your mind."
Dr. Morton shrank back. The revolver followed. The pressure of a
fly's foot meant eternity for him.
"I--I'll try!"
The other crooks next carried Elaine, struggling, and threw her
down beside the wounded man. Together they arranged another couch
beside him.
Dr. Morton, still covered by the gun, bent over the two, the
hardened criminal and the delicate, beautiful girl. Clutching Hand
glared fiendishly, insanely.
From his bag he took a little piece of something that shone like
silver. It was in the form of a minute, hollow cylinder, with two
grooves on it, a cylinder so tiny that it would scarcely have
slipped over the point of a pencil.
"A cannulla," he explained, as he prepared to make an incision in
Elaine's arm and in the arm of the wounded rogue.
He cuffed it over the severed end of the artery, so cleverly that
the inner linings of the vein and artery, the endothelium as it is
called, were in complete contact with each other.
Clutching Hand watched eagerly, as though he had found some new,
scientific engine of death in the little hollow cylinder.
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