"She and Kennedy are on the outs even yet. But they
may become reconciled. Then she'll have that fellow on our trail
again. Before that happens, we must 'get' her--see?"
It was in the latest headquarters to which Craig had chased the
criminal, in one of the toughest parts of the old Greenwich
village, on the west side of New York, not far from the river
front.
They were all seated in a fairly large but dingy old room, in
which were several chairs, a rickety table and, against the wall,
a roll-top desk on the top of which was a telephone.
Several crooks of the gang were sitting about, smoking.
"Now," went on Clutching Hand, "I want you, Spike, to follow them.
See what they do--where they go. It's her birthday. Something's
bound to occur that will give you a lead. All you've got to do is
to use your head. Get me?"
Spike rose, nodded, picked up his hat and coat and squirmed out on
his mission, like the snake that he was.
. . . . . . . .
It was, as Clutching Hand had said, Elaine's birthday. She had
received many callers and congratulations, innumerable costly and
beautiful tokens of remembrance from her countless friends and
admirers. In the conservatory of the Dodge house Elaine, Aunt
Josephine, and Susie Martin were sitting discussing not only the
happy occasion, but, more, the many strange events of the past few
weeks.
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