He had slipped out through a doorway leading to a flight of steps from the roof to the hallway of the tenement. His fatal dart sent on its unerring mission with a precision born of long years in the South American jungle, he concealed the deadly blow-gun in his breast pocket, with a cruel smile, and, like one of his native venomous serpents, wormed his way down the stairs again.
. . . . . . . .
My outcry brought a veritable battalion of aid. The hotel proprietor, the negro waiter, and several others dashed upstairs, followed shortly by a portly policeman, puffing at the exertion.
"What's the matter, here?" he panted. "Ye're all under arrest!"
Kennedy quietly pulled out his card case and taking the policeman aside showed it to him.
"We had an appointment to meet this man—in that Clutching Hand case, you know. He is Miss Dodge's footman," Craig explained.
Then he took the policeman into his confidence, showing him the dart and explaining about the poison. The officer stared blankly.
"I must get away, too," hurried on Craig. "Officer, I will leave you to take charge here. You can depend on me for the inquest."
The officer nodded.
"Come on, Walter," whispered Craig, eager to get away, then adding the one word, "Elaine!"