Elaine was doing her best now to quiet the fears of her aunt and the rest of the household.
"Well," she laughed, a little nervously, now that it was all over, "I want you all to go to bed and stop worrying about me. Don't you see, I'm perfectly able to take care of myself? Besides, there isn't a chance, now, of the burglar coming back. 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.