Indoors was another emissary of the Clutching Hand, a rather studious looking chap.
"Why, what's the matter?" he exclaimed, as the crooks entered his room, supporting their half-fainting, wounded pal.
"Slim got a couple of pills," they panted, as they laid him on a couch.
"How?" demanded the other.
"Trying to get into the Dodge house. Elaine did it."
Slim was, quite evidently, badly wounded and was bleeding profusely. A glance at him was enough for the studious-looking chap. He went to a secret panel and, pressing it down, took out what was apparently a house telephone.
In another part of this mysterious house was the secret room of the Clutching Hand himself where he hid his identity from even his most trusted followers. It was a small room, lined with books on every conceivable branch of science that might aid him and containing innumerable little odds and ends of paraphernalia that might help in his nefarious criminal career.
His telephone rang and he took down the receiver.
"Pitts Slim's been wounded—badly—Chief," was all he waited to hear.
With scarcely a word, he hung up the receiver, then opened a table drawer and took out his masking handkerchief. Next he went to a nearby bookcase, pressed another secret spring, and a panel opened. He passed through, the handkerchief adjusted.