With a shout of encouragement to the men I dashed out and over to the old house.
Meanwhile Clutching Hand himself had approached the table to recover his weapon and had noticed the queer little selenium cell. He picked it up and for the first time saw the wire leading out.
"The deuce!" he cried. "He's planned to get me anyhow!"
Clutching Hand rushed to the door—then stopped short. Outside he could hear the police and myself. We had shot the lock on the outside and were already inside.
Clutching Hand slammed shut his door and pulled down over it a heavy wooden bar. A few steps took him to the window. There were police in the back yard, too. He was surrounded.
But he did not hurry. He knew what to do with every second.
At the desk he paused and took out a piece of cardboard. Then with a heavy black marking pencil, he calmly printed on it, while we battered at the barricaded door, a few short feet away.
He laid the sign on the desk, then on another piece of cardboard, drew crudely a hand with the index finger, pointing. This he placed on a chair, indicating the desk.
Just as the swaying and bulging door gave way, Clutching Hand gave the desk a pull. It opened up—his getaway.
He closed it with a sardonic smile in our direction, just before the door crashed in.