"Oh—I'm so glad to see you," she breathed, with an air of relief as
Kennedy advanced.
"Why—what is the matter?" asked Craig, anxiously.
Dr. Hayward shook his head dubiously, but Kennedy did not notice him, for, as he approached Elaine, she drew from the covers where she had concealed it a letter and handed it to him.
Craig took it and read:
"YOU ARE SICK THIS MORNING. TOMORROW YOU WILL BE WORSE. THE NEXT DAY YOU WILL DIE UNLESS YOU DISCHARGE CRAIG KENNEDY."
At the signature of the Clutching Hand he frowned, then, noticing Dr.
Hayward, turned to him and repeated his question, "What is the matter?"
Dr. Hayward continued shaking his head. "I cannot diagnose her symptoms," he shrugged.
As I watched Kennedy's face, I saw his nostrils dilating, almost as if he were a hound and had scented his quarry. I sniffed, too. There seemed to be a faint odor, almost as if of garlic, in the room. It was unmistakable and Craig looked about him curiously but said nothing.
As he sniffed, he moved impatiently and his foot touched Rusty, under the bed. Rusty whined and moved back lazily. Craig bent over and looked at him.
"What's the matter with Rusty?" he asked. "Is he sick, too?"