THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE (& Its Sequel The Romance of Elaine). Arthur B. Reeve
dilating appetite for banknotes, I turned to follow the others. Jennings had opened the door immediately. Whether it was that he retained a grudge against me or whether he did not see me, he would have closed it before I could get up there. I called and took the steps two at a time.
Elaine’s Aunt Josephine was waiting for us in the drawing room, very much worried. The dear old lady was quite scandalized as Elaine excitedly told of the thrilling events that had just taken place.
“And to think they—actually—carried you!” she exclaimed, horrified, adding, “And I not—”
“But Mr. Kennedy came along and saved me just in time,” interrupted Elaine with a smile. “I was well chaperoned!”
Aunt Josephine turned to Craig gratefully. “How can I ever thank you enough, Mr. Kennedy,” she said fervently.
Kennedy was quite embarrassed. With a smile, Elaine perceived his discomfiture, not at all displeased by it.
“Come into the library,” she cried gaily, taking his arm. “I’ve something to show you.”
Where the old safe which had been burnt through had stood was now a brand new safe of the very latest construction and design—one of those that look and are so formidable.
“Here is the new safe,” she pointed out brightly. “It is not only proof against explosives, but between the plates is a lining that is proof against thermit and even that oxy-acetylene blowpipe by which you rescued me from the old boiler. It has a time lock, too, that will prevent its being opened at night, even if anyone should learn the combination.”
They stood before the safe a moment and Kennedy examined it closely with much interest.
“Wonderful!” he admired.
“I knew you’d approve of it,” cried Elaine, much pleased. “Now I have something else to show you.”
She paused at the desk and from a drawer took out a portfolio of large photographs. They were very handsome photographs of herself.
“Much more wonderful than the safe,” remarked Craig earnestly. Then, hesitating and a trifle embarrassed, he added, “May I—may I have one?”
“If you care for it,” she said, dropping her eyes, then glancing up at him quickly.
“Care for it?” he repeated. “It will be one of the greatest treasures.”
She slipped the picture quickly into an envelope. “Come,” she interrupted. “Aunt Josephine will be wondering where we are. She— she’s a demon chaperone.”
Bennett, Aunt Josephine and myself were talking earnestly as Elaine and Craig returned.
“Well,” said Bennett, glancing at his watch and rising as he turned to Elaine, “I’m afraid I must go, now.”
He crossed over to where she stood and shook hands. There was no doubt that Bennett was very much smitten by his fair client.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bennett,” she murmured, “and thank you so much for what you have done for me today.”
But there was something lifeless about the words. She turned quickly to Craig, who had remained standing.
“Must you go, too, Mr. Kennedy?” she asked, noticing his position.
“I’m afraid Mr. Jameson and I must be back on the job before this Clutching Hand gets busy again,” he replied reluctantly.
“Oh, I hope you—we get him soon!” she exclaimed, and there was nothing lifeless about the way she gave Craig her hand, as Bennett, he and I left a moment later.
That morning I had noticed Kennedy fussing some time at the door of our apartment before we went over to the laboratory. As nearly as I could make out he had placed something under the rug at the door out into the hallway.
When we approached our door, now, Craig paused. By pressing a little concealed button he caused a panel in the wall outside to loosen, disclosing a small, boxlike plate in the wall underneath.
It was about a foot long and perhaps four inches wide. Through it ran a piece of paper which unrolled from one coil and wound up on another, actuated by clockwork. Across the blank white paper ran an ink line traced by a stylographic pen, such as I had seen in mechanical pencils used in offices, hotels, banks and such places.
Kennedy examined the thing with interest.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A new seismograph,” he replied, still gazing carefully at the rolled up part of the paper. “I have installed it because it registers every footstep on the floor of our apartment. We can’t be too careful with this Clutching Hand. I want to know whether we have any visitors or not in our absence. This straight line indicates that we have not. Wait a moment.”
Craig hastily unlocked the door and entered. Inside, I could see him pacing up and down our modest quarters.
“Do you see anything, Walter?” he called.
I looked at the seismograph. The pen had started to trace its line, no longer even and straight, but zigzag, at different heights across the paper.
He came to the door. “What do you think of it?” he inquired.
“Splendid idea,” I answered enthusiastically.
Our apartment was, as I have said, modest, consisting of a large living room, two bedrooms, and bath—an attractive but not ornate place, which we found very cosy and comfortable. On one side of the room was a big fire place, before which stood a fire screen. We had collected easy chairs and capacious tables and desks. Books were scattered about, literally overflowing from the crowded shelves. On the walls were our favorite pictures, while for ornament, I suppose I might mention my typewriter and now and then some of Craig’s wonderful scientific apparatus as satisfying our limited desire for the purely aesthetic.
We entered and fell to work at the aforementioned typewriter, on a special Sunday story that I had been forced to neglect. I was not so busy, however, that I did not notice out of the corner of my eye that Kennedy had taken from its cover Elaine Dodge’s picture and was gazing at it ravenously.
I put my hand surreptitiously over my mouth and coughed. Kennedy wheeled on me and I hastily banged a sentence out on the machine, making at least half a dozen mistakes.
I had finished as much of the article as I could do then and was smoking and reading it over. Kennedy was still gazing at the picture Miss Dodge had given him, then moving from place to place about the room, evidently wondering where it would look best. I doubt whether he had done another blessed thing since we returned.
He tried it on the mantel. That wouldn’t do. At last he held it up beside a picture of Galton, I think, of finger print and eugenics fame, who hung on the wall directly opposite the fireplace. Hastily he compared the two. Elaine’s picture was of precisely the same size.
Next he tore out the picture of the scientist and threw it carelessly into the fireplace. Then he placed Elaine’s picture in its place and hung it up again, standing off to admire it.
I watched him gleefully. Was this Craig? Purposely I moved my elbow suddenly and pushed a book with a bang on the floor. Kennedy actually jumped. I picked up the book with a muttered apology. No, this was not the same old Craig.
Perhaps half an hour later, I was still reading. Kennedy was now pacing up and down the room, apparently unable to concentrate his mind on any but one subject.
He stopped a moment before the photograph, looked at it fixedly. Then he started his methodical walk again, hesitated, and went over to the telephone, calling a number which I recognized.
“She must have been pretty well done up by her experience,” he said apologetically, catching my eye. “I was wondering if—Hello— oh, Miss Dodge—I—er—I—er—just called up to see if you were all right.”
Craig was very much embarrassed, but also very