It was the vengeance of the Clutching Hand--swift, sure,
remorseless.

And yet it had not been a night of complete success for the master
criminal, as anyone might have seen who could have followed his
sinuous route to a place of greater safety.

Unable to wait longer he pulled the papers he had taken from the
safe from his pocket. His chagrin at finding them to be blank
paper found only one expression of foiled fury--that menacing
clutching hand!

. . . . . . . .

Kennedy had turned from his futile examination for marks on the
telephone. There stood the safe, a moderate sized strong box but
of a modern type. He tried the door. It was locked. There was not
a mark on it. The combination had not been tampered with. Nor had
there been any attempt to "soup" the safe.

With a quick motion he felt in his pocket as if looking for
gloves. Finding none, he glanced about, and seized a pair of tongs
from beside the grate. With them, in order not to confuse any
possible finger prints on the bust, he lifted it off. I gave a
gasp of surprise.

There, in the top of the safe, yawned a gaping hole through which
one could have thrust his arm!

"What is it?" we asked, crowding about him.