“Down there—­Mr. Kennedy—­and Mr. Jameson,” cried Elaine, pointing at the trap which was hidden in the stifle.

The fire had gained terrific headway, but the police seized a ladder and stuck it down into the basement.

Choking and sputtering, half suffocated, we staggered up.

“Are you hurt?” asked Elaine anxiously, taking Craig’s arm.

“Not a bit—­thanks to you!” he replied, forgetting all in meeting the eager questioning of her wonderful eyes.

CHAPTER X

THE LIFE CURRENT

Assignments were being given out on the Star one afternoon, and I was standing talking with several other reporter in the busy hum of typewriters and clicking telegraphs.

“What do you think of that?” asked one of the fellows.  “You’re something of a scientific detective, aren’t you?”

Without laying claim to such a distinction, I took the paper and read: 

THE POISONED KISS AGAIN

Three More New York Women Report Being Kissed by Mysterious Stranger—­Later Fell into Deep Unconsciousness.  What Is It?

I had scarcely finished, when one of the copy boys, dashing past me, called, “You’re wanted on the wire, Mr. Jameson.”

I hurried over to the telephone and answered.

A musical voice responded to my hurried hello, and I hastened to adopt my most polite tone.

“Is this Mr. Jameson?” asked the voice.

“Yes,” I replied, not recognizing it.

“Well, Mr. Jameson, I’ve heard of you on the Star and I’ve just had a very strange experience.  I’ve had the poisoned kiss.”

The woman did not pause to catch my exclamation of astonishment, but went on, “It was like this.  A man ran up to me on the street and kissed me—­and—­I don’t know how it was—­but I became unconscious—­and I didn’t come to for an hour—­in a hospital—­ fortunately.  I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t been that someone came to my assistance and the man fled.  I thought the Star would be interested.”

“We are,” I hastened to reply.  “Will you give me your name?”

“Why, I am Mrs. Florence Leigh of number 20 Prospect Avenue,” returned the voice.  “Really, Mr. Jameson, something ought to be done about these cases.”

“It surely had,” I assented, with much interest, writing her name eagerly down on a card.  “I’ll be out to interview you, directly.”

The woman thanked me and I hung up the receiver.

“Say,” I exclaimed, hurrying over to the editor’s desk, “here’s another woman on the wire who says she has received the poisoned kiss.

“Suppose you take that assignment,” the editor answered, sensing a possible story.

I took it with alacrity, figuring out the quickest way by elevated and surface car to reach the address.

The conductor of the trolley indicated Prospect Avenue and I hurried up the street until I came to the house, a neat, unpretentious place.  Looking at the address on the card first to make sure, I rang the bell.