Pawned

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—THE HOSTAGE

AS Crang disappeared through the doorway, John Bruce stepped noiselessly forward across the earthen floor. With the door half open and swung inward, it left a generous aperture at the hinges through which he could see down the length of the cave-like den outside.

He was strangely calm. Yes, there was Larmon down there—and Crang was walking toward him. And Crang had left the door open here. Well, why not?—with those three apaches at that table yonder! Yes, why not?—except that Crang had also left open the way to one last move, left him, John Bruce, one last card to play!

Strange, the cold, unnatural calmness that possessed him! His mind seemed instantaneously to have conceived and created a project that almost subconsciously he was now in the act of putting into effect. He reached out, and extracting the key from the outside of the door, inserted it on the inside of the lock. He smiled grimly. So far, it was quite safe! The door was swung so far inward that the inner edge of it, and therefore his act, certainly could not be seen by any one out there.

A last card! His lips tightened. Well, perhaps! But it was more than that. His unnatural composure had something deeper than that behind it—a passionate fury smoldering on the verge of flame. Larmon was out there—trapped! He could not put Larmon in greater jeopardy now, no matter what he, John Bruce, did personally, because Larmon dead would not be worth anything to them. But for himself—to stand and take it all like a sheep at the hands of a damned, cringing——

He shook his head in quick, curious self-rebuke. Not yet! He needed that cold composure a little longer since it was to be a showdown now. That was what Crang had said—a showdown. And Crang was right! It meant the end—one way or the other. But with luck, if Crang was as yellow as he believed the man to be, the idea of the bluff that had leaped into his mind would work successfully; and if it didn't work—well, then, there was the end—and at least it would not be a scatheless one for Crang!

The mind works swiftly. Had Crang had time only to walk down half the length of that room out there toward Larmon? Yes, he saw Crang halt now, and heard Crang call out sharply to the three men at the table:

“See if he's got a gun!”

John Bruce, through the crack, saw Larmon whirl around suddenly, as though aware for the first time that he was in danger; saw two of the men grasp Larmon roughly, while the third searched through his clothes.

And then Crang laughed out raucously:

“This way, Mr. Peters—please! You three can stay where you are—I'll call you if I need you!”

For still another instant John Bruce watched through the crack. Larmon, though his face was set and stern, advanced calmly to where Crang stood. Crang, with a prod of his revolver, pushed him onward. They were coming now—Larmon first, and Crang immediately behind the other. Without a sound, John Bruce slipped around to the other side of the door; and, back just far enough so that he would not be seen the instant the threshold was reached, crouched down close against the wall.

A second passed.

“Go on in there!” he heard Crang order.

Larmon's form crossed the threshold; and then Crang's—and John Bruce hurled himself forward, striking, even while his hands flew upward to lock like a vise around Crang's throat, a lightning blow at Crang's wrist that sent the revolver to the soft earthen floor without a sound—and a low, strangling, gurgling noise was alone the result of Crang's effort at a shout of alarm.

“Shut the door—quietly! And lock it, Larmon!” John Bruce flung out.

It was an impotent thing. It struck at the air blindly, its fists going like disjointed flails. Strong! He had not just risen from a sick bed this time! John Bruce and the soul within him seemed to chuckle In unison together at this wriggling thing that he held up by the neck with its feet off the ground. But he saw Larmon, though for the fraction of a second held spellbound in amazement, spring and lock the door.

“If you make a sound that reaches out there”—John Bruce was whispering now with panting, labored breath, as he swung Crang over to the corner and forced him down upon the mattress—“it will take too long to break that door in to be of any use to you! Understand?”

“Bruce!”

It was Larmon standing over them. John Bruce scarcely turned his head. His hands were still on Crang's throat, though the man lay cowed and passive now.

“His inside coat pocket!” John Bruce jerked out. “It will save a lot of explanation.”

Larmon leaned over and thrust his hand into Crang's pocket. He produced several envelopes and the slip of paper cut from John Bruce's letter.

“Read the slip!” said John Bruce grimly. “He showed it to me a minute ago when he came in to tell me you were here. It was written in our invisible ink at the bottom of the letter he brought you.” He laughed shortly. “When you've read it, I'll introduce you.”

Larmon read the slip hurriedly.

“Good God!” he cried out.

“This is Crang,” said John Bruce evenly.

“But”—Larmon's face was tense and strained—“how———”

“How did he discover there was anything there to begin with, and then hit on the salt solution?” John Bruce interrupted. “I don't know. We'll find out.” He relaxed his hold a little on Crang's throat, and taking the slip of paper from Larmon, thrust it into his own pocket. “Go on, Crang! Tell us!”

Crang's eyes roved from John Bruce to Larmon and back to John Bruce again. His face was ashen. He shook his head.

“You'll talk!” said John Bruce with ominous quiet.

“And the less urging”—his grip began to tighten again—“the better for you.”

“Wait!” Crang choked. “Yes—I—I'll tell you. I showed the letter to Claire. She—she cried on it. A tear splash—black letter began to appear. I took the letter home, and—trace of salt in tears—and——”

Crang's voice died away in a strangling cry. Claire! John Bruce had barely caught any other word but that. Claire! The face beneath him began to grow livid. Claire! So the devil had brought Claire into this, too. Too! Yes, there was something else. Something else! He remembered now. There was a reckoning to come that was beyond all other reckonings, wasn't there? He would know now what hold this thing, that was beast, not man, had upon her. He would know now—or it would end now!

“Claire! D'ye hear?” John Bruce whispered hoarsely. “You know what I mean! What trick of hell did you play to make her promise to marry you? Answer me!”

The thing on the mattress moaned.

“Bruce! For God's sake, Bruce, what are you doing?” Larmon cried out sharply.

John Bruce raised his head and snarled at Larmon. Neither Larmon, nor any other man, would rob him of this now!

“You stand aside, Larmon!” he rasped out. “This is between me and Crang. Keep out of the way!”

He shook at Crang again. He laughed. The man's head bobbed limply.

“Answer me!” He loosened his grip suddenly. Queer, he had forgotten that—Crang couldn't speak, of course, if he wouldn't let him!

The man gasped, and gasped again, for his breath.

“I give you one second.” John Bruce's lips did not move as he spoke.

Twice Crang tried to speak.

“Quick!” John Bruce planted his knees on the other's chest.

“Yes—yes, yes, yes!” Crang gurgled out. “It's you—the night you—you were stabbed. You were—were nearly gone. I—I gave her the—the choice—to marry me, or—or I'd let you—go out.”

John Bruce felt his shoulders surge forward, felt his muscles grow taut as steel, and he shook at something flabby that made no resistance, and his knees rocked upon something soft where they were bedded. him—Claire had faced that inhuman choice, born in this monster's brain—to save his life! Madness seized upon him. The room, everything before him whirled around in great, red, pulsing circles. A fury that shook at the roots of his soul took possession of him. He knew nothing, saw nothing, was moved by nothing save an overwhelming lust for vengeance that seemed to give him superhuman strength, that enabled him to crush between his two bare hands this nauseous thing that——-

He heard a voice. It seemed to come from some infinite distance:

“You are killing the man! In the name of God, John Bruce, come away!”

It was Larmon's voice. He looked up. He was vaguely conscious that it was Larmon who was pulling at his shoulders, wrenching madly at his hands, but he could not see Larmon—only a blurred red figure that danced insanely up and down. Killing the man! Of course! What an inane thing to say! Then he felt his hands suddenly torn away from a hold they had had upon something, and he felt himself pulled to his feet. And then for a little he stood swaying unsteadily, and he shuddered, then he groped his way over to the chair by the table and dropped into it.

He stared in front of him. Something on the floor near the door glittered and reflected the light from the single, dim incandescent. He lurched up from the chair, and going toward the object, snatched it up. It was Crang's revolver—but Larmon was upon him in an instant.

“Not that way, either!” said Larmon hoarsely.

John Bruce brushed his hand across his eyes.

“No, not that way, either,” he repeated like a child.

He went back to the chair and sat down. He was aware that Larmon was kneeling beside the mattress, but he paid no attention to the other.

“The man's unconscious,” Larmon said.

John Bruce did not turn his head.

The minutes passed.

John Bruce's brain began to clear; but the unbalanced fury that had possessed him was giving place now only to one more implacable in its considered phase. He looked around him. Crang, evidently recovered, was sitting up on the mattress. The letters Larmon had taken from Crang's pocket lay on the table. John Bruce picked them up idly. From one of them a steamer ticket fell out. He stared at this for a moment. A passage for John Bruce to South America! Then low, an ugly sound, his laugh echoed around the place.

South America! It recalled him to his actual surroundings—that on the other side of the door were Crang's apaches. There was still time to catch the steamer, wasn't there—for South America? “If the bluff worked”—he remembered his thoughts, the plan that had actuated him when he had crouched there at the door, waiting for Crang to enter. Strange! It wouldn't be a bluff any more! All that was gone. What he would do now, and carry it through to its end, was what he had intended to bluff Crang into believing he would do. And Crang, too, would understand now how little of bluff there was—or, misunderstanding, pay for it with his life.

He thrust the ticket suddenly into his pocket, stepped from his chair, the revolver in his hand, and confronted Crang. The man shrank back, trembling, his face gray with fear.

“Stand up!” John Bruce commanded.

Crang, groveling against the wall, got upon his feet.

It was a full minute before John Bruce spoke again, and then the words came choking hot from his lips.

“You damned cur!” he cried. “That's what you did, was it? The price Claire paid was for my life. Well, it's hers, then; it's no longer mine. Can you understand that, and understand that I am going to pay it back, if necessary, to rid her of you? We are going to walk out of here. You will lead the way. We are going down to that steamer, and you are going on John Bruce's ticket where you proposed to send me—to South America. Either that—or you are going on a longer journey. I shall carry this revolver in the pocket of my coat, and walk beside you. It is your affair how we pass those men out there. If you make any attempt at trickery in getting out of here, or later in the street attempt to escape, I will fire instantly. It does not matter in the slightest degree what happens to me at the hands of your men, or at the hands of a thousand people in the most crowded street. You will have gone out first. The only consideration that exists is that Claire shall be free of you.”

“Tck!” It was the quill toothpick flexing against one of Larmon's teeth.

John Bruce turned.

“I did not understand,” said Larmon in a low, grim way. “If I had, I am not sure I should have stopped you from throttling him when I did.”

John Bruce nodded curtly. He spoke again to Crang.

“I am not asking you whether you agree to this or not,” he said with level emphasis. “You have your choice at any moment to do as you like—you know the consequences.” He slipped his hand with his revolver into the right-hand side pocket of his coat, and took his place at Crang's left side. “Now, go ahead and open that door, and lead the way out! Mr. Larmon, you follow close behind me.”

“Yes,” Crang stammered, “yes—for God's sake—I—I'll do it—I—-”

“Open that door!” said John Bruce monotonously. “I didn't ask you to talk about it!”

Crang opened the door. The little procession stepped out into the long, low cellar, and started down toward the lower end. The three men, from playing dice at the table near the door, rose uncertainly to their feet. John Bruce's revolver in his pocket pressed suggestively against Crang's side.

“It's all right, boys,” Crang called out. “Open the door. I've got Birdie outside.”

They passed the table, passed through the doorway, and the door closed behind them. In the semi-darkness here, as they headed for the exit to the lane, Larmon touched John Bruce's elbow.

“He brought me down here in a taxi,” Larmon whispered. “I suppose now it was one of his men who drove it.”

“Birdie, he just told those rats,” said John Bruce tersely. “Do you hear, Crang? If he's still out there, send him away!”

They emerged into the lane. A taxi-cab stood opposite the exit; Birdie lounged in the driver's seat.

John Bruce's revolver bored into Crang's side.

“Beat it!” said Crang surlily to the man. “I won't want you any more.”

“You won't—what?” Birdie leaned out from his seat. He stared for a moment in bewilderment, and then started to climb out of the taxi.

The pressure of John Bruce's revolver increased steadily.

“Damn it, you fool!” Crang screamed out wildly. “Beat it! Do you hear? Beat it!”

Birdie's face darkened.

“Oh—sure!” he muttered, with a disgruntled oath. He shot the gears into place with a vicious snap. “Sure—anything you say!” The taxi roared down the lane, and disappeared around the corner in a volley of exhausts.

“Go on!” John Bruce ordered.

At the corner of the lane John Bruce turned to Larmon.

“You are safe, and out of it now,” he said. “I am going to ask you to step into the first store we pass and get me some good light rope, but after that I think you had better leave us. If anything happened between here and the steamer, or on the steamer, you would be implicated.”

“Tck!” It was the quill toothpick again. “I'll get the rope with pleasure,” Larmon said calmly; “but I never lay down a good hand. I am going to the steamer.”

John Bruce shrugged his shoulders. Larmon somehow seemed an abstract consideration at the moment—but Larmon had had his chance.

“What time does the steamer sail, Crang?” John Bruce bit off his words, as he looked at his watch.

“Four o'clock,” Crang mumbled.

“Walk faster!”

They stopped for a moment in front of a store. Larmon entered, and came out again almost immediately with a package under his arm.

A block farther on John Bruce hailed a passing taxi.

Fifteen minutes later, pushing through the throng on the dock, John Bruce produced the ticket, they mounted the gangway, and a steward led them to a stateroom on one of the lower decks.

John Bruce closed the door and locked it. His revolver was in his hand now.

“There isn't much time left,” he said coldly. “About ten minutes.”

At the end of five, Crang, bound hand and foot, and gagged, lay lashed into his bunk.

A bugle sounded the “All Ashore!”

John Bruce tossed the ticket on the couch.

“There's your ticket!” he said sternly. “I wouldn't advise you to come back—nor worry any further about exposing Mr. Larmon, unless you want to force a showdown that will place some very interesting details connected with the life of Doctor Crang in the hands of the police!”

The bugle rang out again.

John Bruce, without a further glance in Crang's direction, opened the cabin window slightly, then unlocking the door, he motioned Larmon to pass out. He locked the door on the outside, stepped to the deck, tossed the key through the window to the floor of Crang's cabin, and drew the window shut again. A minute more, and with Larmon beside him, he was standing on the dock.

Neither John Bruce nor Larmon spoke.

And presently the tugs caught hold of the big liner and warped her out of her berth.

“John Bruce” had sailed for South America.

CHAPTER NINETEEN—CABIN H-14

FOR a time, Crang lay passive. Fear was dominant. He could move his head a little, and he kept screwing it around to cast furtive glances at the cabin door. He was sure that Bruce was still outside there, or somewhere near—Bruce wouldn't leave the ship until the last moment, and....

The craven soul of the man shrivelled within him. Bruce's eyes! Damn Bruce's eyes, and that hideous touch of Bruce's pocketed revolver! The fool would even have killed him back there in the cellar if it hadn't been for Larmon! He could still feel those strangling fingers at his throat.

Mechanically he made to lift his hand to touch the bruised and swollen flesh—but he could not move his hands because they were bound behind his back and beneath him. The fool! The fool had wanted to shoot. Perhaps with Larmon out of the road, and just at the last minute, that was what he still meant to do—to open the door there, and—and kill. Terror swept upon him. He tried to scream—but a gag was in his mouth.

What was that? He felt a slight jar, another, and another. He listened intently. He heard a steady throbbing sound. The ship was moving—moving! That meant that Bruce was ashore—that he need not fear that door there. He snarled to himself, suddenly arrogant with courage. To the devil's pit with John Bruce!

He began to work at his bonds now—at first with a measure of contained persistence; and then, as he made no progress, angry impatience came, and he began to struggle. He tossed now, and twisted himself about on the bunk, and strained with all his might. The gag choked him. The bonds but grew the tighter and cut into his wrists. He became a madman in his frenzy. Passion and fury lashed him on and on. He flogged himself into effort beyond physical endurance—and finally collapsed through utter exhaustion, a limp thing bathed in sweat.

Then he began the struggle again, and after that again. The periods came in cycles... the insensate fury... exhaustion... recuperation...

After a time he no longer heard the throbbing of the engines or the movement of the ship during those moments when he lay passive in weakness, nor did the desire for freedom, for merely freedom's sake, any longer actuate him; instead, beneath him, in his pocket, he had felt the little case that held his hypodermic syringe, and it had brought the craving for the drug. And the craving grew. It grew until it became torture, and to satisfy it became the one incentive that possessed him. It tormented, it mocked him. He could feel it there in his pocket, always there in his pocket. Hell could not keep him from it. He blasphemed at the ropes that kept it from his fingers' reach, and he wrenched and tore at them, and sobbed and snarled—and after long minutes of maniacal struggle would again lie trembling, drained of the power either to move or think.

It grew dark in the cabin.

And now, in one of his series of struggles, something snapped beneath him—a cord! One of the cords around his wrists had given away. He tore one hand free. Yes, yes—he could reach his pocket! Ha, ha—his pocket! And now his other hand was free. He snatched at the hypodermic syringe with feverish greed—and the plunger went home as the needle pricked its way beneath the skin of his forearm.

He reached up then, unloosened the knots at the back of his head, and spat the gag from his mouth. His penknife freed his legs. He stood up—tottered—and sat down on the edge of his bunk. He remained motionless for a few minutes. The drug steadied him.

He looked around him. It was dark. The ship was very still; there was no sense of movement, none of vibration from the engines. It seemed to him that in a hazy, vague way he had noticed that fact a long time ago. But, nevertheless, it was very curious!

He stood up again. This was better! He felt secure enough now on his feet. It was only as though a great fatigue were upon him, and that he seemed to be weighted down with lead—nothing more than that. He crossed to the window, drew the shade, and opened the window itself.

And then, for a long time, puzzled, his brows drawn together, he stood there staring out. Close at hand, though but faintly outlined in the darkness, he could see the shore. And it was not imagination, for beyond the shore line, he could see innumerable little lights twinkling.

It was strange! He rubbed his eyes. Here was something else! The window opened on a narrow, dimly lighted and deserted deck—one of the lower decks, he remembered. Below this deck, and evidently alongside of the steamer's hull, he could make out the upper-structure of some small vessel.

A figure came along the deck now from the forward end—one of the crew, Crang could see from the other's dress, as the man drew nearer. Crang thrust his head out of the window.

“I say, look here!” he called, as the other came opposite to him. “What's all this about? Where are we?”

“Down the bay a bit, that's all, sir,” the man answered. “We've had some engine trouble.”

Crang pointed to the small vessel alongside. A sudden, wild elation surged upon him.

“That's a tug down there, isn't it?” he said. “They're going to tow us back, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the man replied. “It's the company's tug, all right, that they sent down to us, but she'll be going back as soon as we're off again. It's nothin' serious, and we won't be more'n another hour, sir.”

Crang snarled under his breath.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” inquired the man.

“Nothing!” said Crang. “I'm much obliged to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man, and went on along the deck.

Crang returned to his bunk and sat down again on its edge. He could still see the reflection of the shore lights. This seemed to obsess him. He kept staring out through the window. Suddenly he chuckled hoarsely—and then, as suddenly, his fist clenched and he shook it in the air.

“Another hour, eh?” he muttered. “Then, I'll get you yet, Bruce—ha, ha, I'll get you yet! But I'll make sure of Claire first this time! That's where I made the mistake—but Doctor Sydney Angus Crang doesn't make two mistakes alike!”

He relapsed into silent meditation. At the end of five minutes he spoke again.

“I'm a clever man,” said Doctor Crang between his teeth. “First Claire—then you, Bruce. And I'll take good care that you know nothing, Mr. John Bruce—not this time—not until it is too late—both ways! I'll show you! I'll teach you to pit your clumsy wits against me!”

He got up from the bunk and turned on a single incandescent light. Bruce had thrown the key in through the window, he remembered. Yes, there it was on the floor! He picked it up; and quickly and methodically he began to work now. He gathered together the pieces of rope with which he had been bound, tucked them under his coat, and running to the window, thrust his head outside again. The deck was clear, there was not a soul in sight. He unlocked the door now, stepped noiselessly out on the deck, dropped the pieces of rope overboard, and then, returning to the cabin, smiled ironically as he made a mental note of the number on the cabin door.

“H-14,” observed Doctor Crang grimly. “Quite so—H-14!”

He halted before the mirror and removed the more flagrant traces of his dishevelled appearance; then he took off his coat, flung it on a chair, pushed the electric button, and returned to his bunk.

He was sitting up on the edge of the bunk, and yawning, as the steward answered his summons.

“Hello, steward!” said Crang somewhat thickly. “I guess I've overslept myself. Overdid the send-off a little, I'm afraid. What are we stopping for?”

“A little engine trouble, sir,” the steward answered. “It was right after we started. We're only a little way down the bay. But it's all right, sir. Nothing serious. We'll be off again shortly.”

“Humph!” Crang dismissed the subject with a grunt. “I suppose I've missed my dinner, eh?”

“Oh, no, sir,” replied the steward. “It's only just a little after seven now, sir.”

“That's better!” smiled Crang. “Well, get my traps right up here, like a good fellow, and I'll clean up a bit. And hurry, will you?”

The steward looked a little blank.

“Your traps, sir?”

“Luggage—traps—baggage,” defined Crang with facetious terseness.

“Oh, I knew what you meant, sir,” said the steward. “It's where your traps are, sir? I—I thought it a bit strange you didn't have anything with you when you came aboard this afternoon.”

“Did you, now?” inquired Crang sweetly. “Well, then, the sooner you get them here the less strange it will seem. Beat it!”

“But where are they, sir?” persisted the man. “Where are they? Good God, how do I know!” ejaculated Crang sarcastically. “I sent them down to the ship early this morning to be put aboard—in your baggage room. You've got a baggage room aboard, haven't you?”

“Yes, sir; but——”

“I would suggest the baggage room, then!” interrupted Crang crisply. “And if they are not there, ask the captain to let you have any of the crew who aren't too busy on this engine trouble, and get them to help you search the ship!”

The steward grinned.

“Very good, sir. Would you mind describing the pieces?”

“There are four,” said Crang with exaggerated patience, as he created the non-existent baggage out of his imagination. “And they have all got your 'wanted on the voyage' labels, with my name and cabin written on them—Mr. John Bruce; Cabin H-14. There is a steamer trunk, and two brown alligator-leather—which I do not guarantee to be genuine in spite of the price—suit-cases, and a hat box.”

“Very good, sir,” said the steward again—and hurried from the cabin.

Crang got up and went to the window. The tug alongside seemed to furnish him with engrossing reflections, for he stood there, smiling queerly, until he swung around in answer to a knock upon his door.

A man in ship's uniform entered ahead of the steward.

“The steward here, sir,” said the man, “was speaking about your baggage.”

“Speaking about it!” murmured Crang helplessly. “I told him to get it.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man; “but I am sorry to say that no such baggage as you describe has come aboard the ship. There has been no baggage at all for Mr. Bruce, sir.”

“Not aboard!” gasped Crang. “Then—then where is it?”

“I can't say, sir, of course,” said the other sympathetically. “I am only stating a fact to you.”

“But—but I sent it down to the dock early this morning.” Crang's voice was rising in well-affected excitement. “It must be here! I tell you, it must be here!”

The man shook his head.

“It's my job, sir. I'm sorry, Mr. Bruce, but I know positively your baggage is not aboard this ship.”

“Then what's to be done?” Crang's voice rose louder. “You've left it on the dock, that's what—fools, thundering idiots!”

The man with the baggage job looked uncomfortable.

Crang danced up and down on the floor of the cabin.

“On the way to South America to stay six months,” he yelled insanely, “and my baggage left behind! I can't go on without my baggage, do you hear?”

There was a whispered conference between the two men. The steward vanished through the doorway.

“I've sent for the purser, sir,” volunteered the other.

Crang stormed up and down the floor.

Presently the purser appeared. Crang swung on him on the instant.

“You've left my baggage behind!” he shouted. “My papers, plans, everything! I can't go on without them!” He shook his fist. “You'll either get that baggage here, or get me ashore!”

The purser eyed Crang's fist, and stiffened perceptibly.

“I'm not a magician, Mr. Bruce,” he said quietly. “I am very sorry indeed that this should have happened; but it is quite impossible, of course, to get your baggage here.”

“Then get me ashore!” Crang snatched up his coat and put it on. “There's a tug, or something, out there, isn't there?”

“Yes,” said the purser, “that's the company's tug, and I suppose you could go back on her, if you think you——”

“Think!” howled Crang. “I don't think anything about it! I know that——” His eye suddenly caught the envelope on the couch containing the ticket. “And what about this?” He picked it up, jerked out the ticket, and waved it in the purser's face.

The purser refused the document.

“You'll have to see the New York office, sir, about that,” he said.

“I will, will I?” snapped Crang. “Well, that isn't all I'll see them about!”

“I am sure they will do what they can, sir, to make things right—if they are to blame,” said the purser a little sharply. “But it might have been your teamer, you know, who made the mistake.” He turned to the door. “I will arrange about your going ashore, Mr. Bruce.”

“Yes!” growled Crang savagely—and five minutes later, swearing volubly for the benefit of those within hearing, he wriggled his way down a rope ladder to the tug's deck.

A deck hand led him to the pilot house.

“The captain 'll be along as soon as we start,” the man informed him.

Crang made himself comfortable in a cushioned chair. He sat chuckling maliciously, as he stared up at the towering hull that twinkled with lights above him—and then the chuckle died away, and little red spots came and burned in his sallow cheeks, and his lips worked, and his hands curled until the nails bit into the palms.

He lost track of time.

A man came into the pilot house, and gave the wheel a spin.

“We're off!” said the man heartily. “You've had tough luck, I hear.”

Crang's fingers caressed his bruised and swollen throat.

“Yes,” said Crang with a thin smile; “but I think somebody is going to pay the bill—in full.”

The tug was heading toward New York.

CHAPTER TWENTY—OUTSIDE THE DOOR

HAWKINS very cautiously got out of bed, and consulted his watch. It was five minutes after nine. He stole to the door and listened. There was no sound from below. Mrs. Hedges, who had been his jailor all day, had now, he was fairly certain, finally retired for the night.

The old blue eyes blinked in perplexity and he scratched at the fringe of hair behind his ear in a perturbed way, as he began, still cautiously, to dress. It had been a very dreary day, during which he had suffered not a little physical discomfort. Mrs. Hedges had been assiduous in her attentions; more than that, even—motherly.

“God bless her!” said Hawkins to one of his boots, as he laced it up. “Only she wouldn't let me out.”

He stopped lacing the boot suddenly, and sat staring in front of him. Mrs. Hedges had been more than even motherly; she had been—been—yes, that was it—been puzzling. If she had said Paul Veniza wanted to see him, why had she insisted that Paul Veniza didn't want to see him? Hawkins' gaze at the blank wall in front of him became a little more bewildered. He tried to reconstruct certain fragments of conversation that had taken place between Mrs. Hedges and himself.

“Now, you just lie still,” Mrs. Hedges had insisted during the afternoon, when he had wanted to get up. “Claire told me——”

He remembered the sinking of his heart as he had interrupted her.

“Claire,” he had said anxiously, “Claire ain't—she don't know about this, does she?”

“Certainly not!” Mrs. Hedges had assured him.

“But you said she told you something”—Hawkins continued to reconstruct the conversation—“so she must have been here.”

“Law!” Mrs. Hedges had returned. “I nearly put my foot in it, didn't I—I—I mean starting you in to worry. Certainly she don't know anything about it. She just came over to say her father wanted to see you, and I says to her you ain't feeling very well, and she says it's all right.”

Hawkins resumed his dressing. His mind continued to mull over the afternoon. Later on he had made another attempt to get up. He was feeling quite well enough to go over and find out what Paul Veniza wanted. And then Mrs. Hedges, as though she had quite forgotten what she had said before, said that Paul Veniza didn't want to see him, or else he'd send word.

Hawkins scratched behind his ear again. His head wasn't quite clear. Maybe he had not got it all quite straight. Suddenly he smiled. Of course! There wasn't anything to be bewildered about. Mrs. Hedges was just simply determined that he would not go out—and he was equally determined that he would. Paul Veniza or not, he had been long enough in bed!

“Yes,” said Hawkins; “God bless her, that's it!”

Hawkins completed his toilet, and picking up his old felt hat, reconnoitered the hallway. Thereafter he descended the stairs with amazing stealth.

“God bless her!” said Hawkins softly again, as he gained the front door without raising any alarm and stepped outside—and then Hawkins halted as though his feet had been suddenly rooted to the spot.

At the curb in front of the house was an old closed motor car. Hawkins stared at it. Then he rubbed his eyes. Then he stared at it again. He stared for a long time. No; there was no doubt about it—it was the traveling pawn-shop.

Hawkins' mind harked back to the preceding evening. He had met two men in the saloon around the corner, whom he had seen there once or twice before. He had had several drinks with them, and then at some one's suggestion, he could not recollect whose, there had followed the purchase of a few bottles, and an adjournment to his room for a convivial evening. After that his mind was quite blank. He could not even remember having taken out the car.

“I—I must have been bad,” said Hawkins to himself, with a rueful countenance.

He descended the steps, and approached the car with the intention of running it into the shed that served as garage behind the house. But again he halted.

“No,” said Hawkins, with a furtive glance over his shoulder at the front door; “if I started it up, Mrs. Hedges would hear me. I guess I'll wait till I come back.”

Hawkins went on down the street and turned the corner. He had grown a little dejected.

“I'm just an old bum,” said Hawkins, “who ain't ever going to swear off any more 'cause it don't do any good.”

He spoke aloud to himself again, as he approached the door of Paul Veniza's house.

“But I am her daddy,” whispered the old man fiercely; “and she is my little girl. It don't change nothing her not knowing, except—except she ain't hiding her face in shame, and”—Hawkins' voice broke a little—“and that I ain't never had her in these arms like I'd ought to have.” A gleam of anger came suddenly into the watery blue eyes under the shaggy brows. “But he ain't going to have her in his! That devil from the pit of hell ain't going to kill the soul of my little girl—somehow he ain't—that's all I got to live for—old Hawkins—ha, ha!—somehow old Haw-kins 'll——”

Hawkins' soliloquy ended abruptly. He was startled to find himself in the act of opening the front door of the one-time pawn-shop. He even hesitated, holding the door ajar—and then suddenly he pushed the door wider open and stepped softly inside, as the sound of a voice, angry and threatening in its tones, though strangely low and muffled, reached him. He knew that voice. It was Doctor Crang's.

It was dark here in the room that had once been the office of the pawn-shop, and upon which the front door opened directly; but from under the door leading into the rear room there showed a thread of light, and it was from there that Hawkins now placed the voice.

He stood irresolute. He stared around him. Upstairs it was dark. Paul Veniza, because he had not been well, had probably gone to bed early—unless it was Paul in there with Crang. No! He caught the sound of Claire's voice now, and it seemed to come to him brokenly, in a strangely tired, dreary way. And then Crang's voice again, and an ugly laugh.

The wrinkled skin of Hawkins' old weather-beaten hands grew taut and white across the knuckles as his fists clenched. He tiptoed toward the door. He could hear distinctly now. It was Crang speaking:

“... I'm not a fool! I did not speak about it to make you lie again. I don't care where you met him, or how long you had been lovers before he crawled in here. That's nothing to do with it. It's enough that I know you were lovers before that night. But you belong to me now. Understand? I spoke of it because the sooner you realize that you are the one who is the cause of the trouble between Bruce and me, the better—for him! I wasn't crowding you before, but I'm through fooling with it now for keeps. I let you go too long as it is. To-day, for just a little while, he won out—yes, by God, if you want the truth, he nearly killed me. He got me tied in a cabin of a ship that sailed this afternoon for South America; but the engines broke down in the harbor, and, damn him, I'm back! You know what for. I've told you. There's one way to save him. I've told you what that is, too. I'm waiting for your answer.”

“Why should it be me?” Claire's voice was dull and colorless. “Why cannot you leave me alone—I, who hate and loathe you? Do you look for happiness with me? There will be none.”

“Why should it be you?” Crang's voice was suddenly hoarse with passion. “Because you have set my brain on fire, because you have filled me with a madness that would mock God Himself if He stood between us. Do you understand—Claire? Claire! Do you understand? Because I want you, because I'm going to have you, because I'm going to own you—yes, own you, one way or another—by marriage, or——”

A low cry came from Claire. It tore at Hawkins' heart in its bitter shame and anguish. His face blanched.

“Well, you asked for it, and you got it!” Crang snarled. “Now, I'm waiting for your answer.”

There was a long pause, then Claire spoke with an obvious effort to steady her voice:

“Have I got to buy him twice?”

“You haven't bought him once yet,” Crang answered swiftly. “I performed my part of the bargain. I haven't been paid.”

And Hawkins, standing there, listening, heard nothing for a long time; and then he distinguished Claire's voice, but it was so low that he could not catch the words. But he heard Crang's reply because it was loud with what seemed like passionate savagery and triumph:

“You're wise, my dear! At eight o'clock to-morrow morning, then. And since Mr. John Bruce's skin is involved in this, you quite understand that he is not to be communicated with in any way?”

“I understand.” Hawkins this time caught the almost inaudible reply.

“All right!” Crang said. “There's a padre I know, who's down on Staten Island now. We'll go down there and be married without any fuss. I'll be here at eight o'clock. Your father isn't fit to ride in that rattle-trap old bus of yours. I'll have a comfortable limousine for him, and you can go with him. Hawkins can drive me, and”—he was laughing softly—“and be my best man. I'll see that he knows about it in time to——”

Like a blind man, Hawkins was groping his way toward the front door. Married! They were to be married to-morrow morning!

He found himself on the street. He hurried. Impulse drove him along. He did not reason. His mind was a tortured thing. And yet he laughed as he scurried around the corner, laughed in an unhinged way, and raised both hands above his head and pounded at the air with his doubled fists. They were to be married to-morrow morning, and he—he was to be best man. And as he laughed, his once ruddy, weather-beaten face was white as a winding-sheet, and in the whiteness there was stamped a look that it was good on no man's face to see.

And then suddenly two great tears rolled down his cheeks, opening the flood gates of his soul.

“My little girl!” he sobbed. “Daddy's little girl!”

And reason and a strange calmness came.

“John Bruce,” he said. “He loves her too.”

And in front of Mrs. Hedges' rooming-house he climbed into the driver's seat of the old traveling pawn-shop.

It didn't matter now how much noise he made.