PAUL VENIZA, propped up in bed on his pillows, followed Claire with his eyes as she moved about the room. It was perhaps because he had been too ill of late to notice anything, that he experienced now a sudden shock at Claire's appearance. She looked pale and drawn, and even her movements seemed listless.

“What's to-night?” he asked abruptly.

“Wednesday, father,” she answered.

Paul Veniza plucked at the counterpane. It was all too much for Claire. Besides—besides Crang, she had been up all night for the last two nights, and since Monday she had not been out of the house.

“Put on your hat, dear, and run over and tell Hawkins I want to see him,” he smiled.

Claire stared at the old pawnbroker.

“Why, father,” she protested, “it's rather late, isn't it? And, besides, you would be all alone in the house.”

“Nonsense!” said Paul Veniza. “I'm all right. Much better. I'll be up to-morrow. But I particularly want to see Hawkins to-night.” He did not particularly want to see Hawkins or any one else, but if he did not have some valid excuse she would most certainly refuse to go out and leave him alone. A little walk and a breath of fresh air would do Claire a world of good. And as for the lateness of the hour, Claire in that section of the city was as safe as in her own home. “Please do as I ask you, Claire,” he insisted.

“Very well, father,” she agreed after a moment's hesitation, and went and put on her hat.

From downstairs, as she opened the front door, she called up to him a little anxiously:

“You are sure you are all right?”

“Quite sure, dear,” Paul Veniza called back. “Don't hurry.”

Claire stepped out on the street. It was not far to go—just around the first corner and halfway down the next block—and at first she walked briskly, impelled by an anxiety to get back to the house again as soon as possible, but insensibly, little by little, her footsteps dragged.

What was it? Something in the night, the darkness, that promised a kindly cloak against the breaking of her self-restraint, that bade her let go of herself and welcome the tears that welled so spontaneously to her eyes? Would it bring relief? To-day, all evening, more than ever before, she had felt her endurance almost at an end. She turned her face upward to the night. It was black; not a star showed anywhere. It seemed as though something dense and forbidding had been drawn like a somber mantle over the world. God, even, seemed far away to-night.

She shivered a little. Could that really be true—that God was turning His face away from her? She had tried so hard to cling to her faith. It was all she had; it was all that of late had stood between her and a despair and misery, a horror so overwhelming that death by contrast seemed a boon.

Her lips quivered as she walked along. It almost seemed as though she did not want to fight any more. And yet there had been a great and very wonderful reward given to her before she had even made the final sacrifice that she had pledged herself to make. If her soul revolted from the association that must come with Doctor Crang, if every instinct within her rose up in stark horror before the contamination of the man's wanton moral filth, one strange and wondrous thing sustained her. And she had no right to mistrust God, for God must have brought her this. She had bought an unknown life—that had become dearer to her than her own, or anything that might happen to her. She knew love. It was no longer a stranger who would live on through the years because she was soon to pay the price that had been set upon his life—it was John Bruce.

Claire caught her hands suddenly to her breast. John Bruce! She was still afraid—for John Bruce. And to-night, all evening, that fear had been growing stronger, chilling her with a sense of evil premonition and foreboding. Was it only premonition? Crang had threatened. She had heard the threats. And she knew out of her own terrible experience that Crang, as between human life and his own desires, held human life as naught. And yet, surely John Bruce was safe from him now—at least his life was safe. That was how Crang had wrung the promise from her. No, she was not so sure! There was personal enmity between them now. Besides, if anything happened she would not be able to bring it to Crang's door—Crang would take care of that—and her promise would still hold. And so she was afraid.

She had not seen Crang since the night that John Bruce had thrown him down the stairs. She had thanked God for the relief his absence had brought her—but now, here again, she was not so sure! What had kept him away? Where was John Bruce? She began to regret that she had told John Bruce he must not attempt to see her or communicate with her any more, though she had only done so because she had been afraid for his sake—that it would but arouse the very worst in Doctor Crang. Perhaps John Bruce had yielded to her pleading and had left the city. She shook her head. If she knew the man she loved at all, John Bruce would run from no one, and——

Claire halted abruptly. She had reached the dingy rooming house where Hawkins lived. She brushed her hand resolutely across her eyes as she mounted the steps. The tears had come after all, for her lashes were wet.

It was not necessary either to ring or knock; the door was always unfastened; and, besides, she had been here so many, many times that she knew the house almost as well as her own home. She opened the door, stepped into a black hallway, and began to feel her way up the creaking staircase. There was the possibility, of course, that Hawkins was either out or already in bed; but if he were out she would leave a note in his room for him so that he would come over to the old pawn-shop when he returned, and if he were already in bed her message delivered through the door would soon bring Hawkins out of it again—Hawkins, since he had been driving that old car which he had created, was well accustomed to calls at all hours of the night.

A thin, irregular streak of light, the only sign of light she had seen anywhere in the house, showed now at the threshold under Hawkins' ill-fitting door, as she reached the landing. She stepped quickly to the door and knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again. There was still no answer. Claire smiled a little whimsically. Hawkins was growing extravagant—he had gone out and left the light burning. She tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, opened it, stepped forward into the room—and with a sudden, low, half-hurt, half-frightened cry, stood still. Hawkins was neither out, nor was he in bed. Hawkins was sprawled partly on the floor and partly across a chair in which he had obviously been unable to preserve his balance. Several bottles, all empty but one, stood upon the table. There were two dirty glasses beside the bottles, and another one, broken, on the floor. Hawkins was snoring stertorously.

It seemed somehow to Claire standing there that this was the last straw—and yet, too, there was only a world of pity in her heart for the old man. All the years rolled before her. She remembered as a child climbing upon his knee and pleading for the tick-tick—that great cumbersome silver watch, which, fallen out of his pocket now, dangled by its chain and swung in jerky rhythm to his breathing. She remembered the days when, a little older, she had dressed herself in her best clothes, and to Hawkins' huge delight had played at princess, while he drove her about in his old ramshackle hansom cab; and, later still, his gentle faithfulness to Paul Veniza in his trouble, and to her—and the love, and a strange, always welcome, tenderness that he had ever shown her. Poor frail soul! Hawkins had been good to every one—but Hawkins!

She could not leave him like this, but she was not strong enough alone to carry him to his bed. She turned and ran hurriedly downstairs. There was the widow Hedges, of course, the old landlady.

Back at the end of the lower hall, Claire pounded upon a door. Presently a woman's voice answered her. A moment later a light appeared as the door was opened, and with it an apparition in an old gingham wrapper and curl papers.

“Oh, it's you, Miss Claire!” the woman exclaimed in surprise. “What's brought you over here to-night, dear? Is your father worse?”

“No,” Claire answered. “He wanted Hawkins, and——”

Mrs. Hedges shook her head.

“Hawkins ain't in,” she said; “but I'll see that he gets the message when he comes back. He went out with the car quite a little while ago with some men he had with him.”

“With the car?” Claire found herself suddenly a little frightened, she did not quite know why. “Well, he's back now, Mrs. Hedges.”

“Oh, no,” asserted Mrs. Hedges positively. “I might not have heard him going upstairs, but I would have heard the car coming in. It ain't come back yet.”

“But Hawkins is upstairs,” said Claire a little heavily. “I—I've been up.”

“You say Hawkins is upstairs?” Mrs. Hedges stared incredulously. “That's very strange!” She turned and ran back into her room and to a rear window. “Look, Miss Claire! Come here! You can see!” And as Claire joined her: “The door of the shed, or the gradge as he calls it, is open, and you can see for yourself it's empty. If he's upstairs what could he have done with the car? It ain't out in front of the house, is it, and—oh!” She caught Claire's arm anxiously. “There's been an accident, you mean, and he's——”

“I am sure he never left the house,” said Claire, and her voice in its composed finality sounded strange even in her own ears. She was thoroughly frightened now, and her fears were beginning to take concrete form. There were not many who would have any use for that queer old car that was so intimately associated with Hawkins! She could think of only one—and of only one reason. She pulled at Mrs. Hedges' arm. “Come upstairs,” she said.

Mrs. Hedges reached the door of Hawkins' room first.

“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Hedges cried out wildly. “He ain't dead, is he?”

“No,” said Claire in a strained voice. “He's—he's only had too much to drink. Help me lift him on the bed.”

It taxed the strength of the two women.

“And the car's stole!” gasped Mrs. Hedges, fighting for her breath.

“Yes,” said Claire; “I am afraid so.”

“Then we'll get the police at once!” announced Mrs. Hedges.

Claire looked at her for a moment.

“No,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “You mustn't do that. It—it will come back.”

“Come back?” Mrs. Hedges stared helplessly. “It ain't a cat! You—you ain't quite yourself, are you, Miss Claire? Poor dear, this has upset you. It ain't a fit thing for young eyes like yours to see. Me—I'm used to it.”

“I am quite myself.” Claire forced a calmness she was far from feeling into her voice. “You mustn't notify the police, or do a thing, except just look after Hawkins. It—it's father's car, you know; and he'll know best what to do.”

“Well, maybe that's so,” admitted Mrs. Hedges.

“Do you know who the men were who were here with Hawkins?” Claire asked.

“No, I don't,” Mrs. Hedges answered excitedly. “The thieving devils, coming here and getting Hawkins off like this! I just knew there were some men up in his room with him because I heard them talking during the evening, and then when I heard them go out and get the car I thought, of course, that Hawkins had gone with them.”

“I—I see,” said Claire, striving to speak naturally. “I—I'll go back to father now. I can't leave him alone very long, anyhow. I'll tell him what has happened, and—and he'll decide what to do. You'll look after Hawkins, won't you, Mrs. Hedges?”

“You run along, dear,” said Mrs. Hedges reassuringly. “Who else but me has looked after him these ten years?”

Claire ran from the room and down the stairs, and out to the street. The one thing left for her to do was to reach home and get to the telephone—get the Bayne-Miloy Hotel—and John Bruce. Perhaps she was already too late. She ran almost blindly along the street. Her intuition, the foreboding that had obsessed her so heavily all evening, was only too likely now to prove itself far from groundless. What object, save one, could anybody have in obtaining possession of the traveling pawn-shop, and at the same time of keeping Hawkins temporarily out of the road? Perhaps her deduction would show flaws if it were subjected to the test of pure logic, perhaps there were a thousand other reasons that would account equally well, and even more logically, for what had happened, but she knew it was Crang—and Crang could have but one object in view. The man was clever, diabolically clever. In some way he was using that car and Hawkins' helplessness to trap the man he had threatened. She must warn John Bruce. There was not an instant to lose! To lose! How long ago had that car been taken? Was there even a chance left that it was not already far too late? She had not thought to ask how long ago it was when Mrs. Hedges had heard the car leave the garage.

It had never seemed so far—just that little half block and halfway along another. It seemed as though she had been an hour in coming that little way when she finally reached her home. Her breath coming in hard, short gasps, she opened the door, closed it, and, with no thought but one in her mind, ran across the room to the telephone. She remembered the number of the Bayne-Miloy. She snatched the telephone receiver from the hook—and then, as though her arm had suddenly become incapable of further movement, the receiver remained poised halfway to her ear.

Doctor Crang was leaning over the banister, and looking down at her.

With a stifled little cry, Claire replaced the receiver.

Paul Veniza's voice reached her from above.

“Is that you, Claire?” he called.

“Yes, father,” she answered.

Doctor Crang came down the stairs.

“I just dropped in a minute ago—not professionally”—a snarl crept into his voice—“for I have never been informed that your father was ill.”

Claire did not look up.

“It—it wasn't serious,” she said.

“So!” Crang smiled a little wickedly. “I wonder where you get the gambling spirit from? One of these days you'll find out how serious these attacks are!” He took a step forward. “Your father tells me you have been over to Hawkins' room.”

There was a curious hint of both challenge and perverted humor in his voice. It set at rest any lingering doubt Claire might have had.

“Yes,” she said, and faced him now, her eyes, hard and steady, fixed on his.

“Poor Hawkins!” sighed Doctor Crang ironically. “Even the best of us have our vices! It should teach us to be tolerant with others!”

Claire's little form was rigidly erect.

“I wonder if you know how much I hate you?” she said in a tense, low voice.

“You've told me often enough!” A savage, hungry look came into Crang's eyes. “But you're mine, for all that! Mine, Claire! Mine! You understand that, eh?”

He advanced toward her. The door of the inner room, that for weeks, until a few days ago, had been occupied by John Bruce, was just behind her, and she retreated through it. He followed her. She did not want to cry out—the sound would reach the sick room above; and, besides, she dared not show the man that she had any fear.

“Don't follow me like that!” she breathed fiercely.

“Why not?” he retorted, as he switched on the light and closed the door. “I've got the right to, even if I hadn't something that I came over here particularly to-night to tell you about—quite privately.”

She had put the table between them. That he made no effort to come nearer for the moment afforded her a certain relief, but there was something in the smile with which he surveyed her now, a cynical, gloating triumph, that chilled her.

“Well, what is it?” she demanded.

“I trapped that damned lover of yours to-night!” he announced coolly.

Claire felt her face go white. It was true, then! She fought madly with herself for self-possession.

“If you mean Mr. Bruce,” she said deliberately, “I was just going to try to warn him over the phone; though, even then, I was afraid I was too late.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed sharply. “You knew, then?”

Claire shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, yes!” she said contemptuously. “My faith in you where evil is concerned is limitless. I heard your threats. I saw Hawkins a few minutes ago. He was quite—quite helpless. You, or some of your confederates, traded on his weakness, took the key of the car away from him, and then stole the car. Ordinary thieves would not have acted like that.” An icy smile came to her lips. “His landlady thought the police should be notified that the car had been stolen.”

“You always were clever, Claire,” Crang grinned admiringly. “You've got some brains—all there are around here, as far as I can make out. You've got it straight, all right. Mr. John Bruce, Esquire, came out of Lavergne's on being informed that Hawkins was in bad shape—no lie about that!—and walked into the car without a murmur. Too bad to bother the police, though—the car will have been left in front of Hawkins' door again by now.”

It was hard to keep her courage; hard to keep her lips from trembling; hard to keep the tears back; hard to pretend that she was not afraid.

“What are you going to do with him?” Her voice was very low. “The promise that I gave you was on the condition that he lived—not only then, but now.” Crang laughed outright.

“Oh, don't worry about that! He'd never let it get that far. He thinks too much of Mr. Bruce! He has already taken care of himself—at another man's expense.”

Claire stared numbly. She did not understand.

“I'll tell you,” said Crang, with brutal viciousness. “He's a professional gambler, this supposedly wealthy gentleman of leisure. He works for a man in San Francisco named Larmon, who really is wealthy, but who poses as a pillar of the church, or words to that effect. Never mind how, but Larmon will be here to-night in New York—just at the right moment. And Mr. Bruce has very kindly consented to assist in convincing Mr. Larmon that exposure isn't worth the few dollars that would buy him immunity.”

Claire did not speak. Still she did not understand. She sat down wearily in the chair beside the table.

Crang took a letter from his pocket abruptly, and, opening it, laid it in front of Claire.

“I thought perhaps you would like to read it,” he said carelessly.

Claire rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. She stared at the letter. At first the words ran together, and she could not make them out. Then a sentence took form, and then another—and she read them piteously. “... I asked a girl to marry me, and in doing so felt she had the right to my full confidence. She did me in... She read on to the end.

“But it's not true!” she cried out sharply. “I don't believe it!”

“Of course, it isn't true!” said Crang complacently. “And, of course, you don't believe it! But Larmon will. I've only shown you the letter to let you see what kind of a yellow cur this would-be lover of yours is. Anything to save himself! But so long as he wrote the letter, I had no quarrel with him if he wanted to fake excuses for himself that gave him a chance of holding his job with Larmon afterwards.”

It couldn't be true—true that John Bruce had even written the letter, a miserable Judas thing that baited a trap, for one who trusted him, with the good name of a woman for whom he had professed to care. It couldn't be true—but the signature was there, and—and it was genuine: “John Bruce.... John Bruce.... John Bruce.” It seemed to strike at her with the cruel, stinging blows of a whip-lash: “John Bruce.... John Bruce.... John——”

The words became blurred. It was the infinite hopelessness of everything that crushed her fortitude, and mocked it, and made of it at last a beaten thing. A tear fell and splashed upon the page—and still another. She kept looking at the letter, though she could only see it through a blinding mist. And there was something ominous, and something that added to her fear, that she should imagine that her tears made black splashes on the blurred letter as they fell, and——-

She heard a sudden startled snarl from Crang, and the letter was snatched up from the table. And then he seemed to laugh wildly, without reason, as a maniac would laugh—and with the letter clutched in his hand rushed from the room. Claire crushed her hands against her temples. Perhaps it was herself who had gone mad.

The front door banged.