JOHN BRUCE stared for a moment longer at the revolver that held a steady bead between his eyes, and at the evil face of Crang that leered at him from the opposite seat; then he deliberately turned his head and stared at the face of still another occupant of the car—a man who sat on the seat beside him. He was trapped—and well trapped! He recognized the other to be the man known as Birdie, who had participated on a certain night in the robbery of Paul Veniza's safe. It was quite plain. The third man in that robbery, whose face he had not seen at the time, was undoubtedly the man who had brought the “message” a few minutes ago, and who was now, with almost equal certainty, engaged in driving the car. Thieving, at least, was in the trio's line! They must somehow or other have stolen the traveling pawn-shop from Hawkins!

He smiled grimly. If it had been Birdie now who had brought the message he would never have fallen into the trap! Crang had played in luck and won by a very narrow margin, for Crang was naturally in ignorance that he, John Bruce, had ever seen either of the men before. And then John Bruce thought of the bulky roll of bills which by an equally narrow margin was not in his pocket at that moment, and his smile deepened.

Crang spoke for the first time.

“Take his gun away from him, if he's got one!” he gnarled tersely.

“It's in the breast pocket of my coat,” said John Bruce imperturbably.

Birdie, beside John Bruce, reached over and secured the weapon.

John Bruce leaned back in his seat. The car was speeding rapidly along now.

The minutes passed. None of the three men spoke. Crang sat like some repulsive gargoyle, leering maliciously.

John Bruce half closed his eyes against the uncanny fascination of that round black muzzle which never wavered in its direction, and which was causing him to strain too intently upon it. What was the game? How far did Crang intend to go with his insane jealousy? How far would Crang dare to go? The man wasn't doped to-night. Perhaps he was even the more dangerous on that account. Instead of mouthing threats, there was something ominous now, it seemed, in the man's silence. John Bruce's lips drew together. He remembered Claire's insistence that Crang had meant what he said literally—and Claire had repeated that warning over the telephone. Well, if she were right, it meant—murder.

From under his half closed lids, John Bruce looked around the car. The curtains, as they always were, were closely drawn. The interior was lighted by that same soft central light, only the light was high up now near the roof of the car. Well, if it was to be murder, why not now? The little velvet-topped table was not in place, and there was nothing between himself and that sneering, sallow face. Yes, why not now—and settle it!

He straightened almost imperceptibly in his seat, as impulse suddenly bade him fling himself forward upon Crang. Why not? The sound of a revolver shot would be heard in the street, and Crang might not even dare to fire at all. And then John Bruce's glance rested on the man beside him—and impulse gave way to common sense. He had no intention of submitting tamely and without a struggle to any fate, no matter what it might be, that Crang proposed for him, but that struggle would better come when there was at least a chance. There was no chance here. Birdie, on the seat beside him, held a deadlier and even more effective weapon than was Crang's revolver, a silent thing—a black-jack.

“Wait! Don't play the fool! You'll get a better chance than this!” the voice of what he took to be common sense whispered to him.

The car began to go slower. It swerved twice as though making sharp turns; and then, running still more slowly, began to bump over rough ground.

Crang spoke again.

“You can make all the noise you want to, if you think it will do you any good,” he said viciously; “but if you make a move you are not told to make you'll be carried the rest of the way! Understand?”

John Bruce did not answer.

The car stopped. Birdie opened the door on his side, and stepped to the ground. He was joined by the man who had driven the car, and who, as John Bruce now found he had correctly assumed, had acted as the decoy at the gambling house.

“Get out!” ordered Doctor Crang curtly.

John Bruce followed Birdie from the car. It was dark out here, exceedingly dark, but he could make out that the car had been driven into a narrow lane, and that they were close to the wall of a building of some sort. The two men gripped him by his arms. He felt the muzzle of Crang's revolver pressed into the small of his back.

“Mind your step!” cautioned Birdie gruffly.

It was evidently the entrance to a cellar. John Bruce found himself descending a few short steps; and then, on the level again, he was guided forward through what was now pitch blackness. A moment more and they had halted, but not before John Bruce's foot had come into contact with a wall or partition of some kind in front of him. One of the men who gripped his arms knocked twice with three short raps in quick succession.

A door opened in front of them, and for an instant John Bruce was blinded by a sudden glare of light; but the next instant, his eyes grown accustomed to the transition, he saw before him a large basement room, disreputable and filthy in appearance, where half a dozen men sat at tables drinking and playing cards.

A shove from the muzzle of Crang's revolver urged John Bruce forward into an atmosphere that was foul, hot and fetid, and thick with tobacco smoke that floated in heavy, sinuous layers in mid-air. He was led down the length of the room toward another door at the opposite end. The men at the tables, as he passed them, paid him little attention other than to leer curiously at him. They greeted Birdie and his companion with blasphemous familiarity; but their attitude toward Crang, it seemed to John Bruce, was one of cowed and abject respect.

John Bruce's teeth closed hard together. This was a nice place, an ominously nice place—a hidden den of the rats of the underworld, where Crang was obviously the leader. He was not so sure now that the promptings of so-called common sense had been common sense at all! His chances of escaping, practically hopeless as they had been in the car, would certainly have been worth trying in view of this! He began to regret his “common sense” bitterly now.

He was in front of the door toward which they had been heading now. It was opened by Birdie, and John Bruce was pushed into a small, dimly-lighted, cave-like place. Crang said something in a low voice to the two men, and, leaving them outside, entered himself, closing the door only partially behind him.

For a moment they faced each other, and then Crang laughed—tauntingly, in menace.

John Bruce's eyes, from Crang's sallow face, and from Crang's revolver, swept coolly over his surroundings. A mattress, a foul thing, lay on the ground in one corner. There was no flooring here in the cellar. A small incandescent bulb hung from the roof. There was one chair and a battered table—nothing else; not even a window.

“It was like stealing from a child!” sneered Crang suddenly. “You poor mark!”

“Quite so!” said John Bruce calmly. “And the more so since I was warned that you were quite capable of—murder. I suppose that is what I am here for.”

“Oh, you were warned, were you?” Crang took an abrupt step forward, his lips working. An angry purple clouded the pallor of his face. “More of that love stuff, eh? Well, by God, here's the end of it! I'll teach you with your damned sanctimonious airs to fool around the girl I'm going to marry! You snivelling hypocrite, you didn't tell her who you were, did you?”

John Bruce stared blankly.

“Who I am?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

Crang for the moment was silent. He seemed to be waging a battle with himself to control his passion.

“I'm too clever a man to lose my temper, now I've got you!” he rasped finally. “That's about the size of your mentality! The sweet, naÏve, innocent rÔle! Yes, I said a snivelling hypocrite! You don't eat dope, but perhaps you've heard of a man named Larmon—Mr. Gilbert Larmon, of San Francisco!”

To John Bruce it seemed as though Crang's words in their effect were something like one of those blows the same man had dealt him on his wounded side in that fight of the other night. They seemed to jar him, and rob his mind of quick thinking and virility—and yet he was quite sure that not a muscle of his face had moved.

“You needn't answer,” Crang grinned mockingly. “If you haven't met him, you'll have the opportunity of doing so in a few hours. Mr. Larmon will arrive in New York to-night in response to the telegram you sent him.”

“I know you said you were clever,” said John Bruce shortly, “and I have no doubt this is the proof of it! But what is the idea? I did not send a telegram to any one.

“Oh, yes, you did!” Crang was chuckling evilly.

“It was something to the effect that Mr. Larmon's immediate presence in New York was imperative; that you were in serious difficulties. And in order that Mr. Larmon might have no suspicions or anxiety aroused as to his own personal safety, he was to go on his arrival to the Bayne-Miloy Hotel; but was, at the same time, to register under the name of R. L. Peters, and to make no effort to communicate with you until you gave him the cue. The answer to the telegram was to be sent to a—er—quite different address. And here's the answer.”

His revolver levelled, Crang laid a telegram on the table, and then backed away a few steps.

John Bruce picked up the message. It was dated from San Francisco several days before, and was authentic beyond question. It was addressed to John Bruce in the care of one William Anderson, at an address which he took to be somewhere over on the East Side. He read it quickly:

Leaving at once and will follow instructions. Arrive Wednesday night. Am exceedingly anxious.

Gilbert Larmon.

“This is Wednesday night,” sneered Crang.

John Bruce laid down the telegram. That Crang in some way had discovered his, John Bruce's connection with Larmon, was obvious. But how—and what did it mean? He smiled coldly. There was no use in playing the fool by denying any knowledge of Larmon. It was simply a question of exactly how much Crang knew.

“Well?” he inquired indifferently.

The door was pushed open, and Birdie came in. He carried pen and ink, a large sheet of paper, and an envelope.

Crang motioned toward the table.

“Put them down there—and get out!” he ordered curtly; and then as the man obeyed, he stared for an instant in malicious silence at John Bruce. “I guess we're wasting time!” he snapped. “I sent the telegram to Larmon a few days ago, and I know all about you and Larmon, and his ring of gambling houses. You talked your fool head off when you were delirious—understand? And——”

John Bruce, his face suddenly white, took a step forward—and stopped, and shrugged his shoulders. Crang's outflung revolver was on a level with his eyes. And then John Bruce turned his back deliberately, and walked to the far end of the little room.

Crang laughed wickedly.

“I am afraid I committed a breach of medical Étiquette,” he said. “I sent to San Francisco and got the dope on the quiet about this Mr. Larmon. I found out that he is an enormously wealthy man; and I also found out that he poses as an immaculate pillar of society. It looks pretty good, doesn't it, Bruce—for me? Two birds with one stone; you for trying to get between me and Claire; and Larmon coughing up the dough to save your hide and save himself from being exposed for what he is!”

John Bruce made no answer. They were not so fanciful now, not so unreal and wandering, those dreams when he had been ill, those dreams in which there had been a man with a quill toothpick, and another with a sinister, loathsome face, whose head was always cocked in a listening attitude.

“Well, I guess you've got it now, all of it, haven't you?” Crang snarled. “It's lucky for you Larmon's got the coin, or I'd pass you out for what you did the other night. As it is you're getting out of it light. There's paper on the table. You write him a letter that will get him down here with a blank check in his pocket. I'll help you to word it.” Crang smiled unpleasantly. “He will be quite comfortable here while the check is going through the bank; for it would be most unfortunate, you know, if he had a chance to stop payment on it. And I might say that I am not worrying at all about any reprisals through the tracing of the check afterward, for if Mr. Larmon is paying me to keep my mouth shut there is no fear of his opening his own.”

John Bruce turned slowly around.

“And if I don't?” he asked quietly.

Crang studied the revolver in his hand for a moment. He looked up finally with a smile that was hideous in its malignancy.

“I'm not sure that I particularly care,” he said. “You are going to get out of my path in any case, though my personal inclination is to snuff you out, and”—his voice rose suddenly—“damn you, I'd like to see you dead; but on the other hand, my business sense tells me that I'd be better off with, say, a hundred thousand dollars in my pocket. Do you get the idea, my dear Mr. Bruce? I am sure you do. And as your medical advisor, for your health is still very much involved, I would strongly urge you to write the letter. But at the same time I want to be perfectly frank with you. There is a tail to it as far as you are concerned. I have a passage in my pocket—a first-class passage, in fact a stateroom where you can be secured so that I may make certain you do not leave the ship prematurely at the dock—for South America, on a steamer sailing to-morrow afternoon. The passage is made out in the name of John Bruce.”

“You seem to have taken it for granted that I would agree to your proposal,” said John Bruce pleasantly.

“I have,” Crang answered shortly. “I give you credit in some respects for not being altogether a fool.”

“In other words,” said John Bruce, still pleasantly, “if I will trap Mr. Larmon into coming here so that you will have him in your power, and can hold him until you have squeezed out of him what you consider the fair amount he should pay as blackmail, or do away with him perhaps, if he is obstinate, I am to go free and sail for South America to-morrow afternoon; failing this, I am to snuff out—I think you called it—at the hands of either yourself or this gentlemanly looking band of apaches you have gathered around you.”

“You haven't made any mistake so far!” said Crang evenly. He jerked his hand toward the table. “It's that piece of paper there, or your hide.”

“Yes,” said John Bruce slowly. He stared for an instant, set-faced, into Crang's eyes. “Well, then, go ahead!”

Crang's eyes narrowed.

“You mean,” his voice was hoarse with menace, “you mean——”

“Yes!” said John Bruce tersely. “My hide!”

Crang did not answer for a moment. The revolver in his hand seemed to edge a little nearer to John Bruce as though to make more certain of its aim. Crang's eyes were alight with passion.

John Bruce did not move. It was over—this second—or the next. Crang's threats were literal. Claire had said so. He knew it. It was in Crang's eyes—a sort of unholy joy, a madman's frenzy. Well, why didn't the man fire and have done with it?

And then suddenly Crang's shoulders lifted in a mocking shrug.

“Maybe you haven't got this—straight,” he said between closed teeth. “I guess I've paid you the compliment of crediting you with a quicker intelligence than you possess! I'll give you thirty minutes alone to think it over and figure out where you stand.”

Crang backed to the door.

The door closed. John Bruce heard the key turn in the lock. He stared about him at the miserable surroundings. Thirty minutes! He did not need thirty minutes, or thirty seconds, to realize his position. He was not even sure that he was thankful for the reprieve. It meant half an hour more of life, but——

Cornered like a rat! To go out at the hands of a degenerate dope fiend... the man had been cunning enough... Hawkins!

John Bruce paced his little section of the cellar. His footsteps made no sound on the soft earth. This was his condemned cell; his warders a batch of gunmen whose trade was murder.

Larmon! They had not been able to trick Larmon into their power so easily, because there wasn't any Hawkins. No, there was—John Bruce. John Bruce was the bait. Queer! Queer that he had ever met Larmon, and queer that the end should come like this.

Faustus hadn't had his fling yet. That quill toothpick with which he had signed——

John Bruce stood stock still—his eyes suddenly fastened on the piece of paper on the table.

“My God!” John Bruce whispered hoarsely.

He ran silently to the door and listened. He could hear nothing. He ran back to the table, threw himself into the chair, and snatching the sheet of paper toward him, took out a fountain pen from his pocket. Near the lower edge of the paper, and in a minutely small hand, he began to write rapidly.

At the end of a few minutes John Bruce stood up. There was neither sign nor mark upon the paper, save an almost invisible impression made by his thumb nail, which he had set as a sign post, as it were, to indicate where he had begun to write. It was a large sheet of unruled paper, foolscap in size, and there was but little likelihood of reaching so far down with the letter that Crang was so insistent upon having, but he did not propose in any event to superimpose anything over what he had just written. He could always turn the sheet and begin at the top on the other side! Again he began to pace up and down across the soft floor, but now there was a grim smile on his face. Behind Larmon and his enormous wealth lay Larmon's secret organization, that, once set in motion, would have little difficulty in laying a dozen Crangs, by the heels. And Crang was yellow. Let Crang but for an instant realize that his own skin was at stake, and he would squeal without hesitation—and what had narrowly escaped being tragedy would dissolve into opera bouffe. Also, it was very nice indeed of Crang to see that the message reached Larmon's hands!

And it was the way out for Claire, too! It was Crang who had mentioned something about two birds with one stone, wasn't it? Claire! John Bruce frowned. Was he so sure after all? There seemed to be something unfathomable between Claire and Crang; the bond between them one that no ordinary means would break.

His brain seemed to go around in cycles now—Claire, Larmon, Crang; Claire, Larmon, Crang.... He lost track of time—until suddenly he heard a key rattle in the lock. And then, quick and silent as a cat in his movements, he slipped across the earthen floor, and flung himself face down upon the mattress.

A moment more, and some one prodded him roughly. His hair was rumpled, his face anxious and dejected, as he raised himself on his elbow. Crang and two of his apaches were standing over him. One of the latter held an ugly looking stiletto.

“Stand him up!” ordered Crang.

John Bruce made no resistance as the two men jerked him unceremoniously to his feet.

Crang came and stared into his face.

“I guess from the look of you,” Crang leered, “you've put in those thirty minutes to good advantage. You're about ready to write that letter, aren't you?”

John Bruce looked around him miserably. He shook his head.

“No—no; I—I can't,” he said weakly. “For God's sake, Crang, you—you know I can't.”

“Sure—I know!” said Crang imperturbably. He nodded to the man with the stiletto. “He's more used to steel than bullets, and he likes it better. Don't keep him waiting.”

John Bruce felt the sudden prick of the weapon on his flesh—it went a little deeper.

“Wait! Stop!” he screamed out in a well-simulated paroxysm of terror. “I—I'll write it.”

“I thought so!” said Crang coolly. “Well, go over there to the table then, and sit down.” He turned to the two men. “Beat it!” he snapped—and the room empty again, save for himself and John Bruce, he tapped the sheet of paper with the muzzle of his revolver. “I'll dictate. Pick up that pen!”

John Bruce obeyed. He circled his lips with his tongue.

“You—you won't do Larmon any harm, will you?” he questioned abjectly. “I—my life's worth more than a little money, if it's only that, and—and, if that's all, I—I'm sure he'd rather pay.”

“Don't apologize!” sneered Crang. “Go on now, and write. Address him as you always do.”

John Bruce dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote in a small hand:

“Dear Mr. Larmon:—”

He looked up in a cowed way.

“All right!” grunted Crang. “I guess we'll kill another bird, too, while we're at it.” He smiled cryptically. “Go on again, and write!”

And John Bruce wrote as Crang dictated:

“I'm here in my rooms in the same hotel with you, but am closely watched. Our compact is known. 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——”

John Bruce's pen had halted.

“Go on!” prompted Crang sharply. “It's got to sound right for Larmon—so that he will believe it. He's not a fool, is he?”

“No,” said John Bruce.

“Well, go on then!”

And John Bruce wrote:

“She was all the time engaged to the head of a gang of crooks.” Crang's malicious chuckle interrupted his dictation.

“I'm not sparing myself, you see. Go on!”

John Bruce continued his writing:

“They are after blackmail now, and threaten to expose you. I telegraphed you to come under an alias because we are up against it and you should be on the spot; but if they knew you were here they would only attach the more importance to it, and the price would go up. They believe you are still in San Francisco, and that I am communicating with you by mail. They are growing impatient. You can trust the bearer of this letter absolutely. Go with him. He will take you where we can meet without arousing any suspicion. I am leaving the hotel now. If possible we should not risk more than one conference together, so bring a blank check with you. There is no other way out. It is simply a question of the amount. I am bitterly sorry that this has happened through me. John Bruce.”

Crang, with his revolver pressed into the back of John Bruce's neck, leaned over John Bruce's shoulder and read the letter carefully.

“Fold it, and put it in that envelope without sealing it, and address the envelope to Mr. R. L. Peters at the Bayne-Miloy Hotel!” he instructed.

John Bruce folded the letter. As he did so, he noted that his signature was a good two or three inches above the thumb nail mark. He placed the letter in the envelope, and addressed the latter as Crang had directed.

Crang moved around to the other side of the table, tucked the envelope into his pocket, and grinned mockingly.

And then without a word John Bruce got up from his chair, and flung himself face down on the mattress again.