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.