“Why, yes,” said Crang readily. “I did not actually see the telegram, but Bruce told me it was from a friend of his, a Mr. Peters, who would arrive in New York Wednesday night, and whom he seemed to think he needed pretty badly in his present scrape.” Larmon took a turn or two up and down the room. He halted again before Crang. “I am obliged to admit that I am both anxious and considerably at sea,” he said deliberately. “There seems to be an air of mystery surrounding all this that I neither like nor understand. You did not allay my fears last night when you telephoned me. Have you no more to tell me?” Crang shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “You've got everything I know. Bruce has been like a clam as far as the nature of what is between himself and this gang is concerned. He will have to tell you himself--if he will. He won't tell me. Meanwhile, he sent you this.” Crang reached into his pocket and took out the envelope addressed to Mr. R. L. Peters, that he had taken pains to seal the night before. Larmon took the envelope, stepped over to the window, presumably for better light, and opening the letter, began to read it. Crang watched the other furtively. The quill toothpick, from a series of violent gyrations, became motionless between Larmon's lips. The thin face seemed to mold itself into sharp, dogged lines. Again and again Larmon appeared to read the letter over; and then the hand that held the sheet of paper dropped to his side, and he stood for a long time staring out of the window. Finally he turned slowly and came back across the room. “This is bad, Mr. Anderson--far worse than I had imagined,” he said in a hard voice. “I believe you said you would take me to Bruce. This letter asks me to accompany you, and I see we are to go at once.” He motioned toward a box of cigars on the table. “Help yourself to a cigar, Mr. Anderson, and take a chair while I change and get ready. I will only be a few minutes, if you will excuse me for that length of time?” Crang's face expressed concern. “Why, certainly, Mr. Peters,” he agreed readily. He helped himself to a cigar, and sat down in a chair. “I'm sorry if it's as bad as that.” Larmon made no answer, save to nod his head gravely as he stepped quickly toward the door of the apartment's adjoining room. Crang struck a match and lighted his cigar. The door of the connecting room closed behind Larmon. A cloud of blue smoke veiled Crang's face--and a leer that lighted his suddenly narrowed eyes. “So that's it, is it?” grinned Crang to himself. “I wondered how he was going to work it! Well, I guess he would have got away with it, too--if I hadn't got away with it first!” He sat motionless in his chair--and listened. And suddenly he smiled maliciously. The sound of running water from a tap turned on somewhere on the other side of the connecting door reached him faintly. “And now a little salt!” murmured Doctor Sydney