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!”