John Bruce tossed the ticket on the couch. “There's your ticket!” he said sternly. “I wouldn't advise you to come back--nor worry any further about exposing Mr. Larmon, unless you want to force a showdown that will place some very interesting details connected with the life of Doctor Crang in the hands of the police!” The bugle rang out again. John Bruce, without a further glance in Crang's direction, opened the cabin window slightly, then unlocking the door, he motioned Larmon to pass out. He locked the door on the outside, stepped to the deck, tossed the key through the window to the floor of Crang's cabin, and drew the window shut again. A minute more, and with Larmon beside him, he was standing on the dock. Neither John Bruce nor Larmon spoke. And presently the tugs caught hold of the big liner and warped her out of her berth. “John Bruce” had sailed for South America. CHAPTER NINETEEN--CABIN H-14 |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...