He stood irresolute. He stared around him. Upstairs it was dark. Paul Veniza, because he had not been well, had probably gone to bed early--unless it was Paul in there with Crang. No! He caught the sound of Claire's voice now, and it seemed to come to him brokenly, in a strangely tired, dreary way. And then Crang's voice again, and an ugly laugh. The wrinkled skin of Hawkins' old weather-beaten hands grew taut and white across the knuckles as his fists clenched. He tiptoed toward the door. He could hear distinctly now. It was Crang speaking: “... I'm not a fool! I did not speak about it to make you lie again. I don't care where you met him, or how long you had been lovers before he crawled in here. That's nothing to do with it. It's enough that I know you were lovers before that night. But you belong to me now. Understand? I spoke of it because the sooner you realize that _you_ are the one who is the cause of the trouble between Bruce and me, the better--_for him!_ I wasn't crowding you before, but I'm through fooling with it now for keeps. I let you go too long as it is. To-day, for just a little while, he won out--yes, by God, if you want the truth, he nearly killed me. He got me tied in a cabin of a ship that sailed this afternoon for South America; but the engines broke down in the harbor, and, damn him, I'm back! You know what for. I've told you. There's one way to save him. I've told you what that is, too. I'm waiting for your answer.” “Why should it be me?” Claire's voice was dull and colorless. “Why cannot you leave me alone--I, who hate and loathe you? Do you look for happiness with me? There will be none.” “Why should it be you?” Crang's voice was suddenly hoarse with passion. “Because you have set my brain on fire, because you have filled me with a madness that would mock God Himself if He stood between us. Do you understand--Claire? Claire! Do you understand? Because I want you, because I'm going to have you, because I'm going to own you--yes, _own_ you, one way or another--by marriage, or----” A low cry came from Claire. It tore at Hawkins' heart in its bitter shame and anguish. His face blanched. “Well, you asked for it, and you got it!” Crang snarled. “Now, I'm waiting for your answer.” There was a long pause, then Claire spoke with an obvious effort to steady her voice: “Have I got to buy him _twice?”_ “You haven't bought him _once_ yet,” Crang answered swiftly. “I performed my part of the bargain. I haven't been paid.” And Hawkins, standing there, listening, heard nothing for a long time; and then he distinguished Claire's voice, but it was so low that he could not catch the words. But he heard Crang's reply because it was loud with what seemed like passionate savagery and triumph: “You're wise, my dear! At eight o'clock to-morrow morning, then. And since Mr. John Bruce's skin is involved in this, you quite understand that he is not to be communicated with in any way?”