John Bruce's brows gathered into tight furrows. His mind had flown off at a tangent. There was Claire! It had not been like Claire. Nor had he meant, nor did he intend now to accept her dismissal as final. But what was it that had happened? What was it? He could think of only one thing--the letter he had written to Larmon, and which, on that account, he had asked for and received back from the other. It was a certainty that Crang's hand was in this somewhere, and Crang had said that he had shown the letter to Claire, but---- The telephone rang. John Bruce stepped to the desk, and picked up the instrument. “Yes? Hello!” he said. The clerk's voice from the office answered him: “There's a man down here, Mr. Bruce, who insists on seeing you. He's pretty seedy, and looks as though he had been on a bat for a week. I'm sorry to bother you, but we can't get rid of him. He says his name is Hawkins.” “Send him up at once!” said John Bruce sharply. “Yes, sir.” The clerk coughed deprecatingly. “Very well, Mr. Bruce. Thank you.” Hawkins! John Bruce walked to the door of his suite, and opened it. He looked at his watch. It was getting on now to eleven o'clock. What on earth had brought Hawkins up here to the Bayne-Miloy at this hour? He smiled a little grimly as he stood waiting on the threshold, and the recollection of the night before last came back to him. Well, at least, he was safe to-night from any kidnaping through the medium of Hawkins! The elevator door clanged a little way down the corridor, and Hawkins, followed by a bell boy, stepped out. “This way, Hawkins!” John Bruce called--and dismissed the bell boy with a wave of his hand. And then, as Hawkins reached the door, John Bruce stared in amazement, and for a moment absolved the clerk for his diagnosis. Hawkins' face was like parchment, devoid of color; his hands, twisting at the old felt hat, trembled as with the ague; and the blue eyes, fever-burned they seemed, stared out in a fixed way from under the shaggy brows. John Bruce pulled the old man inside the apartment, and closed the door. “Good Lord, Hawkins!” he exclaimed anxiously. “What's the matter with you?” Hawkins caught at John Bruce's arm. “It's to-morrow morning,” he said hoarsely. “Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.” “What is?” inquired John Bruce. He forced the old cabman gently into a chair. “You're upset, Hawkins. Here--wait! I'll get you something.” But Hawkins held him back. “I don't want a drink.” There was misery, bitterness, in Hawkins' voice. “I don't want a drink--for once. It's come! It--it's come to the end now. Crang and--and my little girl are going to be married to-morrow morning.” And then John Bruce laughed quietly, and laid his hand reassuringly on the old cabman's shoulder. “No, Hawkins,” he said. “I don't know where you got that idea; but it won't be to-morrow morning, nor for a good many to-morrow mornings either. Crang at the present moment is on board a ship on his way to South America.”