“I know,” said Hawkins dully. “But half an hour ago I left him with Claire in Paul Veniza's house.” John Bruce's hand tightened on Hawkins' shoulder until the old man winced. “You what?” John Bruce cried out. “Yes,” said Hawkins. “I heard him talking about it in the back room. They didn't know I was there. He said there was something the matter with the engines.” Crang back! John Bruce's face was set as chiselled marble. “Do you know what you are saying, Hawkins?” he demanded fiercely, as though to trample down and sweep aside by the brute force of his own incredulity the other's assertion. “Do you know what you are saying--_do you?”_ “Yes, I know,” said Hawkins helplessly. “He said you nearly killed him to-day, and----” John Bruce's laugh, with a savagery that had him now at its mercy and in its grip, rang suddenly through the room. “Then, for once, he told the truth!” he cried. “He tricked me cold with that old bus last night, and trapped me in the rats' hole where his gang holds out, but----” Hawkins stumbled to his feet. His face seemed to have grown grayer still, more haggard and full of abject misery. “That's it, then!” he whispered. “I--I understand now. I was drunk last night. Oh, my God, I'm to blame for this, too!” John Bruce pushed Hawkins almost roughly back into his chair. Last night was gone. It was of no significance any more. “Never mind about that!” he said between his teeth. “It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now except Claire. Go on, tell me! What does it mean? To-morrow morning, you said. Why this sudden decision about to-morrow morning?” Hawkins' lips seemed dry. He circled them again and again with his tongue. “He said you nearly killed him to-day, as I--I told you,” said Hawkins, fumbling for his words. “And he said that you had been lovers before that night when you were stabbed, and that he wasn't going to stand for it any longer, and--and”--Hawkins' voice broke--“and that she belonged to him. And he said she was the only one who could stop this trouble between you and him before it was too late, and that was by marrying him at once. And--and Claire said she would.” Hawkins stopped. His old felt hat was on his knees, and he twisted at it aimlessly with shaking fingers. John Bruce stood motionless. “Go on!” he bit off his words. “That's all,” said Hawkins, “except he made her promise not to let you know anything about it. They're going to leave the house to-morrow morning, and are going down to Staten Island to get married because there's some minister down there he knows, Crang said. And I'm to take Crang, and--and”--the old man turned away his face--“I--I'm to be best man. That--that's what he said--best man.” John Bruce walked abruptly to the window, and stared blindly out into the night. His brain seemed afire. For a time neither man spoke. “You said you loved her,” said Hawkins at last. “I came to you. There wasn't any other place to go. Paul Veniza can't do anything.”