“Help me, John,” she said steadily. “Don't--don't make it harder.” She reached out and touched the bell button beside the seat. In a subconscious way he remembered that was the signal for Hawkins to bring the traveling pawn-shop to the end of its circuit around the block in its old-time trips to Persia. He made no effort to stop her. There was something of ultimate finality in her face and eyes that answered, before it was uttered, the question that stumbled on his lips. “Claire! Claire!” he pleaded wildly. “Will nothing change you?” “There is no other way,” she said. He stretched out his arms to draw her to him again, to lay her head once more upon his shoulder--but now she held him back. “No!” she whispered. “Be merciful now, John--my strength is almost gone.” And there was something in her voice that held him from the act. The car stopped. And then, as the door was opened and she stood up, suddenly she leaned swiftly forward and pressed her lips to his--and springing from the car, was gone. John Bruce groped his way out of the car. Across the sidewalk the door of Paul Veniza's house closed. Hawkins, standing by the car door, clutched at his arm. And Hawkins' hand was trembling violently. Slowly his eyes met Hawkins'. He shook his head. The old lined face seemed to gray even in the murky light of a distant street lamp. “I'd rather see her dead,” said the old cab driver brokenly. John Bruce made no answer. Then Hawkins, gulping his words, spoke again: “I--where'll I drive you?” John Bruce started blindly on past Hawkins down the street. “Nowhere,” he said. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO--THROUGH THE NIGHT |A GAUNT and haggard figure stalked through the night; around him only shuttered windows, darkened houses, and deserted streets. The pavements rang hollow to the impact of his boot-heels. Where the way lay open he went. But always he walked, walked incessantly, without pause, hurrying--nowhere. There was a raw, biting chill in the air, and his hands, ungloved, as they swung at his sides, were blue with cold. But sweat in great beads stood out upon his forehead. At times his lips moved and he spoke aloud. It was a hoarse sound. “Or him!” he said. “Or him!” On! Always on! There was no rest. It was ceaseless. The gray came into the East. And then at last the figure halted. There was a large window with wire grating, and a light burned within. In the window was a plate mirror, and a time-piece. It was a jeweler's window. The man looked at the time-piece. It was five o'clock. He looked at the mirror. It reflected the face of a young man grown old. The eyes burned deep in their sockets; the lines were hard, without softness; the skin was tightly drawn across the cheek bones, and was colorless. And he stared at the face, stared for a time without recognition. And then as he smiled and the face in the mirror smiled with him in a distorted movement of the lips, he swept his hand across his eyes. “John Bruce,” he said.