The love of a good woman--and young again! John Bruce's face was white. A thousand conflicting emotions seemed to surge upon him. There was something fine and big in what Larmon had done, like the Larmon whose real self he had come to glimpse for the first time last night; and something that was almost ghastly in the unconscious irony that lay behind it all. And for a little while he stood there motionless, holding the letter in his hand; then with a quick, abrupt return to action, he began to tear the letter into little shreds, and from his pocket he took his own copy of the bond and tore that up, and the four pieces of Larmon's copy he tore into still smaller fragments, and gathering all these up in his hands, he walked to the window and let them flutter out into the night. The way was clear. There was nothing to connect Gilbert Larmon with the man who to-morrow--no, _to-day_--would be in the hands of the police charged with murder. Nothing to bring to light Larmon's private affairs, for nothing bearing Larmon's signature had ever been kept; it was always destroyed. Larmon was safe--for, at least, they could never make John Bruce _talk_. There was a strange relief upon him, a strange uplift; not only for Larmon's sake, but for his own. The link that had bound him to the past was gone, broken, dissolved. He stood free--for the little time that was left; he stood free--to make a fresh start in the narrow confines of a prison cell. He smiled grimly. There was no irony here where it seemed all of irony. It meant everything--all. It was the only atonement he could make. He switched off the light, left his room, and went down to the desk. Here he consulted the directory. He requested the clerk to procure a taxi for him. It was five minutes after six by the clock over the desk. He entered the taxi and gave the chauffeur the address. He was unconscious of emotion now. He knew only a cold, fixed, merciless purpose. He was going to kill Crang. The taxi stopped in front of a frame house that bore a dirty brass name-plate. He dismissed the taxi, and mounted the steps. His right hand was in the pocket of his coat. He rang the bell, and obtaining no response, rang again--and after that insistently. The door was finally opened by an old woman, evidently aroused from bed, for she clutched tightly at a dressing gown that was flung around her shoulders. “I want to see Doctor Crang,” said John Bruce. She shook her head. “The doctor isn't in,” she answered. “I will wait for him,” said John Bruce. Again she shook her head. “I don't know when he will be back. He hasn't been here since yesterday morning.” “I will wait for him,” said John Bruce monotonously. “But----” John Bruce brushed his way past her into the hall. “I will wait for him,” he repeated. A door was open off the hallway. John Bruce looked in. It was obviously Crang's office. He went in and sat down by the window.