The woman stood for a long time in the doorway watching him. Finally she went away. John Bruce's mind was coldly logical. Crang was not aware that his escape was known to any one except Claire, and he had been cunning enough to keep under cover. That was why he had not been home. But he would be home before he went out to be married. Even a man like Crang would have a few preparations to make. John Bruce sat by the window. Occasionally the old woman came and stood in the doorway--and went away again. There was no sign of Crang. At fifteen minutes of eight John Bruce rose from his chair and left the house. “He was to be at Paul Veniza's at eight,” said John Bruce to himself with cool precision. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE--THE BEST MAN |HAWKINS sat at the table in his room, and twined and twined one old storm-beaten hand over the other. For hours he had sat like that. It was light in the room now, for it was long after seven o'clock. His bed had not been slept in. He was dressed in his shiny best suit; he wore his frayed black cravat. He had been dressed like that since midnight; since he had returned home after Claire had fled into her house, and John Bruce had strode by him on the sidewalk with set, stony face and unseeing eyes; since, on reaching his room here, he had found a note whose signature was false because it read “Paul Veniza,” when he knew that it came from Crang. Crang was taking precautions that his return should not leak out! The note only corroborated what he had heard through the door. He was to be at Paul Veniza's at eight o'clock with the traveling pawn-shop.. The note had said nothing about any marriage; but, then, he knew! He was to be the best man. And so he had dressed himself. After that he had waited. He was waiting now. “The first,” said Hawkins, with grave confidence to the cracked mirror. “Yes, that's it--the first in line, because I _am_ her old father, and there ain't nothing can change that.” His own voice seemed to arouse him. He stared around the shabby room that was his home, his eyes lingering with strange wistfulness on each old battered, and long familiar object--and then suddenly, with a choking cry, his head went down, buried in his arms outflung across the table. “Pawned!” the old man cried brokenly. “It's twenty years ago, I pawned her--twenty years ago. And it's come to this because--because I ain't never redeemed her--but, oh God, I love her--I love my little girl--and--and she ain't never going to know how much.” His voice died away. In its place the asthmatic gas-jet spat venomous defiance at the daylight that was so contumaciously deriding its puny flame. And after a little while, Hawkins raised his head. He looked at his watch. “It's time to go,” said Hawkins--and cleared his throat.