Hawkins picked up his hat and brushed it carefully with his coat sleeve; his shoulders, and such of his attire as he could reach, he brushed with his hands; he readjusted his frayed black cravat before the cracked mirror. “I'm the best man,” said Hawkins. Oblivious to the chattering gas-jet, he descended the stairs, and went out to the shed in the rear that housed the traveling pawn-shop. “The first in line,” said the old cab driver, as he climbed into the seat. Five minutes later, he drew up in front of the onetime pawn-shop. He consulted his watch as he got down from his seat and entered the house. It was twenty-five minutes of eight. He twisted his hat awkwardly in his hands, as he entered the rear room. He felt a sudden, wild rush of hope spring up within him because there was no sign of Crang. And then the hope died. He was early; and, besides, Claire had her hat on and was dressed to go out. Paul Veniza, also dressed, lay on the cot. No one spoke. Then Paul Veniza's frame was racked with a fit of coughing, and out of a face ashen in pallor his eyes met Hawkins' in silent agony--and then he turned his head away. Hawkins twisted at his hat. “I came a little early;” he said wistfully, “because I thought mabbe you might--that mabbe there might be some change--that mabbe you might not----” He stopped. He was looking at Claire. Her face was very white too. Her smile seemed to cut at his heart like a knife. “No, Hawkins,” she said in a low voice; “there is no change. We are going to Staten Island. You will drive Doctor Crang. There is a limousine coming for father and me, that will be more comfortable for father.” Hawkins' eyes went to the floor. “I--I didn't mean that kind of a change,” he said. “I know you didn't, Hawkins. But--but I am trying to be practical.” Her voice broke a little in spite of herself. “Doctor Crang doesn't know that you overheard anything last night, or that you know anything about the arrangements, so--so I am explaining them to you now.” Hawkins' eyes were still on the floor. “Ain't there nothing”--his voice was thick and husky--“ain't there nothing in all the world that any of us can do to make you change your mind? Claire, ain't there nothing, nothing at all? John Bruce said there wasn't, and you love John Bruce, but----” “Don't, Hawkins!” she cried out pitifully. The old shoulders came slowly up, and the old head; and the old blue eyes were of a sudden strangely flints like. “I've got to know,” said Hawkins, in a dead, stubborn way. “There is nothing,” she answered. Hawkins' eyes reverted to the floor. He spoke now without lifting them.