There was a terrific splash. A mighty rush of water closed over him. Horror, fear, madness possessed his soul. Claire was in there! Claire was in there--and somehow Hawkins had not known! Yes, he had the door handle now! He wrenched and tore at the door. The pressure of the water seemed to pit itself against his strength. He worked like a maniac. It opened. He had it now! It opened. He could scarcely see in the murky water--only the indistinct outlines of two forms undulating grotesquely, the hands of one gripped around the throat of the other--only that, and floating within his reach a woman's dress. He snatched at the dress. His lungs were bursting. Claire! It was Claire! She was in his arms--then blackness--then sunlight again--and then, faintly, he heard a cheer. He held her head above the water. She was motionless, inert. “Claire! Claire!” he cried. Fear, cold, horrible, seized upon him. He swam in mad haste for the iron ladder rungs at the side of the slip. Faces, a multitude of them, seemed to peer at him from above, from the brink of this abyss in which he was struggling. He heard a cheer again. Why were they cheering? Were they cheering because two men were locked in a death grip deep down there in the water below? “Claire!” he cried out again. And then, as his hand grasped the lower rung, she opened her eyes slowly, and a tremor ran through her frame. She lived! Was he weak with the sudden revulsion that swept upon him now? Was that it? He tried to carry her up--and found that it was beyond his strength. And he could only cling there and wait for assistance from above, thankful even for the support the water gave his weight. It was strange! What were those red stains that spread out and tinged the water around him? His arm! Yes, he remembered now! His shoulder and arm! It was the loss of blood that must have sapped his strength, that must be sapping it now so that--- “John!” Claire whispered. “You--John!” He buried his face in the great wet masses of hair that fell around her. Weak? No, he was not weak! He could hold her here always--always. He felt her clutch spasmodically at his arm. “And--and Hawkins, John?” she faltered. He lifted his head and stared at the water. Little waves rippled across its surface, gamboling inconsequentially--at play. There wasn't anything else there. There never would be. He made no answer. A sob shook her shoulders. “How--how did it happen?” she whispered again. “I think a--a gear jammed, or something,” he said huskily. He heard her speak again, but her voice was very low. He bent his head until it rested upon hers to catch the words. She was crying softly. “Dear, dear Hawkins--dear Daddy Hawkins,” she said. A great mist seemed to gather before John Bruce's eyes. A voice seemed to come again, Hawkins' voice; and words that he understood now, Hawkins' words: “I've left the light burning.” THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pawned, by Frank L. Packard