“Well, at least, I may say good-night,” he said, as he backed out of the car. “Certainly, sir--good-night, sir,” said the chauffeur calmly--and closed the door, and touched his hat, and climbed back to his seat. John Bruce glared at the man. “Well, I'm damned!” said John Bruce fervently. CHAPTER THREE--SANCTUARY |THE car started off. It turned the corner. John Bruce looked around him. He was standing on precisely the same spot from which he had entered the car. He had been driven around the block, that was all! He caught his breath. Was it real? That wondrous face which, almost as though at the touch of some magician's wand, had risen before him out of the blackness! His blood afire was leaping through his veins again. That face! He ran to the corner and peered down the street. The car was perhaps a hundred yards away--and suddenly John Bruce started to run again, following the car. Madness! His lips had set grim and hard. Who was she that prowled the night in that bizarre traveling pawn-shop? Where did she live? Was it actually the Arabian Nights back again? He laughed at himself--not mirthfully. But still he ran on. The car was outdistancing him. Fool! For a woman's face! Even though it were a divine symphony of beauty! Fool? Love-smitten idiot? Not at all! It was his job! Nice sound to that word in conjunction with that haunting memory of loveliness--job! The traveling pawn-shop turned into Fourth Avenue, and headed downtown. John Bruce caught the sound of a street car gong, spurted and swung breathlessly to the platform of a car going in the same direction. Of course, it was his job! The exquisite Monsieur Henri de Lavergne was mixed up in this. “Hell!” The street car conductor stared at him. John Bruce scowled. He swore again--but this time under his breath. It brought a sudden wild, unreasonable rage and rebellion, the thought that there should be anything, even of the remotest nature, between the glorious vision in that car and the mincing, silken-tongued manager of Larmon's gambling hell. But there was, for all that, wasn't there? How else had she come there? It was the usual thing, wasn't it? And--beware of the conductor! The warning now appeared to be very apt! And how well he had profited by it! A fool chasing a siren's beauty! His face grew very white. “John Bruce,” he whispered to himself, “if I could get at you I'd pound your face to pulp for that!” He leaned out from the platform. The traveling pawn-shop had increased its speed and was steadily leaving the street car behind. He looked back in the opposite direction. The street was almost entirely deserted as far as traffic went. The only vehicle in sight was a taxi bowling along a block in the rear. He laughed out again harshly. The conductor eyed him suspiciously.