He stood aside, allowing her to pass, his face grave and anxious--and then he turned again to Doctor Crang. “She is naturally very upset over what has happened here,” said Doctor Crang easily--and suddenly reaching out grasped Hawkins' arm, and pulled the old man forward to the couch. “Here, you!” he jerked out. “You've got so much to say for yourself--take a look at this fellow!” The old chauffeur bent over the couch. “My God!” he cried out in a startled way. “It's the man we--I--drove to-night!” “Quite so!” observed Doctor Crang. He smiled at Paul Veniza again. “Apart from the fact that the fellow came in through that window with a knife stab in his side that's pretty nearly done for him, Hawkins knows as much about it as either Claire or I do. He's in bad shape. Extremely serious. I will stay with him to-night. He cannot be moved.” He nodded suggestively toward the door. “Hawkins can tell you as much as I can. It's got to be quiet in here. As for Claire”--he seemed suddenly to be greatly disturbed and occupied with the condition of the wounded man on the couch--“that will have to wait until morning. This man's condition is critical. I can't put you out of your own room, but-----” Again he nodded toward the door. For a moment Paul Veniza hesitated--but Doctor Crang's back was already turned, and he was bending over the wounded man, apparently oblivious to every other consideration. He motioned to Hawkins, and the two left the room. Doctor Crang looked around over his shoulder as the door closed. A malicious grin spread over his face. He rubbed his hands together. Then he sat down in his chair again, and began to prepare a solution for his hypodermic syringe. “Yes, yes,” said Doctor Crang softly, addressing the unconscious form of John Bruce, “you'll live, all right, my friend, I'll see to that, though the odds are still against you. You're too--ha, ha!--valuable to die! You played in luck when you drew Sydney Angus Crang, M.D., as your attending physician!” And then Doctor Sydney Angus Crang made a little grimace as he punctured the flesh of his arm with the needle of the hypodermic syringe and injected into himself another dose of cocaine. “Yes,” said Doctor Sydney Angus Crang very softly, his eyes lighting, “too valuable, much too valuable--to die!” CHAPTER FIVE--HAWKINS |IN the outer room, the door closed behind them, Paul Veniza and Hawkins stared into each other's eyes. Hawkins' face had lost its ruddy, weatherbeaten color, and there was a strained, perplexed anxiety in his expression. “D'ye hear what she said?” he mumbled. “D'ye hear what he said? Going to be married! My little girl, my innocent little girl, and--and that dope-feeding devil! I--I don't understand, Paul. What's it mean?” Paul Veniza laid his hand on the other's shoulder, as much to seek, it seemed, as to offer sympathy. He shook his head. “I don't know,” he said blankly.