“She does know,” said John Bruce tersely. “Claire knows!” ejaculated Paul Veniza in surprise. “You--you told her, then?” “No,” John Bruce answered. “I said to her: 'Suppose I were to tell you that the man is a criminal?' She answered: 'He is a criminal.' I said then: 'Suppose he were sent to jail--to serve a sentence?' She answered: 'I would marry him when he came out.'” “My God!” mumbled the old cabman miserably. “I tell you this,” said John Bruce through set teeth, and speaking directly to Paul Veniza, “because it seems to me to be the final proof that mere argument with Claire is useless, and that something more is necessary. I do not ask you to release Hawkins from his pledge; I ask you to believe his promise this time because back of it he knows it may save Claire from what would mean worse than death to her. I believe him; I will vouch for him. Do you agree, Paul Veniza?” For an instant the white-haired pawnbroker seemed lost in thought; then he nodded his head gravely. “In the last few days,” he said slowly, “I have felt that it was no longer my province to masquerade as her father. I know that my influence is powerless. As you have said, it is the crisis, a very terrible crisis, in her life.” He turned toward Hawkins, and held out his hand. “My old friend”--his voice broke--“I pray Heaven to aid you--to aid us all.” Hawkins' blue eyes filled suddenly with tears. “You believe me, too, Paul, this time!” he said in a choking voice. “Listen, Paul! I promise! So help me, God--I promise!” A lump had somehow risen in John Bruce's throat. He turned away, and for a moment there was silence in the room. And then he heard Paul Veniza speak: “She is dear to us all. Let us call her--unless, my old friend, you would rather be alone.” “No, no!” Hawkins cried hurriedly. “I--I want you both; but--but not now, don't call her now.” He swept his hands over his shabby, ill-fitting clothes. “I--not like this. I----” “Yes,” said Paul Veniza gently, “I understand--and you are right. This evening then--at eight o'clock. You will come back here, my old friend, at eight o'clock. And do you remember, it was in this very room, twenty years ago, that----” He did not complete his sentence; the hot tears were streaming unashamed down his cheeks. John Bruce was staring out of the window, the panes of which seemed curiously blurred. “Come,” he heard Paul Veniza say. And then, as the two men reached the door, John Bruce looked around. Hawkins had turned on the threshold. Something seemed to have transfigured the old cab driver's face. It was illumined. There seemed something of infinite pathos in the head held high, in the drooped shoulders resolutely squared. “My little girl!” said Hawkins tenderly. “To-night at eight o'clock--my little girl!” CHAPTER TEN--AT FIVE MINUTES TO EIGHT