John Bruce raised his head abruptly. The front door had opened. A moment later a footstep sounded in the outer room, and then upon the stairs. That would be Paul Veniza returning of course, though he hadn't been gone very long; or was it that he, John Bruce, had been sitting here staring at that closed door for a far longer period than he had imagined? He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the interruption from his mind, and again the wistful smile flickered on his lips. So that was why nothing had been said in his hearing about the robbery! Queer people--with their traveling pawn-shop, which was bizarre; and their standards of honesty, and their unaffected hospitality which verged on the bizarre too, because their genuineness and simplicity were so unostentatious--and so rare. And somehow, suddenly, as he sat there with his chin cupped now in his hands, he was not proud of this contrast--himself on the one hand, a drunkard and a pawnbroker on the other! And then John Bruce raised his head again, sharply this time, almost in a startled way. Was that a cry--in a woman's voice? It was muffled by the closed door, and it was perhaps therefore his imagination; but it---- He was on his feet. It had come again. No door could have shut it out from his ears. It was from Claire upstairs, and the cry seemed most curiously to mingle terror and a passionate anger. He ran across the room and threw the door open. It was strange! It would be Paul Veniza in a new rôle, if the gentle, white-haired old pawnbroker could inspire terror in any one! A rasping, jeering oath--in a man's voice this time--reached him. John Bruce, a sudden fury whipping his blood into lire, found himself stumbling up the stairs. It wasn't Veniza! His mind seemed to convert that phrase into a sing-song refrain: “It wasn't Veniza! It wasn't Veniza!” Claire's voice came to him distinctly now, and there was the same terror in it, the same passionate anger that he had distinguished in her cry: “Keep away from me! I loathe you! It is men like you that prompt a woman to murder! But--but instead, I have prayed God with all my soul to let me die before----” Her voice ended in a sharp cry, a scuffle of feet. It was Crang in there! John Bruce, now almost at the top of the stairs, was unconscious that he was panting heavily from his exertions, unconscious of everything save a new refrain that had taken possession of his mind: “It was Crang in there! It was Crang in there!” It was the door just at the right of the landing. Crang's voice came from there; and the voice was high, like the squeal of an enraged animal: “You're mine! I've got a right to those red lips, you vixen, and I'm going to have them! A man's got the right to take the girl he's going to marry in his arms! Do you think I'm going to be held off forever? You're mine, and----” The words were lost again in a cry from Claire, and in the sound of a struggle--a falling chair, the scuffle once more of feet.