|JOHN BRUCE stared for a moment longer at the revolver that held a steady bead between his eyes, and at the evil face of Crang that leered at him from the opposite seat; then he deliberately turned his head and stared at the face of still another occupant of the car--a man who sat on the seat beside him. He was trapped--and well trapped! He recognized the other to be the man known as Birdie, who had participated on a certain night in the robbery of Paul Veniza's safe. It was quite plain. The third man in that robbery, whose face he had not seen at the time, was undoubtedly the man who had brought the “message” a few minutes ago, and who was now, with almost equal certainty, engaged in driving the car. Thieving, at least, was in the trio's line! They must somehow or other have stolen the traveling pawn-shop from Hawkins! He smiled grimly. If it had been Birdie now who had brought the message he would never have fallen into the trap! Crang had played in luck and won by a very narrow margin, for Crang was naturally in ignorance that he, John Bruce, had ever seen either of the men before. And then John Bruce thought of the bulky roll of bills which by an equally narrow margin was _not_ in his pocket at that moment, and his smile deepened. Crang spoke for the first time. “Take his gun away from him, if he's got one!” he gnarled tersely. “It's in the breast pocket of my coat,” said John Bruce imperturbably. Birdie, beside John Bruce, reached over and secured the weapon. John Bruce leaned back in his seat. The car was speeding rapidly along now. The minutes passed. None of the three men spoke. Crang sat like some repulsive gargoyle, leering maliciously. John Bruce half closed his eyes against the uncanny fascination of that round black muzzle which never wavered in its direction, and which was causing him to strain too intently upon it. What was the game? How far did Crang intend to go with his insane jealousy? How far would Crang dare to go? The man wasn't doped to-night. Perhaps he was even the more dangerous on that account. Instead of mouthing threats, there was something ominous now, it seemed, in the man's silence. John Bruce's lips drew together. He remembered Claire's insistence that Crang had meant what he said literally--and Claire had repeated that warning over the telephone. Well, if she were right, it meant--_murder_. From under his half closed lids, John Bruce looked around the car. The curtains, as they always were, were closely drawn. The interior was lighted by that same soft central light, only the light was high up now near the roof of the car. Well, if it was to be murder, why not _now?_ The little velvet-topped table was not in place, and there was nothing between himself and that sneering, sallow face. Yes, why not now--and settle it!