To John Bruce it seemed as though Crang's words in their effect were something like one of those blows the same man had dealt him on his wounded side in that fight of the other night. They seemed to jar him, and rob his mind of quick thinking and virility--and yet he was quite sure that not a muscle of his face had moved. “You needn't answer,” Crang grinned mockingly. “If you haven't met him, you'll have the opportunity of doing so in a few hours. Mr. Larmon will arrive in New York to-night in response to the telegram you sent him.” “I know you said you were clever,” said John Bruce shortly, “and I have no doubt this is the proof of it! But what is the idea? I did not send a telegram to any one. “Oh, yes, you did!” Crang was chuckling evilly. “It was something to the effect that Mr. Larmon's immediate presence in New York was imperative; that you were in serious difficulties. And in order that Mr. Larmon might have no suspicions or anxiety aroused as to his own personal safety, he was to go on his arrival to the Bayne-Miloy Hotel; but was, at the same time, to register under the name of R. L. Peters, and to make no effort to communicate with you until you gave him the cue. The answer to the telegram was to be sent to a--er--quite different address. And here's the answer.” His revolver levelled, Crang laid a telegram on the table, and then backed away a few steps. John Bruce picked up the message. It was dated from San Francisco several days before, and was authentic beyond question. It was addressed to John Bruce in the care of one William Anderson, at an address which he took to be somewhere over on the East Side. He read it quickly: Leaving at once and will follow instructions. Arrive Wednesday night. Am exceedingly anxious. Gilbert Larmon. “This is Wednesday night,” sneered Crang. John Bruce laid down the telegram. That Crang in some way had discovered his, John Bruce's connection with Larmon, was obvious. But how--and what did it mean? He smiled coldly. There was no use in playing the fool by denying any knowledge of Larmon. It was simply a question of exactly how _much_ Crang knew. “Well?” he inquired indifferently. The door was pushed open, and Birdie came in. He carried pen and ink, a large sheet of paper, and an envelope. Crang motioned toward the table. “Put them down there--and get out!” he ordered curtly; and then as the man obeyed, he stared for an instant in malicious silence at John Bruce. “I guess we're wasting time!” he snapped. “I sent the telegram to Larmon a few days ago, and I know all about you and Larmon, and his ring of gambling houses. You talked your fool head off when you were delirious--understand? And----” John Bruce, his face suddenly white, took a step forward--and stopped, and shrugged his shoulders. Crang's outflung revolver was on a level with his eyes. And then John Bruce turned his back deliberately, and walked to the far end of the little room. Crang laughed wickedly.