“We bump him off, of course,” said Danglar callously. “He knows all about us, don't he? And I guess we'll square up on what's coming to him! He's put the crimp into us for the last time!” Danglar's voice pitched suddenly hoarse in fury. “That's a hell of a question to ask! What do you think we'd do with a yellow cur that's double-crossed us like that?” Plead for the Adventurer's life? It was useless; it was worse than useless--it would only arouse suspicion toward herself. From the standpoint of any one of the gang, the Adventurer's life was forfeit. Her mind was swift, cruelly swift, in its workings now. There came the prompting to disclose her own identity to tell Danglar that he need not go to the Adventurer to discover the whereabouts of the White Moll, that she was here now before him; there came the prompting to offer herself in lieu of the man she loved. But that, too, was useless, and worse than useless; they would still do away with the Adventurer because he had been the Pug, and the only chance he now had, as represented by whatever she might be able to do, would be gone, since she would but have delivered herself into their hands. She drew back suddenly. Danglar had stepped toward her. She was unable to avoid him, and his arm encircled her waist. She shivered as the pressure of his arm tightened. “It's all right, old girl!” he said exuberantly. “You've been through hell, you have; but it's all right at last. You leave it to me! Your husband's got a kiss to make up for every drop of that grease you've had to put on the prettiest face in New York.” It seemed as though she must scream out. It was hideous. She could not force herself to endure it another instant even for safety's safe. She pushed him away. It was unbearable--at any risk, cost what it might. Mind, soul and body recoiled from the embrace. “Leave me alone!” she panted. “You've been drinking. Leave me alone!” He drew back, and laughed. “Not very much,” he said. “The celebration hasn't started yet, and you'll be in on that. I guess your nerves have been getting shaky lately, haven't they? Well, you can figure on the swellest rest-cure you ever heard of, Bertha. Take it from me! We're going down to keep the Pug company presently. You blow around to Matty's about midnight and get the election returns. We'll finish the job after that by getting Cloran out of the road some way before morning, and that will let you out for keeps--there won't be any one left to recognize the woman who was with Deemer the night he shuffled out.” He backed to the doorway. “Get me? Come over to Matty's and see the rajah's sparklers about midnight. We'll have 'em then--and the she-fiend, too. So long, Bertha!” She scarcely heard him; she answered mechanically. “Good-night,” she said. XIX. DREAD UPON THE WATERS