Crang did not answer for a moment. The revolver in his hand seemed to edge a little nearer to John Bruce as though to make more certain of its aim. Crang's eyes were alight with passion.
John Bruce did not move. It was over—this second—or the next. Crang's threats were literal. Claire had said so. He knew it. It was in Crang's eyes—a sort of unholy joy, a madman's frenzy. Well, why didn't the man fire and have done with it?
And then suddenly Crang's shoulders lifted in a mocking shrug.
“Maybe you haven't got this—straight,” he said between closed teeth. “I guess I've paid you the compliment of crediting you with a quicker intelligence than you possess! I'll give you thirty minutes alone to think it over and figure out where you stand.”
Crang backed to the door.
The door closed. John Bruce heard the key turn in the lock. He stared about him at the miserable surroundings. Thirty minutes! He did not need thirty minutes, or thirty seconds, to realize his position. He was not even sure that he was thankful for the reprieve. It meant half an hour more of life, but——
Cornered like a rat! To go out at the hands of a degenerate dope fiend... the man had been cunning enough... Hawkins!
John Bruce paced his little section of the cellar. His footsteps made no sound on the soft earth. This was his condemned cell; his warders a batch of gunmen whose trade was murder.
Larmon! They had not been able to trick Larmon into their power so easily, because there wasn't any Hawkins. No, there was—John Bruce. John Bruce was the bait. Queer! Queer that he had ever met Larmon, and queer that the end should come like this.
Faustus hadn't had his fling yet. That quill toothpick with which he had signed——