“I just dropped in a minute ago—not professionally”—a snarl crept into his voice—“for I have never been informed that your father was ill.”
Claire did not look up.
“It—it wasn't serious,” she said.
“So!” Crang smiled a little wickedly. “I wonder where you get the gambling spirit from? One of these days you'll find out how serious these attacks are!” He took a step forward. “Your father tells me you have been over to Hawkins' room.”
There was a curious hint of both challenge and perverted humor in his voice. It set at rest any lingering doubt Claire might have had.
“Yes,” she said, and faced him now, her eyes, hard and steady, fixed on his.
“Poor Hawkins!” sighed Doctor Crang ironically. “Even the best of us have our vices! It should teach us to be tolerant with others!”
Claire's little form was rigidly erect.
“I wonder if you know how much I hate you?” she said in a tense, low voice.
“You've told me often enough!” A savage, hungry look came into Crang's eyes. “But you're mine, for all that! Mine, Claire! Mine! You understand that, eh?”