It was Larmon standing over them. John Bruce scarcely turned his head. His hands were still on Crang's throat, though the man lay cowed and passive now.
“His inside coat pocket!” John Bruce jerked out. “It will save a lot of explanation.”
Larmon leaned over and thrust his hand into Crang's pocket. He produced several envelopes and the slip of paper cut from John Bruce's letter.
“Read the slip!” said John Bruce grimly. “He showed it to me a minute ago when he came in to tell me you were here. It was written in our invisible ink at the bottom of the letter he brought you.” He laughed shortly. “When you've read it, I'll introduce you.”
Larmon read the slip hurriedly.
“Good God!” he cried out.
“This is Crang,” said John Bruce evenly.
“But”—Larmon's face was tense and strained—“how———”
“How did he discover there was anything there to begin with, and then hit on the salt solution?” John Bruce interrupted. “I don't know. We'll find out.” He relaxed his hold a little on Crang's throat, and taking the slip of paper from Larmon, thrust it into his own pocket. “Go on, Crang! Tell us!”
Crang's eyes roved from John Bruce to Larmon and back to John Bruce again. His face was ashen. He shook his head.