“Yes,” Crang stammered, “yes—for God's sake—I—I'll do it—I—-”
“Open that door!” said John Bruce monotonously. “I didn't ask you to talk about it!”
Crang opened the door. The little procession stepped out into the long, low cellar, and started down toward the lower end. The three men, from playing dice at the table near the door, rose uncertainly to their feet. John Bruce's revolver in his pocket pressed suggestively against Crang's side.
“It's all right, boys,” Crang called out. “Open the door. I've got Birdie outside.”
They passed the table, passed through the doorway, and the door closed behind them. In the semi-darkness here, as they headed for the exit to the lane, Larmon touched John Bruce's elbow.
“He brought me down here in a taxi,” Larmon whispered. “I suppose now it was one of his men who drove it.”
“Birdie, he just told those rats,” said John Bruce tersely. “Do you hear, Crang? If he's still out there, send him away!”
They emerged into the lane. A taxi-cab stood opposite the exit; Birdie lounged in the driver's seat.
John Bruce's revolver bored into Crang's side.
“Beat it!” said Crang surlily to the man. “I won't want you any more.”