Hawkins went on down the street and turned the corner. He had grown a little dejected.
“I'm just an old bum,” said Hawkins, “who ain't ever going to swear off any more 'cause it don't do any good.”
He spoke aloud to himself again, as he approached the door of Paul Veniza's house.
“But I am her daddy,” whispered the old man fiercely; “and she is my little girl. It don't change nothing her not knowing, except—except she ain't hiding her face in shame, and”—Hawkins' voice broke a little—“and that I ain't never had her in these arms like I'd ought to have.” A gleam of anger came suddenly into the watery blue eyes under the shaggy brows. “But he ain't going to have her in his! That devil from the pit of hell ain't going to kill the soul of my little girl—somehow he ain't—that's all I got to live for—old Hawkins—ha, ha!—somehow old Haw-kins 'll——”
Hawkins' soliloquy ended abruptly. He was startled to find himself in the act of opening the front door of the one-time pawn-shop. He even hesitated, holding the door ajar—and then suddenly he pushed the door wider open and stepped softly inside, as the sound of a voice, angry and threatening in its tones, though strangely low and muffled, reached him. He knew that voice. It was Doctor Crang's.
It was dark here in the room that had once been the office of the pawn-shop, and upon which the front door opened directly; but from under the door leading into the rear room there showed a thread of light, and it was from there that Hawkins now placed the voice.
He stood irresolute. He stared around him. Upstairs it was dark. Paul Veniza, because he had not been well, had probably gone to bed early—unless it was Paul in there with Crang. No! He caught the sound of Claire's voice now, and it seemed to come to him brokenly, in a strangely tired, dreary way. And then Crang's voice again, and an ugly laugh.
The wrinkled skin of Hawkins' old weather-beaten hands grew taut and white across the knuckles as his fists clenched. He tiptoed toward the door. He could hear distinctly now. It was Crang speaking:
“... I'm not a fool! I did not speak about it to make you lie again. I don't care where you met him, or how long you had been lovers before he crawled in here. That's nothing to do with it. It's enough that I know you were lovers before that night. But you belong to me now. Understand? I spoke of it because the sooner you realize that you are the one who is the cause of the trouble between Bruce and me, the better—for him! I wasn't crowding you before, but I'm through fooling with it now for keeps. I let you go too long as it is. To-day, for just a little while, he won out—yes, by God, if you want the truth, he nearly killed me. He got me tied in a cabin of a ship that sailed this afternoon for South America; but the engines broke down in the harbor, and, damn him, I'm back! You know what for. I've told you. There's one way to save him. I've told you what that is, too. I'm waiting for your answer.”
“Why should it be me?” Claire's voice was dull and colorless. “Why cannot you leave me alone—I, who hate and loathe you? Do you look for happiness with me? There will be none.”