“Why should it be you?” Crang's voice was suddenly hoarse with passion. “Because you have set my brain on fire, because you have filled me with a madness that would mock God Himself if He stood between us. Do you understand—Claire? Claire! Do you understand? Because I want you, because I'm going to have you, because I'm going to own you—yes, own you, one way or another—by marriage, or——”
A low cry came from Claire. It tore at Hawkins' heart in its bitter shame and anguish. His face blanched.
“Well, you asked for it, and you got it!” Crang snarled. “Now, I'm waiting for your answer.”
There was a long pause, then Claire spoke with an obvious effort to steady her voice:
“Have I got to buy him twice?”
“You haven't bought him once yet,” Crang answered swiftly. “I performed my part of the bargain. I haven't been paid.”
And Hawkins, standing there, listening, heard nothing for a long time; and then he distinguished Claire's voice, but it was so low that he could not catch the words. But he heard Crang's reply because it was loud with what seemed like passionate savagery and triumph:
“You're wise, my dear! At eight o'clock to-morrow morning, then. And since Mr. John Bruce's skin is involved in this, you quite understand that he is not to be communicated with in any way?”
“I understand.” Hawkins this time caught the almost inaudible reply.
“All right!” Crang said. “There's a padre I know, who's down on Staten Island now. We'll go down there and be married without any fuss. I'll be here at eight o'clock. Your father isn't fit to ride in that rattle-trap old bus of yours. I'll have a comfortable limousine for him, and you can go with him. Hawkins can drive me, and”—he was laughing softly—“and be my best man. I'll see that he knows about it in time to——”