“No, Hawkins,” he said. “I don't know where you got that idea; but it won't be to-morrow morning, nor for a good many to-morrow mornings either. Crang at the present moment is on board a ship on his way to South America.”
“I know,” said Hawkins dully. “But half an hour ago I left him with Claire in Paul Veniza's house.”
John Bruce's hand tightened on Hawkins' shoulder until the old man winced.
“You what?” John Bruce cried out.
“Yes,” said Hawkins. “I heard him talking about it in the back room. They didn't know I was there. He said there was something the matter with the engines.”
Crang back! John Bruce's face was set as chiselled marble.
“Do you know what you are saying, Hawkins?” he demanded fiercely, as though to trample down and sweep aside by the brute force of his own incredulity the other's assertion. “Do you know what you are saying—do you?"''
“Yes, I know,” said Hawkins helplessly. “He said you nearly killed him to-day, and——”
John Bruce's laugh, with a savagery that had him now at its mercy and in its grip, rang suddenly through the room.
“Then, for once, he told the truth!” he cried. “He tricked me cold with that old bus last night, and trapped me in the rats' hole where his gang holds out, but——”