John Bruce walked abruptly to the window, and stared blindly out into the night. His brain seemed afire.
For a time neither man spoke.
“You said you loved her,” said Hawkins at last. “I came to you. There wasn't any other place to go. Paul Veniza can't do anything.”
John Bruce turned from the window, and walking to
Hawkins, laid his two hands on the other's shoulders. He was calmer now.
“Yes, I love her,” he said huskily. “And I think—I am not sure—but I think now there is a chance that she can be made to change her mind even here at the last minute. But that means I must see her; or, rather, that she must see me.”
Hawkins paused in the twisting of his felt hat to raise bewildered eyes.
“I've got the car here,” he said. “I'll take you down.”
“The car!” exclaimed John Bruce quickly. “Yes, I never thought of that! Listen, Hawkins! Claire refused to see me this afternoon, or even to talk to me over the telephone. I am not quite sure why. But no matter what her reason was, I must see her now at once. I have something to tell her that I hope will persuade her not to go on with this to-morrow morning—or ever.” His voice was growing grave and hard. “I hope you understand, Hawkins. I believe it may succeed. If it fails, then neither you nor I, nor any soul on earth can alter her decision. That's all that I can tell you now.”
Hawkins nodded his head. A little color, eagerness, hope, had come into his face.