John Bruce sat by the window. Occasionally the old woman came and stood in the doorway—and went away again.
There was no sign of Crang.
At fifteen minutes of eight John Bruce rose from his chair and left the house.
“He was to be at Paul Veniza's at eight,” said John Bruce to himself with cool precision.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—THE BEST MAN
HAWKINS sat at the table in his room, and twined and twined one old storm-beaten hand over the other. For hours he had sat like that. It was light in the room now, for it was long after seven o'clock. His bed had not been slept in. He was dressed in his shiny best suit; he wore his frayed black cravat. He had been dressed like that since midnight; since he had returned home after Claire had fled into her house, and John Bruce had strode by him on the sidewalk with set, stony face and unseeing eyes; since, on reaching his room here, he had found a note whose signature was false because it read “Paul Veniza,” when he knew that it came from Crang. Crang was taking precautions that his return should not leak out! The note only corroborated what he had heard through the door. He was to be at Paul Veniza's at eight o'clock with the traveling pawn-shop..
The note had said nothing about any marriage; but, then, he knew! He was to be the best man. And so he had dressed himself. After that he had waited. He was waiting now.
“The first,” said Hawkins, with grave confidence to the cracked mirror. “Yes, that's it—the first in line, because I am her old father, and there ain't nothing can change that.”