“He will live, Claire, my dear! By God, I'd like to have done that piece of work in a clinic! Some of 'em would sit up! D'ye hear, Claire, he'll live!”
She was conscious that he was studying her; she did not look at him, nor did she answer.
An eternity seemed to pass. She heard a motor stop outside in front of the house. That would be her father and Hawkins.
The front door opened and closed, footsteps entered the room—and suddenly seemed to quicken and hurry forward. She rose from her chair.
“What's this? What's the matter? What's happened?” a tall, white-haired man cried out.
It was Doctor Crang who answered.
“Oh—this, Mr. Veniza?” He waved his hand indifferently toward the couch. “Nothing of any importance.” He shrugged his shoulders in cool imperturbability, and smiled into the grave, serious face of Paul Veniza. “The really important thing is that Claire has promised to be my wife.”
For an instant no one moved or spoke—only Doctor Crang still smiled. And then the silence was broken by a curious half laugh, half curse that was full of menace.
“You lie!” Hawkins, the round, red-faced chauffeur, had stepped from behind Paul Veniza, and now faced Doctor Crang. “You lie! You damned coke-eater! I'd kill you first!”
“Drunk—again!” drawled Doctor Crang contemptuously. “And what have you to do with it?”