At a motion from the Automaton a dark-skinned Madagascan stepped forward
and lighted the five candles. At once a dense smoke began drifting from
the candles.
The men looked at one another, showing an uncomfortable fear of what the
negro and the Automaton were doing. Even the negro edged away fearfully
and all crouched back, afraid of the fumes.
A moment later the Automaton, with a mighty blast of air, snuffed all
the candles at once, then, without a word, picked up the candlestick and
stalked off through the passage on the opposite side of the den from the
entrance, the passage that led to the Graveyard of Genius.
A few moments later the secret rock door from this passage into the
Graveyard swung open and the Automaton stalked in, going carefully,
noiselessly, now. Across the floor he walked to the steel door, which he
swung open, then on out into the cellar of Brent Rock and up the steps
to the door under the stairs that led to the hallway of the great house.
In the hall the Automaton halted beside a small stand on which stood a
candlestick exactly like the one he carried. Quickly he picked up the
original candlestick and replaced it by the one he carried. Then he set
the original back of the portières, and with a glance at the library
door turned back to the cellar, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
Down the steps he went, toward the open door of the Graveyard of Genius.
Beside the door was the fuse-box of the lighting system of the house.
The Automaton reached out and began rubbing sharply at the insulation of
the feed wires.
Up-stairs, in the dining-room, Brent had by this time flung off his coat
and was examining with Flint the curious model the adventurer had
brought from Madagascar. Brent was very excited and questioned Flint
eagerly.
"I tell you, Flint," cried Brent, at length, huskily, as he seized a pen
and dipped in into the ink, "the time has come for me to do what I have
long intended. I am going to do now what I should have done years ago."
Brent started to write feverishly:
QUENTIN LOCKE,--I have done you a great injury about which you know
nothing, but I am willing to--
His hand had scarcely traced the last word when the room was plunged
into absolute darkness.
Down in the cellar the Automaton had succeeded in rubbing off the
insulation of the feed wires. There was a flash of light as he laid his
steel hand over the two feed wires--then darkness.
In the dining-room Brent and Flint, already keyed to the highest pitch,
leaped to their feet with an exclamation of terror.
Late as it was, Locke was working in his laboratory on the second floor
of the house when the lights winked out. Surprised for the moment, he
ran out into the hall.
Already there was the butler, groping about with a candle.
"What's the matter, Quentin?" asked a breathless voice behind them.
It was Eva in a filmy dressing-gown. Locke turned to vision a creation
of loveliness in the candle-light which set his heart thumping.
"Nothing," he reassured. "Just the lights short-circuited, that's all.
I'll see."
Just then the dining-room door opened and Eva saw her father, disheveled
and preoccupied, stride out and take the five-branched candlestick from
the hall table. Nervously he began to light the candles. They sputtered
a bit and he turned quickly, still holding the candlestick, as the smoke
drifted away from them all.
"Fix the fuses in the cellar," he directed the butler.
"Is anything--really the matter--father?" implored Eva.
"No, no, my child," he answered, hastily. "Go back to bed. And, Locke,
please don't let us be disturbed."
He was about to say more, then decided not to do so, and turned back
into the dining-room.
Again Brent carefully locked the door to the dining-room and rejoined
Flint.
He had placed the candles on the table, not noticing in the half-light
that the smoke from them was growing denser as they burned down.
The smoke drifted over as the draught carried it. Flint coughed and
moved a bit, his hand at his throat.
Brent seized the pen again and was about to write, when the smoke from
the candles drifted into his own face. He, too, coughed.
Uneasy, Brent glanced over at Flint. Flint laughed, a bit hysterically.
"What the devil's the matter?" demanded Brent, with lowered brows, a
strange dryness in his throat.
Flint was now leaning forward on his elbows and laughing foolishly,
stupidly. It was a queer laugh, and struck terror into Brent as he
himself coughed and clutched involuntarily at his throat. Brent stared
at Flint.
"What is it?" he repeated, anxiously. "Have you suddenly gone mad, man?"
But there was no reply. Instead, Flint laughed all the more madly.
Brent was more than startled. If he could have seen himself in a glass
he would have seen that he was already wide-mouthed and disheveled.
Suddenly the smoke again blew in his face. He coughed again. His head
reeled.
Then, in a flash, it all dawned on him.
He shielded himself from the candles. But it was too late.
"My God!" he exclaimed, starting up. "The Madagascar madness!"
Brent looked about wildly. He rushed to Flint and shook him. But Flint
only laughed. He turned and moved toward the candles, reaching out for
them. But even as he did so his hand faltered.
He stopped and passed his hand across his tightening forehead. Slowly
over his face came a stupid expression. He felt himself going, without
power of retraining himself. His lips twitched and he swayed.
Then he began to laugh uncontrollably.
Flint rose and clapped him on the shoulder. Then both laughed foolishly,
loudly.
They were beyond help. It was the laughing madness.
Outside, in the hall, Eva and Locke had been standing, talking for a
moment, when suddenly, below, they heard a terrific noise in the cellar.
Involuntarily Eva's hand clutched Locke's arm. Locke drew a revolver
and, in spite of Eva's fearsome caution, hastened down the cellar
stairs.
About in the blackness of the cellar he groped until his foot touched
something soft, a mass on the floor. He bent over. It was the butler, in
a heap, unconscious, but still breathing.
There was not a sound, not another being in the cellar.
Together Eva and Locke helped the now half-conscious man to his feet and
pushed and pulled him up the stairs; as slowly he recovered his power of
speech.
"What was it--tell us?" urged Locke.
"I--I went down to fix the fuses--as the master ordered," muttered the
butler, incoherently. "A huge figure--steel hand--it flung me across the
floor--the last I remember."
He passed his hand over his head as though recollection even was too
horrible for description.
Locke listened a bit doubtfully, then sent the butler on his way to bed,
while Eva could scarcely restrain her fears.
Over to the dining-room door Locke strode and listened. There was
nothing but the sound of merriment inside, of uncontrollable laughter.
Could it be that Brent and Flint were drinking? He dared not betray a
fear to Eva. Instead he knocked.
At that moment he could hear the sound of some heavy body falling; then
more laughter as Brent in his hysteria struck the model of the automaton
to the floor.
With the model, unnoticed by Brent, now fluttered to the floor the
letter he had been writing. But the madman paid no attention to that now
as it sifted through the air and fluttered under the sideboard.
"Mr. Brent," called Locke, "please open the door."
Instead of an answer came a loud and insulting laugh, followed by an
incoherent mouthing of words. Eva looked startled, blanched. It was so
unlike her father. For the moment Locke was piqued. But he tried not to
show it as he turned away from the door.
"I am your father's employe," he said, sadly, "and it is his privilege,
I suppose, to laugh at me." He hesitated.
"Oh, but, Quentin--Mr. Locke--I'm--I'm so sorry. Surely he could not
have meant it."
At the head of the stairs Locke tried to smile.
"Don't worry," he said, repressing his feelings. "It will make no
difference between us. Good night."
They parted, Eva closing her door for a sleepless night, Locke to work
far into the night in his laboratory until sheer exhaustion overcame his
feelings.
Meanwhile, in the dining-room, the two men kept terrible vigil, hour
after hour, oblivious of time, in wild and wanton laughter--maniacal
abandon.
A terrible blow had been struck and Reason was tottering on her throne.
Two men had been stricken by an unknown hand--stark, stark mad.