Locke struggled with superhuman effort to release himself from the
strait-jacket in which he was held prisoner. The throat-straps pressed
against the neck muscles and the strain on the straps could be heard
like pistol-shots as the leather stretched under his prodigous efforts.
With every nerve keyed up and his reflexes answering his keen brain, he
swayed backward and forward, rolled from side to side until his
shoulder-blades were thrown completely out of joint. The pain was
intense, but he summoned every ounce of strength at his command and
finally succeeded in getting one of his arms free by gradually working
his body toward a settee, where, with his elbow on the seat, he pushed
his disjointed arm over his head.
Agony was written all over his face as at last with a final effort he
extricated his arms and was in a position to loosen the straps which
bound them, with his teeth.
Nor was his labor over now. The canvas jacket cut into his flesh and the
buckles bruised his muscles. His body ached with weariness, yet he clung
to his task. Like a thing incarnate he toiled as he realized the danger
that confronted Eva.
Up-stairs, the monster was pursuing Eva. The heavy oaken doors were as
straws to him, and he plunged through them as a mad elephant dashes
through a canebrake. Destruction lay in his wake as he crashed through
the improvised barriers which Eva had constructed to delay his
onslaught. A crouching, desolate figure, she waited for what she knew to
be her end. There was only one barrier left between her and this engine
of destruction. It was only a moment now when she would be a crushed,
mangled mass. With terror in her heart she waited for the thing to crash
through the last remaining barrier, and even now she could hear his
ponderous step as he crossed the room toward the door which would only
momentarily stay his progress. Her lips moved in prayer as she waited
and the dread moments seemed eons to her.
Suddenly she heard a crash, and she could see the panels of sturdy oak
in the door give way as though they were egg-shells. The gigantic fist
of the monster crashed through and she could discern the dim outline of
the enormous head, and the glaring eyes of fire looking toward her. With
a shrill shriek she raised her arms above her head and fell swooning to
the floor just as a pistol-shot rang out.
Locke, disheveled and weak, had released himself from the strait-jacket,
and with the speed of a panther had ascended the stairs. He saw the
monster crashing through the last remaining barrier, and without
hesitation he fired at the thing as he closed in. His one thought was to
delay it or make it swerve in its course momentarily, with the hope that
by some chance Eva might have time to escape. Could he only accomplish
this, he thought his mission successful, regardless of the outcome as
far as he himself was concerned.
He pulled the trigger of his automatic again and again as he rushed
forward. By some strange trick of fate the figure reeled for a second
and one of its arms dropped swinging to its side. The bullet had entered
a joint. Had it in some way deranged the mechanism, causing the
Automaton to turn in its tracks and confront Locke as he charged
forward? Or was some human being concealed in the armored creature and
wounded?
Eva, in her semi-conscious state, saw the mass of metal charge toward
Locke, and closed her eyes so as not to be a witness to his end. She
waited, dumb and helpless with fright, and before her surged the meaning
of this man's great sacrifice for her. In the brief interval she
realized that men of his ilk were few. She realized that her interest in
the young chemist was more than a passing fancy and the truth was driven
home to her in his hour of peril. She closed her eyes and all before her
went blank.
As the Automaton faced Locke voices could be heard in the hall, and the
gardener of Brent Rock, who had summoned aid, came to Locke's
assistance. Armed with clubs and garden tools, the men charged the
monster. Like a lion at bay, the thing turned from its task of
destroying Locke to face its new enemies. _En masse_ they attacked the
Automaton, but it shook them off, one by one, as a terrier would rats,
and made its way toward the grand staircase. Some of the gardener's aids
suffered broken bones, while others were left unconscious as a result of
the conflict.
Locke picked himself up and rushed to Eva's side. He took the prostrate
form in his arms and looked down into her beautiful face. The room was
in ruins, and Eva slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her hand
went out in a momentary caress, but as she fully recovered consciousness
she moved her hand away lest he really know. She looked up at him
gratefully, and Locke, a little confused, took his arm from around her
waist. With boyish bashfulness he hung his head and asked her if she was
all right. The sound of his own voice amid the ruins brought back his
composure.
"We must see about father. Perhaps something has happened to him," said
Eva, as she started toward the door.
Locke looked after the girl, then followed her.
Propped up in bed, Peter Brent presented a pitiable sight. His glassy
stare and shrill laugh like a coyote baying at the moon sent cold chills
down Eva's back as she entered the room. This man, at one time a power
in the business world, was only a shell of his former self, and his
inhuman laughter caused even Locke to shudder a little as he entered the
room.
Eva walked over to her father and put her hand to his brow, looking
wistfully in his eyes for some sign of recognition.
She kissed him on the forehead and called him, but he still stared
blankly ahead of him, unconscious of even her presence. Locke felt the
pulse of the patient and looked at the dilated pupils.
"There must be some antidote for this Madagascar madness, and I shall
move everything to find it," he said, as he looked at Eva with
determination.
She turned toward him eagerly as he spoke and his words gave her a
little cheer. Eva continued her caresses, but the demented man showed no
signs of recognizing even his own daughter.
From another room the shrill laughter of Flint could be heard as he
raved in delirium. Bereft of reason, he fought an unseen enemy.
"Q did it, I tell you--it's Q," he raved and shrieked in his insane way
as he rocked back and forth in bed. He was fighting his own conscience,
and kept pushing some unseen thing from him as he shook in a paroxysm of
fright.
The front-door bell rang and Balcom entered. He was suave in manner, but
this time he seemed a little excited as he gave his hat and stick to the
butler.
"Tell Miss Brent I must see her at once," he ordered.
As the butler turned to mount the stairs, Balcom reached his hand up and
rubbed his shoulder as though he were in pain. Perhaps the gesture meant
nothing, but a keen observer would have noticed that his arm did not
move with the freedom that one would expect of a man of his frame and
build. As he rubbed his shoulder his eyes followed the butler up the
stairs and his lips tightened. He watched him until he was out of sight,
then turned and entered the library.
As Balcom entered the library the door-bell rang and the three ambulance
men who had been overpowered by the emissaries of the Automaton entered.
Balcom approached them and hasty explanations were forthcoming. In his
suave manner he quieted the most noisy of the trio, who by this time had
found the strait-jacket from which Locke had just released himself.
"This looks like a put-up job to me," growled the driver, as he
confronted Balcom, holding the strait-jacket toward him. "And I believe
you know something about it."
"My dear man, I am the person who telephoned for you to come for my
stricken partner," said Balcom, "and I still insist that he is in dire
need of treatment."
As he spoke Eva entered the library in time to hear him. She was
followed by Locke.
"My father shall not be taken from this house," she cried, in reply to
Balcom's orders to the attendants.
As she spoke she turned toward Locke and looked at him for his
acquiescence. He quietly nodded toward her in an assuring manner, and as
he did so one might have noticed Balcom's face cloud up with evil
purpose. He was thinking of this young whipper-snapper and his
interference with his plans. As he stood meditating he noticed that
Locke was looking at him, so he turned toward the young chemist and his
whole expression changed. A bland smile crept across his face as he
spoke.
"I was only suggesting that my partner be taken to an institution,
because I believed that he would receive better treatment there." He
addressed Locke, but looked toward Eva as he did so. "Miss Brent should
have trust in me. I have only her interest at heart."
"It would be better for Mr. Brent to stay here," said Locke. "The
treatment his daughter can give will be better than that of an
outsider."
As he spoke he sauntered away with an air of finality, while Balcom
shrugged his shoulders and gave orders to the ambulance men to go.
Locke walked toward the dining-room, and there amid the candle drippings
and the wreckage of the night before espied the miniature automaton. He
picked it up and examined it minutely as Balcom strolled in.
Balcom's quick gaze caught what Locke was looking at, and he approached
the young chemist and sauvely said:
"It seems almost unbelievable, Mr. Locke, that a giant form like that
could be endowed with a human brain."
As he spoke he pointed toward the miniature automaton in Locke's hands.
Locke turned and faced him, his jaw tightening with a snap.
"Not unbelievable, but impossible, Mr. Balcom," he said. "I believe that
there is some one in this thing that attacks us and calls himself Q."
He eyed Balcom as he spoke, to see the effects of his words. But if
Balcom knew anything, he cunningly concealed it. Locke walked to the
table and closely examined the candles and other stuff strewn about. He
was looking for some clue to what had caused the madness of Brent and
Flint. The crumpled anatomy chart lay on the floor, and as Locke stooped
to pick it up Eva entered and came toward him. She shuddered slightly as
she passed the miniature of the monster, and Balcom, with an air of
satisfaction, noticed her fear. He turned and was about to go out, when
the butler entered with the duplicate candlestick in his hands.
"Mr. Locke, in cleaning the hall I found this behind the portières at
the entrance to below-stairs," he announced. "I was quite puzzled for a
moment, for I knew the master had taken it into the dining-room with him
last evening."
As he spoke he handed the candlestick to Locke, who quickly compared it
with the one on the dining-room table which contained the burnt candles.
In appearance the candelabra were identical. Locke with great care
examined every feature of them, looking for a clue. He took one of the
whole candles from the candlestick which the butler had brought in and
scraped the wax from in with his penknife. He examined the particles
carefully, then approached the candlestick which stood on the table the
fatal night, and very carefully removed the wax from the stumps of
candles which were still in the sockets.
"The Madagascar madness came from _that_ candlestick," he announced,
with assurance, as he pointed toward the one on the table.
While he was so busily engaged Balcom was eying him cunningly. He
watched his every move and was most intent in seeing just how the young
man would prove his contention.
"Good morning, every one!" came the clear voice of Paul as he entered
the room and crossed over to the side of his fiancée. He was particular
to ignore Locke in his greeting, and as he approached Eva he bent over
her hand and kissed it.
A close observer would have noticed that the girl rather drew her hand
back from his caress.
"I am so sorry about your father, Eva," whispered Paul. "I trust the
ailment is but temporary."
As he spoke Eva thanked him mechanically for his solicitations, while
Balcom glanced at his son in admiration.
Locke, who was still engaged in looking at the candle drippings through
his pocket magnifying-glass, paid slight attention to Paul, but glanced
up in time to see that there was a look of insincerity on his face.
Could it be that this young scion of the Balcom fortune could in any way
be connected with the Automaton? Could this man, this suave, polished
gentleman, have any motive for seeking the ruin or death of his fiancée?
Locke seemed to be busily engaged in his task, but he was making mental
notes on the conduct of young Balcom. He looked up finally and turned to
Eva.
"Miss Brent, I find minute particles of some foreign substance in the
wax of these candles," he announced. "They seem to be of organic origin
and I am certain that they contain the poison which has robbed your
father of his mentality. I am going to take them to a chemical
laboratory where there will be proper facilities to have them analyzed.
Perhaps there is an antidote that will restore your father's sanity."
As Locke spoke he carefully wrapped up the particles of drippings in a
piece of paper and put them in his pocket. As he did so, both Balcom and
Paul exchanged hurried glances, and Balcom left the group and started
toward the hall.
During all this procedure Zita, clad in a sumptuous morning frock hardly
befitting a secretary, was standing behind the portières in the hall and
listening intently to all she could hear within the dining-room. As she
heard Balcom's footsteps she hurriedly turned and seemed to be going up
the hall. He looked after her and then called.
She came toward Balcom with a nod of understanding, and, as she
approached, he led her to a corner of the hall and whispered to her.
"It is imperative that we get Flint out of the house to-night. I can
trust you to take care of this if I arrange the details?"
Zita quickly nodded acquiescence, looking furtively over her shoulder to
see if they were observed.
"I will get him to your apartment," she hurriedly said, as she looked up
at him for further instructions.
Balcom turned quickly from her, got his own hat and sack, and departed,
just as Locke came into the hall, bound for the chemist's shop. He
looked after the disappearing form of Balcom, and then turned and
noticed that he was being watched by Zita. Zita in turn hastily entered
the library, without looking over her shoulder.
"I wonder what her real position in this house can be," mused Locke, as
he took his hat and went toward the front door.
In the dining-room Paul was now standing close to Eva and had taken her
hand.
"You know it was your father's wish that we be married," he was saying,
"and I know that he would be happy if we had the ceremony performed at
once."
His eyes narrowed as he said this, but Eva was too preoccupied to see
it. With a shudder, ever so slight, she looked up at his handsome face
and spoke.
"I will not even speak of marriage until my father recovers, Paul, and I
don't know how you can ask me to at such a time."
She was not thinking so much of her father as of a certain young chemist
who had risked his life for her. Why had fate thrown him in her way, she
wondered. What was there about Quentin Locke that compelled her
attention--that made her feel secure when he was about? What was the
difference between the young chemist and Paul that she felt perfect
trust in the one whom she had known only a short time and distrust and
uncertainty in the other to whom she was about to be married?
She hung her head and went into the drawing-room, leaving Paul standing
there. He looked after her, and a slight smile crossed his face as he
thought of what a fool she was to think that he cared for her. His
self-assurance led him to believe that the reason that Eva was not
consenting to his proposal was indeed because of her father's condition,
for he little dreamed, nor would his egotism permit him to believe, that
anything else could be the case.
His mouth hardened in a subtle smile as he sauntered after Eva to bid
her farewell. He remembered that De Luxe Dora was waiting outside for
him in her speedster.
He had made this paramour of his take him to the very door of his
fiancée's home, and there wait until he had paid his respects to the
moneyed lady who would make happiness possible by supplying him with the
funds to pursue his pleasures and insure his father's hold on the
International Patents, Incorporated.
Paul looked at his watch, then, after a few words of condolence which
would hardly sound sincere from any one less gifted, made a hurried
departure toward the corner where the speedster was waiting.
"Who was the funny gink that hurried by a little while ago?" queried
Dora, in the vernacular of her calling. "He gave me the double O as
though he had something on me."
"That's a fellow we've got to look out for, kid," answered Paul, in the
same terms by which he was addressed, for, if nothing else, Paul could
be as much at home in the underworld as in a mansion on the Drive.
"Brent claimed that he was a chemist before he went 'bugs,'" continued
Paul, "but I have my doubts; in fact, I'm very leery of him because I
think he's a fly cop."
He took his place beside Dora, who started the car and headed down-town.
After Paul's departure Eva hurried to her father's room and tried to
comfort him. He was seated in a chair, staring blankly ahead of him. He
was quieter now, but his body twitched nervously from time to time.
The tears started to come to Eva's eyes as she saw her father's plight,
and she knelt down beside him and took his hand in hers. She stroked it
with her own hand and bent over and kissed it. As she knelt, crying
softly, she sobbed half-aloud:
"Why can't I confide in you, father? Why can't you advise me? I don't
love Paul Balcom and could never marry him. I know I love Quentin
Locke--I do--I do--"
As she sobbed she bent over his hand and pressed it to her lips.
Peter Brent sat staring into space, staring like a graven image.