At last, late one afternoon, the faithful old butler announced to Eva
privately that Locke was on the wire and wished to speak to her.
Eva almost ran to the telephone, and her hand shook with sheer joy as
she took the receiver.
"Yes, everything is moving along even more rapidly than I expected,"
replied Locke to her eager inquiry. "Whenever Paul leaves Brent Rock he
goes directly to a miserable café and there I see him with a number of
people of the underworld. He seems to have a great deal of influence
over them. I'm sifting all the clues, and as soon as I unmask him I will
send for you."
Eva gave him a brief outline of how she had fared in his absence and an
account of her father's condition, which was now very bad. Everything
the doctor had done seemed to be without effect.
Locke assured her that he hoped soon to lay hands on the antidote that
would restore Brent to health and sanity, and begged Eva to be brave in
the mean time.
When the conversation was over Eva felt certain that no one had
overheard what she and Quentin had said. But she was mistaken, as she
was to learn at her cost. For, far down in the bowels of the earth, in
the den of the Automaton, an emissary had tapped in on the telephone
wire and had heard every word.
Down-town, among the haunts of Paul, on the west side, was the Black Tom
Café. Every attempt had been made to make the place bizarre. About the
walls were palings that represented a back fence, along which crawled
painted black cats in every conceivable state--a rather odd conceit for
a cabaret.
Although the sun had not yet set, the electric lights were already
agleam. On a raised platform three weary-eyed musicians were pounding
and thumping out the latest Broadway hit.
There were not half a dozen people in the place, and these were
obviously denizens of this quarter of the town. They were listless and
weary, mere shells of human beings. And yet it was such as these that
the slumming parties at night romantically dubbed bohemians.
They showed scant interest as De Luxe Dora, unaccompanied for once,
swept into the place. Dora was gorgeously and flashily dressed and
fairly scintillated with jewels. She seated herself not far from the
door and ordered a cocktail. Then she whistled a bar of music
suggestively to the piano-player, who immediately caught it, and the
"orchestra" with a show of animation strummed out her suggestion. She
sent over drinks for them and was rewarded with more song hits.
Jauntily now Paul came in. A couple of men roused themselves and
slouched over to him. They held a whispered conversation, and Paul was
insistent on some point. He evidently had his way, for the men slunk
back to their places and, sprawling out, were in a moment as listless as
before.
Paul nodded to Dora in greeting, but she turned her back. He gave a low
whistle of astonishment and went over to her.
"Say, Dora, why the grouch?" he asked.
For a moment she disdained to answer and glared at him witheringly. Then
she blurted out, "You're throwing me down for that baby face with the
money!"
Paul gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be silly," he
laughed. "She'll be our meal-ticket."
He sat down, and over a couple more cocktails he had Dora quite
mollified.
A few moments later Locke entered and slipped quickly into a chair,
since he did not wish to be seen. In his hand he carried a newspaper
which he now unfolded and held up in front of him so that it hid his
face. Next he poked a hole through the center of the sheet so that he
could see without being seen.
At this moment, seemingly in all earnestness, Paul and Dora resumed
their quarrel, and Dora's strident voice echoed through the café.
"If you throw me down you'd better look out," she bawled.
Paul jumped up, and for a moment it looked as though he would strike
her. But he changed his mind, cursed her, and finally stalked out of the
café.
Locke folded his paper, paid his bill to the sleepy waiter, and started
after Paul. At the entrance he stopped, thought a moment, and then went
directly to Dora's table and sat down.
"Why, what are you doing here?" she gasped, in great surprise. "Don't
you know that you may be _killed_?"
"It's a risk that I must run," replied Locke. "But tell me--you tried to
kill me once--why?"
"Because I was a fool, controlled by my love for Paul Balcom--the beast!
I hate him!"
Dora drank viciously, then, with jealous venom, leaned over to Locke,
and asked, "If that girl, Eva Brent, finds out about him, will she throw
him over?"
Locke played the game diplomatically, and apparently succeeded in
further incensing Dora against her lover, for, suddenly she jumped up.
"Meet me here in an hour. I'll have everything arranged to spoil Paul
Balcom's game," she whispered, as she swept out of the café with
demi-mondaine majesty.
Locke was elated at the thought of having won so powerful an enemy to
his side. But, had he heard Dora's remark to Paul as she met him around
a convenient corner, his elation would have given way to caution.
Paul eagerly questioned her with a glance as she approached.
"Well, he fell for it," she announced, toughly, then added, "just as you
fell for his dictagraph game with the girl."
There was just a bit of jealousy yet in the tone of Dora. She was not
yet convinced of her complete triumph over Eva.
At the same time Locke left the café and entered a telephone-booth, from
which he called up Eva.
"Come to the Black Tom immediately," he said. "Dora is now on our side
and we'll learn the truth, she promises."
Eva at once started to get ready so that she would arrive at the time
Locke had fixed, while he loitered in the neighborhood, waiting until
the hour agreed upon with Dora was almost gone.
Dora was already waiting for him outside the place when he returned to
the Black Tom.
"How is everything?" inquired Locke.
"All arranged. You'll get Paul right."
Just then a man slouched past.
"Follow that fellow," whispered Dora.
Locke nodded and did so.
The man proceeded into the café and Locke followed. But instead of
sitting down in the main room the man passed through into an inner room.
Locke followed. He looked about. It seemed to be a sort of storeroom, as
nearly as he could make out.
His guide pressed a secret panel and, stepping through an aperture,
beckoned Locke to follow. Locke drew his automatic and went ahead in the
inky blackness that lay beyond the panel. The next moment the very floor
under his feet seemed to give way. He felt himself thrown down bodily
into a sort of subcellar.
Locke was immediately pounced upon by lurking emissaries who seized him
after a terrific battle and held him firmly.
"Where's a rope?" growled one.
There was no answer as the men struggled. The question was repeated.
Apparently one of them looked about.
"Use the wire," he growled.
The questioner gave a grunt of brutal satisfaction. There in this
storeroom lay a huge roll of barbed wire. Coil after coil of this barbed
wire was wound about Locke as he struggled, but ever more feebly, for
with each coil now the barbs began to cut cruelly into his flesh.
Some one lighted a candle and by its light he saw many carboys of acid
standing in a row.
Directly behind them, so that there could be no doubt of the horrible
fate in store for him, stood the Automaton.
Already at the entrance to the Black Tom Café Eva's speedy runabout came
to a stop. Dora was at the curb to meet her and was all winning smiles.
Instinctively Eva shrank from this overdressed woman. But it had been
Locke's desire that she come to this place, and she decided to follow
the woman, for would it not lead to the unmasking of Paul, whom she
hated?
Once or twice on the descent into the café Eva hesitated, but was gently
urged on by Dora.
Eva was utterly disgusted by the flotsam and jetsam in human guise that
she found sprawling at the tables, but she decided to brave the place.
"Wait a moment and I'll get Mr. Locke," smiled Dora.
For a moment, the better to blot out the distasteful scene, Eva closed
her eyes.
When she opened them again it was to look into the ferocious, bestial
face of the giant emissary who, with fingers clutched like the talons of
some foul bird, was reaching toward her to grasp her by the throat.
In the noisome cellar Locke lay as though fascinated by the dread form
that confronted him, as well as by its more dreadful purpose.
The Automaton drew back its massive foot and deliberately kicked over
one after another of the carboys.
A pungent odor at once permeated the cellar air as the acid ate into the
floor.
Its purpose accomplished, the Automaton stalked toward Locke, and stood
towering above him.
Would it crush out Locke's life under its ponderous heel? Or would it
leave him to a death more horrible?
Like writhing serpents, the rivulets of seething, burning acid crept
closer, closer.