"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 cafe 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 Cafe 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 cafe 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.



CHAPTER XVII


The Automaton and its emissaries left the cellar. In the distance a door
slammed and Locke was left to his terrible fate.

Except for the gurgling of the flowing acid and the scampering of the
rats all was silent.

Locke tried to move. But the sharp barbs of the wire cut into his flesh,
a torture to test the fortitude of a stoic.

Moreover, Locke had barely recovered from the shock of his fall into the
cellar. Thus for a few seconds that seemed to him to be ages he lay
there watching the fiery death creep closer. Then the will to live
surged through him and he struggled furiously to escape from the deadly
path of the acid. Gone now was his flinching and shrinking as the sharp
barbs lacerated his tender flesh. Gone was the calmness that denoted
surrender and the acceptance of his fate.

With bunching muscles he writhed inch by inch to one side, out of the
path of the flow of the acid. He was just in time, for, at his last
mighty effort, the consuming fluid flowed past, not an inch from his
face.

To extricate himself from the coils of the wire was a slow and painful
task. Wounded with a hundred wounds, with each movement of his body
adding a further injury, many times Locke was forced to desist in his
efforts to free himself. However, he persisted, though, strong man that
he was, the tears of agony burned his eyes and beads of cold sweat stood
on his brow even before the first coil was loosened.

He could not, even to save his own life, have persisted in this
self-inflicted torture had it not been for the thought of Eva hurrying
to this dreadful den. That thought almost drove him mad and spurred him
to furious effort.

It was well that it did. For at this very moment the beastly emissary in
the cafe above was closing in on her.

Locke gave a final heave and tugged at the last strands of the wire that
held him prisoner. His clothes ripped to tatters and his flesh torn and
lacerated, he at last stood free.

Without an instant's pause he collected packing-cases and even barrels.
He stacked them one upon the other, pyramiding them under the trap-door
through which he had fallen into the cellar. Then he climbed upon them,
leaped, and tried to grasp the edge of the floor above him, but fell
short and came tumbling down amid the boxes and barrels, only to start
stacking them up all over again.

Finally he managed to grasp the edge of the floor with one hand and draw
himself up. For a few moments he lay panting on the floor, then groped
for the panel through which he had entered not half an hour before. It
was locked, but a shrewd kick above the lock opened it to him and he
rushed through the storeroom and out into the now brilliantly lighted
cafe.

He was barely in time.

The emissary already had Eva in his grasp and was choking her into
unconsciousness. The foul habitues of the resort, far from aiding the
poor girl, seemed for the first time that day to be showing interest and
to be thoroughly enjoying the brutal sight.

With a shout Locke charged. His right swing landed just behind the
emissary's ear and the man dropped, pulling Eva down with him. But Locke
had her up and behind him in a second.

Three other emissaries appeared as though by magic and attacked him on
all sides.

Locke's automatic had been lost when he fell into the cellar.
Consequently he grabbed up one of the cafe chairs, which he wielded like
a club.

One emissary had worked around until he was at one side of Locke and
almost behind him, a blackjack raised in his hand. But Eva warned Locke
in time. Whirling about, he made a full swing with the chair and caught
the emissary full in the face with it. The man went down and stayed
down.

"Run quick as you can," panted Locke to Eva. "Get the car started."

She was reluctant to leave him, and Locke saw that delay was dangerous.
He hurled what remained of the chair into the faces of the last two
emissaries, then turned and rushed up the steps, carrying Eva along with
him.

A whir of the starter, the throbbing of the engine as the gas in the
cylinders ignited, and they were streaking toward Brent Rock, safe.

In a still fashionable, but older, part of the town, the elder Balcom
had his quarters. They were spacious and furnished in Oriental style,
with many a suggestion of the Indian Ocean.

Balcom was evidently annoyed, and seriously so. He was striding up and
down the apartment, scowling and puffing furiously at a black cigar. In
his hand was a letter, and from time to time he halted and glanced at
it, then fell back to his quick walking again, while a sinister light
came into his eyes. Yet the contents of the note were hardly such as
would have seemed likely to cause a man of honest purpose any agitation.

MR. HERBERT BALCOM,

International Patents, Inc.

DEAR SIR,--A special meeting of the executive board of
International Patents, Inc., will be called at Brent Rock
this afternoon to determine the future policies of this company.

[Signed] EVA BRENT.

Balcom had read the notice for the tenth time when a negro servant
entered and announced that his son Paul wished to see him.

"Show him in--then," growled Balcom to the servant.

Paul entered. He was evidently somewhat chagrined and crestfallen. Nor
did his father's next words tend to cheer him up.

"I suppose you'll acknowledge that you've made a miserable mess of it,"
accused the older man. "When will you stop mixing women with business?"

Paul was silent. Indeed there was nothing that he could say.

"And now look at this note," pursued Balcom, in growing rage. "It brings
things to a head. What can we do?"

He thrust the note at Paul, who read it. Balcom himself reread it,
crumpled it in anger, tore it, and threw the pieces in violence on the
floor.

This time it was to be Paul who was to formulate a plan. It was of such
a dark and criminal nature that even Herbert Balcom, hardened as he was
himself, was for the moment appalled at his son's temerity. But as he
listened to Paul's words they fascinated him and he leaned forward the
better to take in the scheme.

As Paul and his father planned, it seemed that here was power unlimited,
wealth beyond all counting and without the possibility of discovery.
For, like most men of his caliber, the approbation of the community was
dear to Balcom.

"Good, Paul!" approved Balcom. "Go to it at once."

Paul looked keenly at his father.

"Haven't you anything to add?"

"No, I have nothing to advise. The scheme is perfect, and as you
conceived it you can also execute it. The best of luck to you, my boy."

A few moments later Paul went out, his dark face beaming at being
reinstated in his father's good graces. He was full of his plan.

Down in one of the city's worst sections and near the river-front there
stood an old ramshackle building. Why it had not been condemned by the
building inspectors was a mystery. But it stood in all its squalid
ugliness. The door and the windows were locked and shuttered. One could
see at a glance that the building had been long unused.

There was an alley strewn with tin cans and other refuse leading to the
back of the house, and it was down a flight of broken brick steps that
Old Meg, the fortune-teller, had her den where through the superstitions
of those inhabiting the neighborhood she managed to eke out a miserable
existence. The interior of the den was unspeakably filthy. The furniture
consisted of a broken-down couch, a chest of drawers in a like
condition, a card-table, a few kitchen chairs, and some boxes. Most of
the panes in the windows had been broken and the empty spaces had been
covered with old newspapers. Consequently, a candle thrust into an old
wine-bottle supplied the only real light.

At the table, idly shuffling a pack of grimy cards, sat Old Meg, a
horrible old hag, wrinkled in face like a mummy, with only the stumps of
teeth which had more the appearance of tusks. Her unkempt hair was
matted and ugly wisps of it hung down over her bleary eyes. For clothes
she wore an old-fashioned faded gingham wrapper and around her shoulders
a dirty torn shawl. On her feet was a pair of man's shoes, many sizes
too large, which had evidently been cast away as useless by some former
owner, himself squalid. These she managed to keep on by tying the tops
with wrapping-cord. A more unlovely human being it would have been hard
to find in all the great city. There she sat, crooning a ballad to
herself in a high, cracked voice. It sounded like an incantation.

A step sounded in the alley and Old Meg looked up and listened intently.
The sound came nearer. She got up and retreated into a dark corner, for
she knew the neighborhood well, and many a time some thug, brutal with
drink, had entered her den and wrung her last few pennies from her.

But it was no inhabitant of this quarter of the town who entered this
time. It was Paul Balcom.

The hag grinned in a horrible way at him, for it was not unusual for
people of his kind to visit her and it always meant money. With her
apron she dusted off the chair that stood at the table and begged him to
be seated. Then she shuffled the cards and cut, shuffled and cut, and
then as though at last satisfied she laid them face downward on the
table and spoke.

"Wish, my handsome gentleman, and may your wish come true."

"Go ahead with the hocus-pocus," growled Paul.

Mother Meg picked up one card after another and her cracked voice was
evidently following a set formula.

"If the queen of spades comes between the king of clubs and the queen of
hearts--"

Paul listened with a strained intentness as the hag singsonged on and
on. Then a look of satisfaction came into his eyes and he smiled
happily. Next his look changed to a nasty look of determination, and he
abruptly got up, tossing a bank-note on the table which Old Meg grabbed
with avidity, calling down Heaven's blessings on the handsome gentleman
until Paul, running up-stairs, could hear no more.

Paul returned immediately to his father's apartment, where Balcom was
impatiently waiting for him. He described minutely Old Meg, her
eagerness for money, and the squalid quarters in which she lived. The
elder Balcom seemed satisfied and they left the apartment together.

"Paul," directed Balcom, "get out to Brent Rock as soon as you can while
I make arrangements with this Old Meg."

Balcom stepped into his own car, while Paul hailed a taxicab, and a few
minutes later Balcom alighted before the house of Old Meg. He walked
down the alley and descended into the den.

As before, Meg was in hiding in a dark corner until she could ascertain
just who her visitor might be. Seeing Balcom, she came out and
courtesied and scraped as she had for Paul.

Balcom announced the object of his visit immediately, and while he was
speaking he fingered a roll of bills which he had taken from his pocket
the better to arouse the old hag's avariciousness.

It had the desired effect and her eyes fairly gleamed with the craving
of possession.

"Do as I tell you, Meg," directed Balcom, "and I'll make you rich. Do
you understand? Rich!" he emphasized, rolling out the last word silkily
on his tongue.

Old Meg's last scruples, had she ever had even one, fell before this
temptation and she became almost the slave of Balcom.

Balcom now gave a command and the old hag sidled to the door of an inner
room.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" she called. "Come here to me."

In a moment a boy slunk into the room. He was sharp-faced, pinched for
food, and in tatters, as disreputable-looking as the hag herself. Meg
whispered something to him, and, as though galvanized by an electric
current, the boy shot up-stairs. He was soon back again with two
brutal-looking men who looked suspiciously at Balcom and then shuffled
into a corner, where they conferred eagerly with Old Meg.

At first it was plain to be seen that they were refusing to do her
bidding, but Meg made a movement as though she were counting money.
After that it was equally plain that they agreed.

Meg sidled over to Balcom and he unwrapped a few bills of large
denomination and handed them to her. She immediately hid them in her
dress, with many a furtive look toward her accomplices.

Balcom's eyes followed those of the old hag, and, realizing that his
whole conspiracy might fail unless the men were assured of further
reward on the completion of their task, he approached them smoothly.

"Of course," he insinuated, "you understand that if you three follow
instructions to the letter I'll double that amount." Then he left the
place, brushing his coat with his handkerchief as he did so. "Brent
Rock," he said to his chauffeur, curtly, as he stepped into his car.



CHAPTER XVIII


Eva and Locke were seated at a long table in the library of Eva's home.
Before them were many ledgers of International Patents, Incorporated.
Eva was reading certain entries in the books, while Locke was making
notes to be used at the coming directors' meeting.

Eva closed the ledger from which she had been reading and announced, "I
intend, at the meeting, to insist that the patents held in the Graveyard
of Genius be released to the world."

"It is the only honorable thing to do," agreed Locke. "You will
undoubtedly meet with violent opposition from Balcom and some few who
owe their fortunes to him, but in the end you will win."

"If we could only have found the antidote," sighed Eva, "and my father
could only be again in control of things."

"All we can do is to act as we think he would have acted if he were in
control," soothed Locke.

"May I speak to you a moment, Mr. Locke?" interrupted a voice.

It was Zita who had entered noiselessly and now stood well within the
room.

How long had she been there? How much had she overheard? Both Eva and
Quentin exchanged worried glances.

Locke rose and went over to Zita, who spoke to him in a whispered
undertone.

The matter was so trivial that it hardly warranted her intrusion. Locke
was puzzled. But he was a man and, therefore, did not understand. For,
as Zita continued, there was a world of longing in her eyes. She even
went so far as to finger the lapel of his coat.

Eva understood only too well, and her face crimsoned. She bit her lips,
and in vexation at Zita her finger-nails pressed into her palms. Paul's
entrance at this moment was a distinct relief, much as she despised the
man.

"What's all the fuss about?" he inquired.

Paul had a gaiety of manner that he could slip on like a coat, and it
was this quality that made him dangerous. He was popular and attractive.

Paul took Eva's hand and managed to hold it just the fraction of a
second longer than was necessary to convey friendship. Then Eva withdrew
her hand, but not before Locke saw it and scowled.

It was not long before the elder Balcom also arrived.

"Good afternoon, my children," he greeted, jovially. "I'm just a bit
ahead of time, I imagine. But why you children don't leave dry matters
of business to us older heads I'm blessed if I know."

"Mr. Balcom," retorted Eva, keenly, "the older head that would protect
my interests and the interests of those poor inventors lies stricken, as
you know, in the room above. In his absence the children, as you are
pleased to call us, will do their best."

Balcom glared, while Zita with a strange glance toward Eva left Locke
and joined Balcom in a far corner of the room.

"Zita," Balcom whispered, "the time has arrived to take you out of this
false position."

Zita trembled with suppressed excitement as she heard this, and followed
Balcom back toward the table, where the others were already seating
themselves.

It was approaching the hour, when Eva rose and was about to speak.
Balcom motioned and stopped her with a gesture.

"One moment, please, Miss Brent," he interrupted. "Before the others
arrive I am going to establish Zita's real position in this house."

All at the table looked at one another in openly expressed astonishment.
Zita, with eyes cast down, hands clasped in her lap, seemed almost
demure, though about her mouth played a faint smile.

Even Paul did not understand this phase of the conspiracy and looked at
his father as much as to say, "I wonder what the old man is up to now?"

Locke was the first to recover his coolness. "Just what, Mr. Balcom, do
you mean?" he asked.

"I mean--" began Balcom, then stopped. "But first I will produce a
witness who can vouch for all the facts which I am about to relate."

Balcom went to the door and opened it. There, bobbing her head and
smirking mechanically, stood that loathsome creature, Old Meg. In these
rich surroundings her frightful squalor was all the more accentuated.
Those at the table drew back in utter disgust as she tottered into the
room. As she passed Zita she paused.

"I held you in these arms when you were but a wee baby," she muttered,
hideously.

Zita drew away from her and looked at Balcom questioningly. Balcom now
leaned far over the table and spoke impressively.

"Twenty years ago Brent was secretly married to his secretary. There was
a child. But Brent craved money, and power that the money would bring.
Saddled with a wife and child, he was barred from his ambition, which
was to marry some rich woman. So he made a hell on earth for his wife
until, in desperation, she consented to an annulment of their marriage."

The room was breathlessly quiet as Balcom continued.

"Years passed and then his conscience smote him. He made his own child
his secretary." Then he turned to Zita, pointing at her. "There she
sits," he exclaimed, "and half of the voting power of this company
belongs to her--Zita Brent, Zita Dane _Brent_."

Instantly Locke was on his feet.

"Balcom, you lie!" he rasped.

"Lie or no lie," retorted Balcom, "as vice-president of the company I
refuse to permit any action to be taken until Zita's position is legally
established."

Locke turned to Eva. "Miss Brent," he asked, with a bow, "may I speak
for you?"

Eva nodded.

"Then, Balcom," remarked Locke, "we shall carry the proposed motion over
your head. You cannot produce sufficient proofs to retard our action."

"My protests," sneered Balcom, as he strode toward the door, "will be
entered in the minutes of this meeting."

Zita, in the excitement, had already disappeared. Paul bowed to Eva and
Locke mockingly and followed his father.

Old Meg squeezed herself against the walls of the library and was trying
to get out of the room without being detected. But Locke was too alert
for her and caught her by the shoulder, detaining her. She tried to
fight him off with her feeble arms. Again and again he tried to question
her.

"The story is true, I tell you, gospel true," Meg repeated over and over
again.

Locke let her go and she started toward the door. Then the habit of a
lifetime overcame her and she turned.

"If you would know the truth, my pretty," she croaked at Eva, "come to
Old Meg." Then she hobbled out.

Eva was naturally perturbed, although Locke tried to comfort her. Yet
she could not forget what had happened between him and Zita just before
the meeting, and, woman-like, she now held aloof.

"Eva," pleaded Locke, "won't you trust me? Things are in such a critical
state that we must not have any misunderstanding."

But Eva merely tossed her pretty head. "I don't care for Zita or her
actions," she replied, petulantly.

Locke diplomatically changed the subject. "I believe," he said, slowly,
"that that old hag is in the pay of either Paul or his father, and I
mean to find out which it is."

Locke had started across the hallway when Eva called him back.

"Quentin," she said, earnestly, "I trust you--absolutely." Then she hid
her face in her hands and almost ran into the dining-room.

Had she been a moment sooner she would have caught that mysterious
person, Doctor Q, who had entered the house some time before, and, on
overhearing heated words coming from the library, had remained with his
ear glued to the keyhole, absorbing every word that was said until
Balcom left. But he had shuffled away before she ran in.

Back in Old Meg's den some time later the little gutter rat who, a few
hours before, had brought the two thugs back to Balcom and Old Meg was
coiled up in a corner, asleep.

With light footsteps that did not awaken the sleeping boy, a strange
little figure now came scurrying down the brick stairs. The figure
hesitated a moment, then entered the foul den.

In tatters, like the sleeping street gamin, this other boy still had
something winsome, something elusively handsome, about him, a certain
refinement of features. However, a black patch over one eye showed that
this gamin was manly enough, evidently, when it came to fighting. He
stirred the sleeping boy with his foot, and the boy, cursing volubly and
beyond his years, roused himself.

They talked excitedly in whispers and the boy who had just entered gave
the street arab some money. Then together they tiptoed into the other
room and down a flight of rickety steps into the cellar. This cellar
connected with another cellar of large size that was used as a
storehouse.

The boys barely spoke and, when it was necessary, only in whispers. They
came to a pile of cotton bales, found a convenient space between the
bales, crawled in, and lay still.

Night was coming fast as the hag, trailed by Locke, left Brent Rock. She
walked fast for so old a woman, but, finally, coming to a street-car
line, she took the first car that came along. Locke had had the
foresight to have himself followed by one of the numerous Brent cars and
so was able to keep the street-car in sight until the old woman alighted
in her squalid quarter of town. Locke got out of his machine and
followed her on foot, keeping close to the walls of the buildings to
avoid having her see him.

Old Meg turned the corner that ran alongside her dwelling, and there,
for the first time, gave an indication that she was aware that she was
being followed. She chuckled to herself, gave a few stumbling capers
which might have been an imitation of a dance step, then waved her hand.
Was it a signal?

Locke was never to reach the alley. Old Meg had whipped around the
corner so quickly that for a moment he was puzzled as to just where she
had disappeared. He stopped with his back half turned to a flight of
stairs leading down to the cellar entrance of a big warehouse. Suddenly
he was sent stumbling forward to his knees, half dazed by a treacherous
blow dealt from behind.

He was up again in an instant and was defending himself from the attack
of half a dozen thugs. He put up a splendid fight, but the odds were too
great, and in a few minutes he was down on the ground, unconscious and
bound.

The emissaries of the Automaton, for such they were, carried him down
the steps and into the warehouse cellar.

Already, on leaving Brent Rock, Paul Balcom had not been idle. He had
been immediately driven to a telegraph-office, where, after having used
nearly an entire pad of blanks, he succeeded in composing the following
message:

DEAREST QUENTIN,--Have proofs that Old Meg spoke the
truth. Meet me immediately at her place.

ZITA.

The message was addressed to Locke at Brent Rock and was marked
"Important."

"That ought to fetch her!" muttered Paul, as he left the office.

Twenty minutes or so later the telegram was delivered to the butler at
Brent Rock, who brought it at once to Eva.

At first she was loath to open a message addressed to some one else. But
Quentin's affairs and her own were so intertwined by this time that she
felt that the telegram would, in all probability, concern her as well as