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 café 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 café.
He was barely in time.
The emissary already had Eva in his grasp and was choking her into unconsciousness. The foul habitués 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 café 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.
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.
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 Locke. She tore it open.
"Dearest Quentin," she read and for a minute could get no farther, for it seemed as if a mist had formed before her eyes. She clutched at the balustrade. Then pride, jealousy, and a certain anger surged up within her and she finished reading the telegram.
Eva was in a quandary what to do. She paced up and down the hallway, biting her lips and repressing the tears.
Could it be possible, after all, that Locke was faithless? Was this the man who had been so kind, who had saved her from a thousand dangers? At any rate, she would find out once and for all.
Faint and heart-sick, she gave orders to have her runabout brought around. It was a long drive from Brent Rock, but Eva's fast speedster covered the ground quickly. Twice policemen tried to stop her and, failing, probably took the number of her car. Nothing could deter her. And, as the cool evening wind lashed her face, faith in Locke revived and the suspicion came that she might be rushing into danger. But no thought of herself entered her mind as she stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward. Her single thought was of speed, more speed, to get to Locke quickly.
She was appalled at the squalor of the neighborhood in which she finally found herself. Disgusted and revolted at the filth of Old Meg's abode, still not for an instant did she falter or hesitate. She ran down the steps to Old Meg's home.
The old hag was evidently awaiting her, for this time she did not hide at the sound of approaching footsteps, but came forward, courtesying and mumbling greetings, while her eyes gleamed with a satisfaction that was positively hellish.
"Mr. Locke—where is he?" Eva gasped.
"All in good time, my pretty, all in good time," mumbled the hag. "You're to wait for him here."
But Eva insisted on seeing Locke at once and the old hag lied volubly. He had been here, and had stepped out for a moment. No, she did not know where—to get a cigar, maybe. Would the pretty lady hear her fortune told while she waited?
As there was apparently nothing that she could do until Locke returned, Eva sat at the card-table while Old Meg droned her old fortune-telling rigamarole.
In spite of her growing fear and agitation Eva became interested. There was something calming in the monotonous voice of the old crone.
"When the queen of spades comes between the jack of hearts and the king of diamonds and the—a—the—"
A door directly behind Eva silently and slowly opened. Stealthily a boy's head was thrust out. On the young face was a world of deadly hatred. As the sputtering candle burned brighter for a moment, startlingly, a vague change was noticeable in the lineaments of the features.
It was the same gamin who had given the sleeping boy money. But now, in the candle-light, with only the head showing, it was no boy who glared malevolently at Eva, but a woman—and that woman was the implacable Zita!
The head disappeared to give place to the visages of two horrible-looking men, the same brutes who were present when Balcom had spread the net of his conspiracy.
"When the jack of clubs," droned the witch, "and the—"
With barely a sound the two thugs entered the room behind Eva. In the hand of one was an old gunny sack.
"—and the queen of hearts—"
Eva was so interested now that she leaned far over the table, her eyes fastened on the cards as they fell.
A thug stumbled. Eva, startled, sat back quickly and tried to rise. But the next instant she felt herself struggling in the heavy folds of the grimy gunny sack.
The emissaries, carrying Locke, had staggered with their burden into the warehouse cellar until, coming to a closed door, one of them rapped on it in a peculiar manner that was evidently a signal. An instant, and the door opened.
Through it stalked the Automaton.
The monster gazed intently at Locke as though to determine whether it were indeed he, then waved the emissaries on to the shaft of a huge freight elevator.
In the shaft, directly under the elevator platform, they now cast Locke's unconscious body.
"Are you sure the watchman's still up above?" asked one.
"Sure."
"Then give a ring for the basement."
A thug pressed the button that signaled. In a moment, creaking and groaning, the massive elevator started to descend.
A shuffling of feet was heard and down the stairs leading from Old Meg's quarters came the two thugs carrying Eva. A few feet behind them, still in boy's clothes, was Zita.
The jar to his body as the emissaries threw him on the concrete floor had tended to bring Locke back to consciousness. For a moment he lay still. Then the sound of the descending elevator attracted his attention. He gazed upward and dimly saw the slowly moving platform. In a flash he realized his danger.
Locke struggled fiercely to dislodge his bonds. He contorted his body, expanded his powerful chest in an effort to break the ropes that held him a prisoner.
At this moment the thugs that were carrying Eva passed by, followed by others. Apparently they took no notice of him, but continued on their way with the helpless girl.
Locke, his own danger forgotten, became frantic with apprehension for her and tore savagely at the restraining ropes.
Zita stopped. Her face was a study of conflicting emotions as she saw Locke struggling at the bottom of the shaft.
Floor by floor, inch by inch, the enormous elevator, that would crush out Locke's life as though he were an insect, continued to descend.
Zita stepped to an electric switch. That switch would stop the elevator immediately and save Locke's life.
She raised her hand—and then, looking after the retreating thugs and emissaries, she saw Eva again. Zita's lips formed a cruel line and a flinty hardness came into her eyes.
Her hand dropped.
There were only a few feet between Locke and the descending elevator. Locke was struggling frenziedly to escape and rescue Eva.
Zita's hand went out again and grasped the handle of the switch.
She hesitated, hate on her face.
Would she, for love of Locke, who had not returned her love, save him?
Could she bring herself to save this man—for a woman she hated, who had won him from her?
If she saved him it would be only to lose him to the other woman.
With a great creaking the massive elevator was within only a few short inches of Locke.
CHAPTER XIX
Every fiber of Zita's body was galvanized into action as she threw the whole weight of her body against the elevator emergency-control switch.
There was a sputtering of blue flame as the connection was made, and Zita closed her eyes. With a shudder she heard the great elevator strike the cellar floor and then rebound.
She dared not open her eyes. The last thing that she had seen was Locke struggling frantically to escape from under the elevator that was only a few inches above him and seemed destined to crush out his life.
Slowly, fearfully, she opened her eyes. Locke's body lay motionless at her feet, separated almost literally by only the breadth of a hair from the shaft.
The relief, the reaction from her terrible emotions, made Zita half hysterical. Trembling in every limb, she made her way to Locke and fell on her knees by him. She wrapped her arms about him and held his head up.
It was thus that she was holding him when his eyes slowly opened and gazed questioningly into her own, his brow knitted in perplexity.
Then, with a rush, it all came back to him—the descending elevator, Zita standing at the switch, while his life hung in the balance, his last frantic effort to escape just before the descending elevator had grazed his head, rendering him unconscious. That Zita, at the last moment, had attempted to save his life he did not know, nor why she now gazed at him frankly with eyes of love.
It was all inexplicable to him.
Another instant and he had wrenched himself loose from Zita's arms and was struggling with the ropes that still bound him even after he had managed to roll out from under the elevator in the last nick of time.
He had suddenly realized that the sight of Eva being carried off by the emissaries had not been a hideous dream, but a terrible actuality, and that at this very moment she was probably in the most imminent danger.
Zita realized that he wanted freedom to rush to Eva's assistance. Had she dared, she would have refused to release him from her arms, would at least have hindered his untying his bonds. But there was a masterful something about his silent demand to be released that would admit of no refusal.
In a few seconds Locke completed the freeing of himself and was dashing madly toward the door through which the gang, carrying Eva, had passed.
The door was unlocked, and, hesitating not an instant, Quentin dashed through and into a large room.
Eva, the gunny sack removed and still unconscious, lay on the floor. The emissaries were grouped around her. In the background, dimly visible, stood the iron monster.
Startled, they looked up as Locke rushed into the room. But before they could do more, Locke had whipped out his automatic and, point-blank, was blazing away at the murderous crew. Two emissaries fell dead or mortally wounded. The others scattered.
Only the Automaton, man of iron that he was, showed no sign of fear. Instead, he advanced ponderously upon Locke.
The automatic barked again, but did not succeed in deterring the monster. Locke realized the futility of using this puny weapon against such a foe.
He dashed toward Eva. It was the work of only an instant to snatch her up, practically from under the monster's feet, to turn, and to carry her through the door by which he had been brought in. Holding her in one arm, he slammed the door shut and shot the bolt.
He was just in time, for the next instant the door bulged out beneath the dead weight of the Automaton as it hurled its massive form against the other side.
Zita vas still waiting at the elevator shaft when Locke, carrying Eva in his arms, entered. At the sight Zita's whole body expressed her unquenched hatred of the unconscious girl. Her eyes narrowed, her lips became livid, and her hands clenched as though she would like to strike the helpless Eva.
"Zita," demanded Locke, suspiciously, "why did you hesitate to save my life?"
"Because," she replied—and her voice indicated the force of her answer whether it were really the truth or not—"I love you, and would not save you—for her"
Zita turned and ran up the stairs leading to Old Meg's as Locke turned to try to revive Eva.
But the hammer blows of the monster resounded throughout the cellar. At any moment the door might come crashing down and Locke and Eva might again be at the mercy of the iron fiend.
Locke caught up Eva in his arms again and, groping, sought the exit of the warehouse.
He dared not follow Zita through Old Meg's den. Love that could for any reason hesitate or injure the one loved was incomprehensible to him. He felt that the hag's den might now be but an ambush and that Zita might have run ahead to warn the uninjured emissaries of his coming.
By a lucky chance he found the path leading directly to the warehouse steps and the street. Eva's speedster had not been moved or tampered with and he placed Eva gently in the seat, climbed in, and started the motor. As he did so three emissaries came running out of the alley leading to Old Meg's. But shooting the gears into high speed, Locke easily evaded them and turned up the first corner.
He was going to take Eva to the first doctor's or a drug-store, but it proved not to be necessary. The rush of the air as the car moved rapidly revived her, and in a few moments she was quite herself again, eagerly questioning him about her rescue.
Although they were thankful for their escape, still they could not blind themselves to the fact that all their efforts had been in vain, that they stood no nearer to their great desire, and that, at least until now, their enemies had proved too wily and too strong for them.
But they were young, courageous, and resourceful, and as they drew up before Brent Rock they were busily engaged with plans for the future.
It was the following afternoon in the Chinese quarter. The Celestials were celebrating one of their numerous feasts. Long multicolored banners and streamers were hanging from every window and balcony and were even strung across the narrow street, almost brushing the faces of the motley throng that passed beneath. Tom-toms and cymbals beat and clashed, while from the Chinese theater came the shrill piping of reeds and the high-pitched chanting voices of Chinamen.
Street venders cried their wares and the windows of the Oriental shops were gaily bedecked for the holiday.
Through the dense happy throng a man made his way. He, too, was an Oriental, but of a different race. A giant in size, he calmly pushed and shoved the smaller Celestials out of his path, and, although they chattered angrily at him, their resentment went no farther, for his size and the menace of his swarthy face made them pause.
Before the entrance of a curio-shop he halted and consulted a card. Then, satisfied that he had found his destination, he picked up a wicker carrying-case that for the moment he had placed on the curb and entered the shop.
A Chinaman stepped forward, scrutinized him closely, and, nodding significantly, bade the new-comer follow him.
They went to the back of the shop. The Chinese clapped his hands, and a panel in the wall slid back, disclosing a stairway. The new-comer stepped through the aperture and the panel closed behind him. He mounted the stairs and came to a room, magnificent in its Oriental splendor.
Priceless rugs covered the floor and walls, while on wonderfully carved teakwood stands reposed ancient porcelains, specimens of bygone dynasties, antique arms and armor cunningly wrought, jades and ivories marvelously fashioned by master craftsmen long since dead. Seen through the filmy haze of rising incense, the room was a veritable treasure-house of Oriental art.
On low settees a few richly clad Chinese were reclining, and in a far corner, gazing intently into a globe of crystal, sat a man of the same race as the new-comer, a Madagascan.
Startled at the entrance of the giant, he left off his shadow-gazing and came hastily forward, cringing as he did so.
The giant, in an impressive, booming voice, now spoke for the first time.
"I, the Strangler, have come from Madagascar with the Great Torture."
A door opened and Doctor Q entered the room, his head wagging from side to side.
As he caught sight of the Madagascan he stopped short and put his hand to his head with a gesture of perplexity, striving piteously to place the stranger. He could not succeed. With a half-running, half-stumbling gait he withdrew to a corner of the room and furtively watched the two Madagascans.
There came the sound of a gong. A panel slid back, and into the room there majestically swept a Chinaman of pure Mongolian type.
He was gorgeously clad in flowing silks and wore the princely cap with a button. At a glance his piercing eye took in every detail of the room. Then he went directly to the Madagascan, whose overbearing air of assurance immediately forsook him at the Chinaman's approach.
He bowed low and reverently, for it was Long Fang to whom he made obeisance, Long Fang, leader of a great Tong, and implacable foe to all others, a Chinese whose tentacles of power reached into every corner of the underworld, spreading terror.
In an incisive, icy voice that sent a chill through the big man's frame, he now spoke.
"You have been overlong on your journey and we have been waiting for you." Then with a menace in his voice he snarled, "It is well for you that you came at last."
The big man shuddered and remained silent. Long Fang crossed to Doctor Q.
"The instrument of torture is here," he said. "The Madagascan has just brought it. He is an unrivaled strangler."
"Let him approach," commanded Doctor Q.
Long Fang beckoned, and the Strangler came forward. His eyes had been fixed on the Chinese, but now they roved to the figure of Doctor Q, and he fell back in consternation, clutching the other Madagascan by the shoulder and gasping in awestruck tones.
"In our country his magic is supreme!"
With difficulty he controlled himself and bowed low, his forehead almost touching the floor. Then he looked away, cringing.
"I see that you recognize me," Doctor Q chuckled, fiendishly. "Good! You will not be so foolish as to fail me."
"No, no, master, I swear it by—"
"Never mind your oath. My power is my guaranty. Go—follow Long Fang. He will direct you to the torture-chamber."
Doctor Q turned on his heel and hobbled out of the room.
Long Fang and the Strangler were about to proceed to the torture-chamber when footsteps were heard on the stairway that led to the curio-shop below. Long Fang and the Madagascan stopped and listened.
Another moment and De Luxe Dora and Paul Balcom stepped into the room. With a curt command Paul called Long Fang to him and the Chinaman, important as he was, hastened to obey.
What was this strange power that Paul, at will, could exercise throughout the underworld?
With a few terse questions Paul ascertained the exact condition of affairs.
"You say, Long Fang, that all is ready?"
"All, master. We only awaited your coming."
Then with a graceful gesture he asked, "Will you so far honor your humble servant?" as he indicated the way into another room.
Dora, followed by Paul and the Chinese, stepped through the portal and came to a Chinese temple.
It was a large room and the decorations, although equally well executed as those in the room they had just left, were actually terrifying. Flying dragons and serpents done in bronze hung from the ceiling, while on a raised dais at the farther end of the room was an enormous squatting figure of the seven-handed god. Before it, in braziers, fire gleamed, giving off a heavy, pungent odor that was almost overpowering to Occidental nostrils.
On either side of the huge image hung silken curtains, in all probability covering doorways into yet other chambers.
For the first time Dora showed signs of interest. With the shop and the first chamber she was already familiar, but this was something new, something to give the spur to her satiated, blasé nature. She moved about the place, fingering the rare tapestries, contemplating probably what gorgeous hangings they would make for her own apartment.
Dora's preoccupation gave Long Fang his opportunity to confer with Paul alone and he moved closer to him.
"Master," he nodded, "why not use the beautiful lady to lure the other one into our power?"
Paul shook his head negatively. He knew that Eva was aware that Dora was her enemy.
"But, master," persisted the Chinese, "you told me that this Miss Brent loves her father, and that she would do anything for his recovery. Let this lady tell her that the Madagascan has brought an antidote that will restore his reason. She will come here and we shall trap her."
For a moment Paul stood in deep thought, then called to Dora.
At first she laughed at the idea that Eva would even listen to her. But Dora was clever and conceited and in the end she agreed that at least she would make the attempt.
At this moment in another quarter of town Paul's father was ready to leave his apartment, yet from his nervousness it could readily be seen that he was waiting for some one. A Madagascan servant entered and salaamed.
"Master," he announced, "the Strangler has arrived from Madagascar."
Balcom's face lighted up with intense satisfaction and cunning at the news. He waved the servant away, picked up his hat and stick, and hurried out.
In the library at Brent Rock Eva and Locke were having an earnest conversation. Locke had on his motoring togs and was on the point of going out.
"By elimination," he was saying, "I will prove that either Paul or his father is the Automaton. I am going to trap Paul."
"Quentin," cautioned Eva, "for my sake be careful."
Locke strove to quiet her fears, pointing out that his scheme was necessary in order to save her father, and in the end Eva reluctantly consented.
She went with him to the porte-cochère where his car was already waiting.
"Good luck!" she tried to call cheerfully, in spite of her misgivings.
Long after his car had disappeared in the distance she stood there gazing after it, a world of anxiety in her eyes.
CHAPTER XX
Darkness had settled down upon Brent Rock, following the departure of Locke, when a trim runabout drew up under the porte-cochère and Dora stepped lightly out of it.
She paused for a moment and looked about curiously. For some time she hesitated. In this house lived the girl whom in her heart Dora hated bitterly.
What sort of reception might she expect? Yet Paul and his underworldlings had played on Dora's pride until they had prevailed on her to undertake the mission. As she looked about all her old assurance came back to her and Dora turned and approached the door boldly.
Eva was just about to go up-stairs to her room when she heard the butler at the door and a woman's voice asking whether Miss Brent was at home. Eva paused a moment.
There was evidently a slight altercation between the butler and the new-comer as the latter raised her voice sharply.
"You will tell Miss Brent I must see her," reiterated Dora.
There was a pause, during which the butler was heard to murmur something, and then the woman's voice was heard again.
"Tell Miss Brent that if she refuses to see me she will regret it all her life."
Eva was intensely interested now, for she recognized the voice of De Luxe Dora. But with her interest there came a feeling of repulsion with which this woman always inspired her, and her first impulse was to have Dora shown out of the house.
The very nature of the danger with which they were all surrounded, however, prohibited such a drastic course. Yet how dare that woman enter Brent Rock?
Still, the very fact of her so daring pointed to some serious matter which Eva felt she ought to know. At any rate, there could be no harm to listen to Dora's reason for coming, and there would probably be much to be learned.
Eva called to the butler and he stepped aside, and Dora, all smiles now, and with her hand extended in greeting, advanced toward Eva, who ignored her extended hand.
"Need I tell you," remarked Eva, coldly, "that I am astounded at your presumption in coming here?"
"Miss Brent," replied Dora, "believe me, nothing but my present mission could have induced me to do so. There are wheels within wheels which have made it appear that I am your enemy. But that is far from being the truth, as my present mission to you will prove."
Dora was clever and played her cards cleverly. However, Eva was on guard.
"Please come to the point," she insisted. "Tell me exactly why you have come."
Dora paused a moment, then replied, impressively, "I have come to save your father's life."
Eva caught herself almost gasping in astonishment as Dora covertly watched the effect of her words. "You have the antidote, then?" asked Eva, breathlessly.
"Not exactly that," replied Dora, quickly. "But I can take you where you can obtain it. A man has arrived from Madagascar who has it in his possession."
"What shall I do?" almost wailed the poor girl. "How can I know that you speak the truth?"
Dora's voice now assumed a cold decisiveness. "That is for you to decide," she said merely. "Refuse to come with me and your father will surely die of his madness. Consent—and he may live."
Eva could hesitate no longer. Bidding Dora wait, she ran up the stairs, returning in a few moments garbed for the street.
They left the house together, but not before the butler had surreptitiously slipped a large automatic into Eva's hand-bag.
In the Chinese temple, or Joss-house, the last devotee had departed. The hanging lights had been dimmed and now the fantastic shapes with which the place was decorated, seen in the subdued light, stood out in all their shadowy weirdness.
From the raised dais, the seven-handed god assumed an added majesty and awfulness, while, deep-seated as though from a smoldering caldron, two points of fire gleamed from the god's eyes with utmost malevolence.
Slowly a panel in the wall slid back and the bestial visage of the Strangler peered out.
After making sure that there was no one about, with noiseless tread he glided into the temple.
Like a shadow, a second figure, that of a Chinaman, followed him. The two made a complete circuit of the temple, stopping now and again to examine some object which arrested their attention. Then, as if by a prearranged signal, they both prostrated themselves before the fire god.
After making many obeisances they got to their feet and, as mysteriously as they entered, slipped away in the same manner that they had come. A panel closed behind them, but not the same panel.
The inner room in which they now found themselves was divided by a partition that extended a few feet out into the temple room itself.
This room was vividly painted with weird figures depicting Chinese forms of torture, a veritable charnel-house of what in Europe would be called the Dark Ages. There were plenty of evidences that at no very distant date this chamber had been in use to punish horribly those who had offended against the fire god or the commands of the Tong leaders.
On one side of the partition was a large iron wheel to which was attached a rope extending through the partition and forming a loop or noose on the other side. The purpose of this device was only too apparent. Once the neck of a victim was in the noose, a few turns of the wheel, the noose would tighten, and the victim would be inevitably strangled to death. In a slightly changed form it was the garroting-machine of old Spain.
The Strangler tested the rope, twisted the wheel, while his companion occupied himself by watching the effect of the wheel on the noose on the other side of the partition.
Apparently satisfied that the machine was in good working order, the Madagascan straightened up and waved his companion out of the room.
The Chinaman returned by means of the sliding panel into the temple again.
As she left Brent Rock behind, Eva's fears increased. Speeding through the night with this woman whom she instinctively dreaded, whom she had every reason to distrust, many times on the trip Eva wished herself back at her home.
On the other hand, to remain inactive while there was a chance to save her father's life was unthinkable. And so, for his sake, she kept on and the car sped ahead.
Dora, on the contrary, anxious to allay Eva's fears, was very voluble, expressing many sentiments which even to a young girl of little worldly experience were palpably at variance with the woman's character.
In and out of the narrow streets of the city's lower quarter the car twisted and turned, and at last entered gaily decked Chinatown, where it came to a halt.
If Eva was afraid before she was now doubly so. The strange Oriental faces which seemed to leer at her from street and curb seemed to be almost of another world, and she thought of the many tales she had heard, of their treachery and cunning.
Dora, sensing what was passing through her mind, kept up a patter of small talk as she urged Eva forward.
By another entrance than the one that led through the Chinese curio-shop they entered the Joss-house and came to the worshiping-room of the temple.
Eva gazed fearfully about her now at all the fantastic decorations with which she was surrounded. Her only comfort was the handle of the automatic that the butler had pressed on her as she was leaving home.
"This Madagascan with the antidote," asked Eva, tremulously, "where is he?"
"Don't worry, dearie," quieted Dora. "Wait a moment here and I will bring him."
Dora turned on her heel and left the temple by the door leading into the beautiful lounging-room beyond.
Eva stood transfixed by the solemn awfulness of the place and the grim visage of the fire god. Why had she been brought to such a place? What new terrors awaited her here?
She seemed alone—yet was she?
She felt a thousand eyes regarding her, as though a thousand dangers lurked to destroy her just beyond those fearful walls.
She was staring now at the god. What made his eyes gleam so banefully?
She thought she heard a sound!
Was the wall at the right of the statue moving? Or was it merely her heightened imagination?
Fascinated, she watched.
Yes, she was sure now. Slowly, slowly a portion of that wall was actually sliding back.
Now she saw a hand. Then an arm followed. With a slow, gliding movement that even to Eva's strained ears was noiseless, a man, his back toward her, slid into the room.
Eva, shrinking back, wanted to shriek. But instead she whipped out the automatic and in an instant had the man covered.
The man was still evidently unconscious of her presence. But suddenly he must have heard Eva move. For he wheeled around, and instinctively his hands went above his head.
As for Eva, the cry that she had suppressed at his appearance was suppressed no longer, for the man whom she held at her mercy was—Locke!
"How did you come here?" gasped Eva.
Hurriedly he told her his story—how he felt that the clue that would lead to the unraveling of this mystery was now to be found in Chinatown, how he had made his way, therefore, to the Chinese quarter, how he had tracked the Madagascan.
Knowing the futility of trying to enter any private place of the Orientals, much less their temple, in Occidental garb, he had waylaid a Chinaman in an alley, had stripped him, and had changed clothes with him.
Disguised thus, Locke had managed to enter, to observe, and was only now on his way to summon assistance. For he had decided to have the place raided. Only now he was stricken almost dumb with astonishment at being confronted by Eva.
There was no time for more. Before Eva could explain her own presence there the door burst open, the panels slid back, and a horde of emissaries and Chinamen swarmed about them.
Eva fired her automatic again and again, but could not stay the rush.
Locke fought with the courage of despair. But they were too many and soon bore him down.
As they carried Locke into the chamber of torture the last thing he saw was Eva surrounded by her foes, who were closing in on the poor girl.