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 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.