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.