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.