“I—­I forgive you?” she murmured, at length.  “It is for you to forgive me.”  She paused a moment and choked back a sob; then added, bravely, “I—­I can even wish for your happiness, my dear; my hope is dead.”

Only Locke understood, and as he watched Zita he resolved to do all he could for her, realizing that some one else had made her a victim of her love and jealousy.

All breathed a sigh of relief when at last they came again in sight of the lights of Brent Rock.

There was just the trace of a shadow to cloud the momentary happiness at their safe arrival, as, on the steps, Zita refused to enter.

“I—­I must say good-by,” she murmured, wistfully, turning to go out into the night alone.

Nothing that either Locke or Eva could say seemed to swerve her purpose.

“Can’t you see?” she exclaimed, finally, turning to Locke.  “Balcom, Paul, and Doctor Q all trust me now.  I can help you solve the mystery better if I leave the house.”

This was so evident that Locke and Eva were forced to consent.  They took her back to the city, leaving her where she could be unobserved, then returned in a very hopeful mood again to Brent Rock.

“I think she can and will help us,” declared Eva, intuitively.

“Yes,” agreed Locke, slowly, “and if Zita finds the record of her birth I believe we shall solve the mystery.”

Worn out with the terrors through which she had passed, Eva bade Locke an affectionate good-night and went to her room, while he went to the laboratory and tried again to find an antidote for the Madagascar madness, a work that kept him up late and to which he returned again early the following morning.

It was on that following day, in the River Road apartment of De Luxe Dora, that Paul and she were having a demi-monde lovers’ quarrel.  Paul was intoxicated, and Dora may have been angry about that.  Or it may have been that she was jealous of some other woman.  However, they were quarreling fiercely when there came a knock at the door.

“You open it,” flashed Dora to Paul.

He demurred a moment, then, changing his mind, consented and crossed to the door, while Dora ran to her own room and hid.

Paul was very much surprised to find that the visitor was Zita, much excited.

“I want you to help me on something of great importance,” she exclaimed, almost before she had entered.

“Why, certainly!  Anything you desire!” hiccoughed Paul.  “Come on in.”

Zita entered the apartment and they crossed over to the chaise-longue, where Zita made her direct plea.

“Help me find the record of my birth,” she begged.

Paul pulled his wandering wits together and thought a moment; then a particularly crafty look came into his eyes as he detached a key from his key-ring.

“Here, take this,” he directed.  “It’s the key to my father’s apartment.  The records you want are there.  He and I have quarreled and you can go as far as you like.”