At last he found it, carefully hidden, and in a bottle fortunately not broken.

They left everything as it was and hurriedly left the place, on their way to Brent Rock.

Meanwhile, in one of the worst quarters of the city, down in the cellar of a huge warehouse, a mob of emissaries were gathered.  They were discussing the things that had led up to the explosion in the Automaton’s den, Balcom’s death, and the arrest of their three pals.  Plans for the future they discussed, but, with their leader gone, these hardened men were still as helpless as children.

Suddenly above the din of voices a strange, familiar sound was heard, a sound as of clanking chains, and the blood froze in the veins of every man present.  Then with wild shouts of terror they scattered in every direction, for the Automaton was stalking toward them.

Balcom, the man who had given the iron man life, was dead.  And yet the Automaton was among them!

That night, in the holds of many vessels and on the brake-beams of many trains pulling away from the city, emissaries who once were slaves of the Automaton were fleeing the city in every direction.

When Zita and her father arrived at Brent Rock, Locke was still working at his new gas-gun.  Eva was in the library, but when she heard the voices in the hallway she ran to welcome them.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve both returned safe,” she cried.  Then, unable to withstand the suspense longer, she asked, “Have you brought it—­the antidote?”

When Doctor Locke told her that the bottle that contained it was safely stowed in his pocket Eva sank, overwrought, into a chair and cried with simple relief and joy.

In a moment, however, she had gained control of herself, dashed the tears from her eyes, and almost seized the bottle from Doctor Locke.

“Bring him down here, my dear,” cautioned the doctor, still holding the bottle.  “You would not know how to administer it.”

Eva ran to her father’s room, stopping only long enough to summon Quentin, then together they led Brent down-stairs.

Brent’s condition was still pitiable.  His mind was a total blank.  These people—­Doctor Q, Zita, Quentin, even his own daughter—­meant nothing to him.  He lived and breathed.  But no ray of light entered the poor brain.

They guided his halting steps into the library as if he had been something less than a child, and placed him in the same big armchair on which he had sunk the fatal morning that the fumes from the candles had overcome him.

Doctor Q drew out the bottle and, telling Zita to bring a glass of water, measured out a few drops of the antidote, pouring them into the glass.  Then he moved over to Brent and tried to get him to drink it.  For a long time Brent merely clenched his teeth, but, once he was induced to taste the mixture, he drank it eagerly.

For ages, it seemed to those watching, Brent sat as before, vacantly gazing straight ahead of him—­so long, in fact, that a terrible fear entered Eva’s heart that, perhaps, after all, the antidote would fail and that her father would remain without reason until the day of his death.