Then slowly a change was noticeable in his eyes, and all leaned forward with overpowering intentness.  What they were watching was like a miracle.  Slowly, very slowly, they saw the soul creep back into those poor, mad eyes.

Brent had been staring directly at his daughter as she watched him anxiously.  Now a puzzled look came over his face and, raising a hand, he rubbed his forehead.

Then a wonderful light seemed to shine from his eyes and he held out his arms to Eva.

With a sob of excited happiness Eva rushed to embrace him.

As Locke stood behind him, Zita and Doctor Q walked to the other end of the room, turning sidewise to the group.

Suddenly Brent turned his eyes away from Eva and noticed Doctor Q for the first time.

“Who is that?” he asked Eva.

“Why, father, that is—­”

At the sound of voices Doctor Q had turned around.

“You!” gasped Brent, as he sank back into his chair.

The look on his face was strange, perhaps half fear, half shame.

Doctor Q came no nearer for a moment, while Eva hastened to explain what had happened.  Then unsteadily Brent rose and walked over to the doctor.

“You are alive!” he exclaimed.  “You have come again into my life so that at last I can make restitution.  My daughter has explained to me all that you have suffered.  Believe me it was through my own weakness.  It seems incredible that any man could be so infamous, so utterly without moral scruples, as was Balcom.  I believed the villain implicitly.  That is, and can be, my only excuse.”

The doctor placed his hand on Brent’s shoulder.

“I can understand only too well,” he remarked, “for I, too, believed in Balcom.  You were a reticent man and so my dealings were all with him.  I was gullible, an inventor, not a business man.  I should have come to you before I fled the country, I suppose.  Say no more about it, for I forgive you from the bottom of my heart.”

But Brent insisted on explaining that at least he had had a desire to right the great wrongs.

“I can remember it all now,” he continued.  “I was about to make restitution when a man connected with the company—­I am sure now that he was an adventurer, a crook, in the pay of Balcom, although Balcom probably tried to hide it—­came to me.  His name, as I remember it, was Flint.  I was about to write a letter that showed that it was my intention to right a wrong, when—­something interrupted me and—­the rest I can’t remember.”

Quentin, who had been standing behind the chair, now drew from his pocket a piece of paper which he handed to Brent.

“Yes—­that is it,” cried Brent, excitedly, taking it, and spreading it out before them.  “See!”

It was a note addressed to Quentin Locke and read: 

  I have done you a great wrong about which you know
  nothing, but for which I will make amends—­