Before Balcom could stop him he rushed into the library, Balcom following in a towering rage.  Eva gave a startled little cry at the wild intrusion and Locke moved closer to her.

“Is the antidote that will restore your father’s reason worth ten thousand dollars to you?” demanded Flint; then, before Eva could reply, added:  “Speak quick!  I’ve got to get out of the country to-night.”

“Ten thousand!” gasped Eva.  “Ten times ten thousand!  Tell me what it is.”

“Show me the money first,” haggled Flint, “and remember I must have the hard cash.”

“Just a moment, Eva,” interrupted Locke.  “Consider this thing well.  We can deal with this fellow as a final resort.”

Eva looked from Locke to Balcom, her mind in a turmoil, as the telephone-bell rang and Locke hurried to answer it.

In the room now there was a conflict of emotions and desires that fairly electrified the place.  Eva ardently craved her father’s recovery at all costs.  Flint’s avaricious mind wavered between a scheme nearing success and the possibility of failure and the fear of the Automaton.  Balcom strained to hear the purport of the message that Locke was receiving.

At the sound of the chemist’s voice Locke was tense with suppressed excitement.

“I’ve found the antidote,” hastened to report the professor.

With a cordial word of thanks Locke turned from the telephone and faced the group in the room.  As he made the announcement, Eva almost embraced him in the flood of relief at the thought of her father restored.

“Eva,” growled Balcom, “you forget yourself.  As Paul’s father, I cannot countenance such actions.”

“Mr. Balcom,” interrupted Locke, “I am sure you will be kind in your criticism of Miss Brent.  She has merely overrated my service to her.”

“Paul shall hear of this,” stormed Balcom.

“If your son cares to take the matter up with me,” returned Locke, now on his dignity, “I am always to be found—­here.”

“Never mind,” interposed Flint, who feared to see his chance slipping, “I’ve got to get out of the country.  Mr. Locke, your antidote is probably valueless; mine is the certain one.  Look at me, Miss Brent.  Am I not cured?”

“You miserable sneak,” scowled Locke, stepping over to him, “we don’t need your assistance now.”

“I’m dealing with Miss Brent,” insisted Flint, insolently.

Eva, a bit nervous over Balcom’s overbearing manner, interposed.  “Mr. Locke,” she said, with just a touch of dignity for effect on Balcom, “this is a matter of life and death, and I am not in favor of permitting a proven antidote to be taken out of the country by this—­this man.  I have every confidence in you, but suppose—­just suppose—­that your chemist friend is mistaken.”

Flint immediately saw his advantage and pressed it home.  “Are you going to let ten thousand dollars stand in the way of your father’s recovery?” he insinuated.  “Here,” he added, taking pencil and paper from his pocket and writing hurriedly.