“You are—­”

At that instant the inventor caught sight of the intruders.  With a look of horror in his eyes he threw out his hands to protect himself, but he was too late.  The knife whizzed through the air and a second later pierced his throat.  He fell to the floor—­dead.

At the moment when the emissary, followed by the Automaton, entered, Zita, watching her chance, managed to escape from the room, stumbled, and almost half-fell down the stairs.

Already, in the huge water-tank that stood on the roof of the apartment of Dora, Locke had revived as he felt the water and had found himself already half submerged, with the water rapidly pouring in.  At first he could not grasp his terrible predicament, but before long the full horror of it burst on him and he struggled madly to free himself.  Since his body was stretched at full length, it was impossible to use the ordinary tricks of which he was master.  His arms were bound, and he well knew that to release one of them constituted his sole chance of escape.

He contracted his muscles and, inch by inch, he worked his right arm free.  By this time the water had risen until he was fairly beneath its surface.  Could he last long enough to free himself?

He worked frantically.  Finally, with his lungs almost bursting, he managed to free the other arm, then the rope that bound his neck.  To release his feet was, to him, child’s play, and he stood up.

But the water had risen almost to the top of the tank before he was able to grasp its brim and draw himself out.

Once on the roof, there was only one thought in his mind.  It was nearing eight o’clock, and if Eva kept the appointment at the inventor’s he knew his adversaries well enough to be sure that they would take advantage of his absence.

He dashed down the stairs and out of the building.  Dora and her evil band could wait.  He must reach the inventor’s shop.  As the seconds sped, so increased his premonition that all would not be well there.

It was at the moment that Zita came flying down-stairs that Locke burst into the hallway to the inventor’s.

Zita saw him.  Above, she knew was the terrible Automaton and his bloodthirsty emissary.  More horrible yet, she had her fears of the package that had been given her by Balcom to deliver.

“You must not go up there!” she cried, impulsively, flinging her arms about Locke’s neck.

Locke tried to remove her arms as he questioned her.  But Zita either would not or could not tell more.  Instead she merely clung to him.

Thus it was that Eva, determined at keeping her appointment with the inventor at all costs, entered the hallway at just this unpropitious moment.  To her it looked as if Locke and Zita were very familiar.  Could it be that Quentin was such a cad?  She could not deny the evidence of her eyes.