Eva opened the hallway door and greeted Paul, feigning delight and chiding him for his long absence—­which had not been even a day—­intimating that there must be some woman in whom he was interested.  She made a pretty show of jealousy.

Paul, wearing his vanity on his sleeve, was delighted and his eyes shone with satisfaction.  He took a step forward and attempted to take Eva in his arms.  But she evaded him playfully, while he pursued her.  Finally she could bear no more.  The game revolted her.  She made the excuse that she must attend her father, and ran up-stairs.

So a day or two passed, days which were sheer torture to Eva.  Paul called every day, bringing her little gifts, and it must be acknowledged that he showed exquisite taste.

They took long walks together.  On horseback they cantered all over the country.  Friends called, and it was at such times that Eva found her only relief from Paul’s attentions.  Many a rubber of bridge she played just to escape being alone with him.

CHAPTER XVI

At last, late one afternoon, the faithful old butler announced to Eva privately that Locke was on the wire and wished to speak to her.

Eva almost ran to the telephone, and her hand shook with sheer joy as she took the receiver.

“Yes, everything is moving along even more rapidly than I expected,” replied Locke to her eager inquiry.  “Whenever Paul leaves Brent Rock he goes directly to a miserable cafe and there I see him with a number of people of the underworld.  He seems to have a great deal of influence over them.  I’m sifting all the clues, and as soon as I unmask him I will send for you.”

Eva gave him a brief outline of how she had fared in his absence and an account of her father’s condition, which was now very bad.  Everything the doctor had done seemed to be without effect.

Locke assured her that he hoped soon to lay hands on the antidote that would restore Brent to health and sanity, and begged Eva to be brave in the mean time.

When the conversation was over Eva felt certain that no one had overheard what she and Quentin had said.  But she was mistaken, as she was to learn at her cost.  For, far down in the bowels of the earth, in the den of the Automaton, an emissary had tapped in on the telephone wire and had heard every word.

Down-town, among the haunts of Paul, on the west side, was the Black Tom Cafe.  Every attempt had been made to make the place bizarre.  About the walls were palings that represented a back fence, along which crawled painted black cats in every conceivable state—­a rather odd conceit for a cabaret.

Although the sun had not yet set, the electric lights were already agleam.  On a raised platform three weary-eyed musicians were pounding and thumping out the latest Broadway hit.

There were not half a dozen people in the place, and these were obviously denizens of this quarter of the town.  They were listless and weary, mere shells of human beings.  And yet it was such as these that the slumming parties at night romantically dubbed bohemians.