“Zita,” demanded Locke, suspiciously, “why did you hesitate to save my life?”

“Because,” she replied—­and her voice indicated the force of her answer whether it were really the truth or not—­“I love you, and would not save you—­for her.”

Zita turned and ran up the stairs leading to Old Meg’s as Locke turned to try to revive Eva.

But the hammer blows of the monster resounded throughout the cellar.  At any moment the door might come crashing down and Locke and Eva might again be at the mercy of the iron fiend.

Locke caught up Eva in his arms again and, groping, sought the exit of the warehouse.

He dared not follow Zita through Old Meg’s den.  Love that could for any reason hesitate or injure the one loved was incomprehensible to him.  He felt that the hag’s den might now be but an ambush and that Zita might have run ahead to warn the uninjured emissaries of his coming.

By a lucky chance he found the path leading directly to the warehouse steps and the street.  Eva’s speedster had not been moved or tampered with and he placed Eva gently in the seat, climbed in, and started the motor.  As he did so three emissaries came running out of the alley leading to Old Meg’s.  But shooting the gears into high speed, Locke easily evaded them and turned up the first corner.

He was going to take Eva to the first doctor’s or a drug-store, but it proved not to be necessary.  The rush of the air as the car moved rapidly revived her, and in a few moments she was quite herself again, eagerly questioning him about her rescue.

Although they were thankful for their escape, still they could not blind themselves to the fact that all their efforts had been in vain, that they stood no nearer to their great desire, and that, at least until now, their enemies had proved too wily and too strong for them.

But they were young, courageous, and resourceful, and as they drew up before Brent Rock they were busily engaged with plans for the future.

It was the following afternoon in the Chinese quarter.  The Celestials were celebrating one of their numerous feasts.  Long multicolored banners and streamers were hanging from every window and balcony and were even strung across the narrow street, almost brushing the faces of the motley throng that passed beneath.  Tom-toms and cymbals beat and clashed, while from the Chinese theater came the shrill piping of reeds and the high-pitched chanting voices of Chinamen.

Street venders cried their wares and the windows of the Oriental shops were gaily bedecked for the holiday.

Through the dense happy throng a man made his way.  He, too, was an Oriental, but of a different race.  A giant in size, he calmly pushed and shoved the smaller Celestials out of his path, and, although they chattered angrily at him, their resentment went no farther, for his size and the menace of his swarthy face made them pause.