“Not only possible,” reiterated Flint, “but it is true.”

“Oh, Flint,” rallied Brent, with a sort of uneasiness, “you can’t tell me that!”

“Believe it or not,” insisted the adventurer, “I have been in Madagascar and I know.”

For a moment Brent paused at the vehemence of Flint’s answer.  What had Flint to gain by misrepresentation?  A thousand images of the past flitted through Brent’s brain.  Then slowly a look of terror came over Brent’s face.  Suppose it were indeed true—­this Frankenstein, this conscienceless inhuman superman?  Brent gripped himself and composed his features and his voice.

“But this thing,” he rasped.  “What does this prove?”

“Oh, this is merely automatic—­a piece of mechanism—­a model which I stole.  It works when it is wound up—­not like the real one.  Look.”

Flint put a pencil in the little steel hand of the model and pressed a lever as he held a piece of paper under the pencil.  Brent leaned over, fascinated.

Instantly the tiny hand began to trace on the paper one letter—­the simple letter “Q.”

As the hand finished the tail of the “Q” Brent gripped the table for support.  His eyes bulged and stared wildly.

“My God!” burst from his lips.  “It is the warning—­Q!”

For minutes Brent strove to regain his composure.

Nor was Flint less impressed than the man before him.

What would have been the emotions of both if they had been able to penetrate with the eye through the rocky cliffs on which the stately mansion of Brent Rock stood would have been hard to say.

For, down in a rock-hewn cavern, not many hundred yards away and below them, reached by a secret entrance from the shrubbery of the cliffs near the shore, already had congregated several rough characters.  They were playing cards and drinking, now and then glancing furtively at the passage entrance, as though they were expecting the arrival of some one or something.

Suddenly came a dull metallic clank through the passage, strangely echoing.  At once all leaped to their feet, at attention, not unmixed with awe and fear that sat strangely on their desperate features.  What was it that they, who feared neither God nor man, feared?

They strained their eyes, looking into the passage that led darkly away into blackness.

Dimly down it now could be seen two gleaming spots of light, points in the Cimmerian darkness.  They seemed to be growing larger and coming nearer as with each hollow reverberation the dull metallic thuds increased.

Faintly now could be made out in the blackness a huge, stalking figure, having the shape of a man, with gigantic, powerful shoulders, powerful arms, a thick body, hips, and thighs that spelled terrific strength, legs and feet that suggested irresistible force.

“The Automaton!” escaped involuntarily from all lips.

Slowly, irresistibly, the horrendous figure stalked forth into the dim light.  There it paused for a moment—­a figure of steel, larger than most men, yet not so large but that it might have incased a man.  And yet its motions, its every action, were like nothing mortal.  Even these hardened denizens of the underworld shuddered.