Locke looked from one to the other, then turned to Old Tom.  “The wounded man who was brought here,” he demanded, “where is he?”

“There ’ain’t been no wounded man brought here,” retorted Old Tom.

The men crowded a little closer, all denying vehemently that any one had entered.

At this instant a drop of blood fell on Locke’s sleeve from the ceiling above.  Quickly he checked the impulse to look up, although he was startled by it.  He recovered himself on the instant and waited until under a pretext he could divert their attention to something else.  Then he glanced hastily upward, as they looked in another direction.  There, forming slowly, was another drop of blood, and it was about to fall.

Locke had gained his object.  As surely as though he had been brought face to face with Paul, he knew that he was lying on the floor of the attic above.

Single-handed, against so many and in this shack, Locke realized that he could do nothing.  He apologized gruffly for his intrusion, conveying the impression that he felt he had made a mistake, and backed his way to the door.

In an instant the door to the attic stairs was flung open and Dora rushed into the room.

“You fools!” she snarled at the surprised men who were just congratulating themselves on how they had put one over on Locke.  “I tell you he’s wise.  He saw the blood.  Look up above you.  Now go get him.”

But the fishermen had no desire for this outside work and hung back, while Dora raved at them.

From the ceiling, drop by drop, blood was falling, forming a little pool on the floor.  Paul could not be moved now.  They must make the best of it and be ready for any raid Locke might prepare.

At Brent Rock Eva was conversing with her lawyer.  Matters had reached such a state in the affairs of International Patents that it was evident, even to her, that some drastic action must be taken, and at once.

In a corner of the room, coiled up in a big armchair, Zita was apparently reading a new magazine, but was, in reality, listening intently to every word that was being uttered.

Finally Eva and the lawyer were in full accord, and she accompanied the elderly attorney to the door.  As they parted, Zita strained her ears to hear the last words.  She did not get it all, but quite enough to tell her what they had decided upon.

“As my lawyer,” she overheard Eva say, “I wish you to have Mr. Locke appointed receiver.”

There was some more she missed, but that was quite enough for Zita.  She got out of the chair quickly and left the room without being observed, and a few moments later she had left the house.

In a telephone-booth, not far from the cove fishing-village, Locke by this time had his chief of the Department of Justice on the wire.

“I’ve located him, Chief,” he telephoned, excitedly, “but it will take four good men to capture him.”