“Why—­why—­this is unheard of—­absurd!” sputtered Balcom.  “I’ll—­I’ll—­” And his rage got the better of him.

“No, Mr. Balcom,” again interrupted Locke, “you will do nothing.  It is I who will give you twenty-four hours to arrange your affairs with the company before I order your removal—­or arrest.”

Balcom tried to remonstrate, to plead his innocence of any wrong-doing.  Finding no sympathy by taking this attitude, his manner changed abruptly and he attempted to bluster.

A decisive movement toward the telephone on the part of Locke checked this and, chameleon-like, Balcom’s usual suave manner came to the fore.  He bowed himself out.

“It will, of course, be as you say.”  He smiled oilily.

Once in the hall, however, his manner changed again, and, darkly scowling and biting his thin lips, he was about to quit the place, when Zita, limping only slightly, intercepted him.

“Mr. Balcom,” she pleaded, “come out the back way.  I must see you alone a moment.”

They tiptoed out to the grounds, and, behind a hedge where they could not be observed from the house, talked.

“Tell me what has happened,” demanded Zita.

“Happened?” repeated Balcom.  “Why, they’ve thrown me out of the company—­at least, they think they have.”

His mind was working quickly, and after a pause he turned to Zita sharply.  “Can you get Brent out of the house and bring him to me here behind this hedge at eight o’clock to-night?”

Zita nodded an eager acquiescence and left him, returning to the house.

That evening Locke, returning from a stroll around the grounds, noticed a movement in some shrubbery at the side of the foot-path.  He went closer to investigate, and a rough-looking individual broke from cover and ran away through the underbrush as fast as he could go.  It was too dark to follow and Locke hastened his steps to the house, fearing some new deviltry on the part of the Automaton or his emissaries.

He had just entered the darkened hallway when, much to his surprise, he saw the figure of a man, leaning heavily on the arm of a woman, descending the stairs.

He stepped behind some portieres and waited until they reached the foot of the stairway.  Then he stepped out and confronted them.

Zita gave a startled cry, and would have fled had not Locke caught and held her.  As for poor Brent, he simply stood there, swaying from side to side and smiling foolishly.

Eva heard the commotion and came running down the stairs.  She was amazed until Locke explained the situation to her.  Then her indignation knew no bounds.  Putting her arms around her father, she turned to Zita.

“How dare you?” she demanded, scathingly.  “For doing this you will leave this house immediately and—­never return.”

Zita, for a moment, was on the verge of breaking down, but recovered herself and, with an angry retort on her lips, went out, slamming the door behind her.