Zita slipped around the house and to the hedge designated by Balcom as their meeting-place.

She was surprised but relieved when she did not find him there, and glanced at her wrist watch, which stood at a few minutes past eight.  She was about to turn around when she caught sight of a bit of paper.  Taking it, she read: 

  Bring him to my rooms.

That was all, and the message was unsigned.

Zita greatly feared Balcom’s wrath at her failure, but, nevertheless, she started for his apartment.

At that moment Balcom and the mysterious Doctor Q were talking in the latter’s dingy laboratory.  Doctor Q’s mind, for the time being, at least, seemed perfectly clear, and he had formulated a daring plan.

“Send Locke word that you will give yourself up,” he was saying, “but tell him that he must come to your apartment to get you.  I will do the rest.”

Balcom left hurriedly and was driven directly home, where he got Locke on the telephone and repeated the instructions that Doctor Q had suggested.

“Am I to understand that you intend to turn state’s evidence?” questioned Locke, doubtfully.

“Assuredly,” hastened Balcom.

“Then I’ll be right over.”

As Balcom hung up the receiver he chuckled sardonically.  He was just turning to an antique brazier to arrange for Locke’s reception when Zita was announced and at once admitted.

“I’ve failed, Mr. Balcom,” she apologized, “failed miserably.  Locke took Mr. Brent away from me—­and they ordered me never to return to the house.”

“You little idiot!” Balcom almost hissed.  “I’ll not tolerate a failure, either.  Get out!”

Although Zita almost went on her knees in her pleading to him, Balcom was adamant, and finally she left in utter despair.

Outside, she telephoned to Paul to see if she might induce him to use his influence in reinstating her in his father’s good graces.

As soon as Zita was gone Balcom busied himself with the ancient brazier and was standing before a small image of Buddha.  He took a small package and from it poured a powder into the bowl of the brazier.  Then, going to the table, he wrote a short note, after which he went to a divan and awaited Locke’s coming.

Balcom had not long to wait.  A ring came at the door and Balcom leaped to his feet and lighted the powder in the brazier.  Then he adjusted a gas-mask that Doctor Q had given him, and, returning to the divan, lay down, pulling a camel’s-hair coverlet well over himself as he awaited results.

There was a rap at the door and a peremptory demand for entrance—­a pause—­and a whispered consultation outside.

“Open the door!” cried Locke, again.

As there was no answer, heavy blows were rained upon the door, and finally it gave way.

Three men stumbled into the room.  They stared about, then started to search the place.  One by one they started to cough.  Locke, who was the farthest away from the brazier, seemed to be the least affected.