final blow to Eva.
She thought of Flint and Baker's dock and five o'clock. There was no
time to lose if she were to save her father. So she pulled herself
together, seized her hat and cloak, and started for the door.

Here Zita stopped her and offered to accompany her, but she declined.
She hastily asked the direction of Baker's dock from the butler, and
then ran out of the house and sprang to the steering-wheel of her
waiting car. With a whir of the starter she was away.

Flint had arrived at the dock long before and was now slinking in and
out among the crates and boxes as he sought diligently for a safe
hiding-place. But his nerves, none too strong at the best, were now
running riot, and nowhere could he feel a sense of security so that he
could remain quiet.

It was while he was sneaking from one pile of bales to another that an
emissary hailed him.

"Are you Flint?" he demanded.

"Y-e-s," came quaveringly from Flint.

"Well, there's a lady in the office asking for you."

Such was the fascination of any of the emissaries of the Automaton over
Flint by this time that he followed the man without question,
particularly as he felt that he would be spared, since the lady in the
office could be none other than Eva.

Together they walked toward the entrance and, with an order to wait, the
emissary halted Flint close to a pile of crates and left him. Flint
dared not move. A premonition of impending disaster must have come over
him, for his knees shook and a clammy sweat broke out on his forehead.

Without sound a gigantic iron hand and arm protruded from behind a crate
and, for a moment, hung suspended over Flint's head. Then, with a swift
encircling movement, that hooklike arm wrapped itself around Flint's
neck and drew him into the shadow. The mighty form drew the victim
close--and it was over.

The Automaton picked up the body as though it had been a mere
feather-weight and stalked out to the waiting emissaries. A trap-door
was opened and Flint's body was dashed into the river. Thus it was that
all his scheming came to an end and his secret from Madagascar, which he
had told Brent, but which now lay locked in that mad-man's mind, was
stilled with Flint's dead lips.

At the chemist's shop Locke was by this time recovering from the
terrible ordeal through which he had passed. He bathed his swollen
thumbs, and by rubbing them was able somewhat to restore the
circulation. Then he stepped to the telephone and ga