iting-desk,
took a pencil, and began to write.

"Balcom and Zita are listening on the dictagraph. Pretend to quarrel
with me."

Eva read in amazement as he wrote. Quickly she comprehended. Then they
walked silently until they were almost under the chandelier which held
the transmitter of the dictagraph.

"I have something I want to say to you, Mr. Locke," began Eva, with a
wink and a smile at him, "and it grieves me to say it."

"What is it?" asked Locke, with distinct anxiety, winking back.

"I am afraid I shall have to dispense with your services," continued
Eva, as she reached out her hand and gave Locke's a little squeeze.

Up-stairs, Balcom and Zita listened intently, their heads close together
so that each could catch every word. Balcom was nodding with
satisfaction. Each looked at the other as though they could hardly
believe their ears.

"But I have tried to serve and protect you," protested Locke, as his
face wreathed in smiles at Eva, who was carrying the deception off
perfectly. Then he added, plaintively, "I am sorry that I have failed."

"Your protection has led me into danger," returned Eva, in her best
voice to denote anger, "and your seeming interest is out of place--and,
besides, _Mr._ Locke, Paul Balcom does not like your being here. You
know he is the man I am to marry."

As she said this, Eva looked roguishly at him. Locke's face clouded a
little, although he knew it was only in a joke.

"But, Miss Brent," he continued to protest, "I had hoped--"

"Not another word, Mr. Locke," interrupted Eva, as she edged very close
to him and gazed into his eyes. "Please leave this house at once--I hate
you!" And, not suiting the action to the word, she reached out and gave
his hand a squeeze that told more than words what her true thoughts in
the matter were.

Locke leaned over and was on the point of kissing her when she held up
her hand and pointed to the receiver above in the chandelier as if it
really had eyes as well as ears. He looked up and was forced to check a
laugh lest it be heard by the listeners above.

In the laboratory, Balcom had heard enough. He turned to Zita, and with
a hurried command told her to go down-stairs.

"Keep an eye on him and tell me where he goes," was the parting
instruction of Balcom as the two separated on the stairs at the very
time that Paul blustered in the front door.

"Morning, Governor," nodded Paul, as he gave his hat to the butler.

"A very good morni