ut of the way as he strode toward his father.

Apparently outside Paul had overheard and had gathered the drift of what
Balcom had been saying. Or perhaps, from his own sources of information,
he already knew. At any rate, as Balcom turned from the telephone,
father and son faced each other angrily.

"Brent's lying," exclaimed Paul. "That marriage to me must take place
to-morrow."

Talking angrily, sometimes in agreement, at others far apart, the two
left the room.

Back in the dining-room by this time Brent had rejoined Flint and now
watched him eagerly as he took the last wrappings from the package which
he had carried so carefully.

As the last wrapping was stripped from it, on the table before them lay
a small steel model, perhaps three feet high--a weird-looking thing in
the miniature shape of a man, designed along lines that only a cubist
could have conceived--jointed, mobile, truly a contrivance at which to
marvel.

Brent gazed incredulously at the strange thing. "An automaton!" he
exclaimed.

"More than that," replied Flint, calmly.

Flint unrolled a chart of the human nervous system and spread it out on
the table. Pointing to the brain, he leaned over tensely, and whispered:

"This model is merely a piece of mechanism. But the real automaton
possesses a human brain which has been transplanted into it and made to
guide it."

For a moment Brent listened incredulously, then sat back in his chair
and laughed skeptically. But even Flint recognized that there was a
hollowness in the laughter.

"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Brent, "that a human brain has been
made to control a thing of no use except as a terrible engine of
destruction?"

"Not only possible," reiterated Flint, "but it is true."

"Oh, Flint," rallied Brent, with a sort of uneasiness, "you can't tell
_me_ that!"

"Believe it or not," insisted the adventurer, "I have been in Madagascar
and I know."

For a moment Brent paused at the vehemence of Flint's answer. What had
Flint to gain by misrepresentation? A thousand images of the past
flitted through Brent's brain. Then slowly a look of terror came over
Brent's face. Suppose it were indeed true--this Frankenstein, this
conscienceless inhuman superman? Brent gripped himself and composed his
features and his voice.

"But this thing," he rasped. "What does this prove?"

"Oh, this is merely automatic--a piece of mechanism--a model which I
stole. It works when it is wound up--not li