arted to write feverishly:

QUENTIN LOCKE,--I have done you a great injury about which you know
nothing, but I am willing to--

His hand had scarcely traced the last word when the room was plunged
into absolute darkness.

Down in the cellar the Automaton had succeeded in rubbing off the
insulation of the feed wires. There was a flash of light as he laid his
steel hand over the two feed wires--then darkness.

In the dining-room Brent and Flint, already keyed to the highest pitch,
leaped to their feet with an exclamation of terror.

Late as it was, Locke was working in his laboratory on the second floor
of the house when the lights winked out. Surprised for the moment, he
ran out into the hall.

Already there was the butler, groping about with a candle.

"What's the matter, Quentin?" asked a breathless voice behind them.

It was Eva in a filmy dressing-gown. Locke turned to vision a creation
of loveliness in the candle-light which set his heart thumping.

"Nothing," he reassured. "Just the lights short-circuited, that's all.
I'll see."

Just then the dining-room door opened and Eva saw her father, disheveled
and preoccupied, stride out and take the five-branched candlestick from
the hall table. Nervously he began to light the candles. They sputtered
a bit and he turned quickly, still holding the candlestick, as the smoke
drifted away from them all.

"Fix the fuses in the cellar," he directed the butler.

"Is anything--really the matter--father?" implored Eva.

"No, no, my child," he answered, hastily. "Go back to bed. And, Locke,
please don't let us be disturbed."

He was about to say more, then decided not to do so, and turned back
into the dining-room.

Again Brent carefully locked the door to the dining-room and rejoined
Flint.

He had placed the candles on the table, not noticing in the half-light
that the smoke from them was growing denser as they burned down.

The smoke drifted over as the draught carried it. Flint coughed and
moved a bit, his hand at his throat.

Brent seized the pen again and was about to write, when the smoke from
the candles drifted into his own face. He, too, coughed.

Uneasy, Brent glanced over at Flint. Flint laughed, a bit hysterically.

"What the devil's the matter?" demanded Brent, with lowered brows, a
strange dryness in his throat.

Flint was now leaning forward on his elbows and laughing foolishly,
stupidly. It was a queer laugh, and struck terror into Bren