were still in the sockets.

"The Madagascar madness came from _that_ candlestick," he announced,
with assurance, as he pointed toward the one on the table.

While he was so busily engaged Balcom was eying him cunningly. He
watched his every move and was most intent in seeing just how the young
man would prove his contention.

"Good morning, every one!" came the clear voice of Paul as he entered
the room and crossed over to the side of his fiancee. He was particular
to ignore Locke in his greeting, and as he approached Eva he bent over
her hand and kissed it.

A close observer would have noticed that the girl rather drew her hand
back from his caress.

"I am so sorry about your father, Eva," whispered Paul. "I trust the
ailment is but temporary."

As he spoke Eva thanked him mechanically for his solicitations, while
Balcom glanced at his son in admiration.

Locke, who was still engaged in looking at the candle drippings through
his pocket magnifying-glass, paid slight attention to Paul, but glanced
up in time to see that there was a look of insincerity on his face.

Could it be that this young scion of the Balcom fortune could in any way
be connected with the Automaton? Could this man, this suave, polished
gentleman, have any motive for seeking the ruin or death of his fiancee?
Locke seemed to be busily engaged in his task, but he was making mental
notes on the conduct of young Balcom. He looked up finally and turned to
Eva.

"Miss Brent, I find minute particles of some foreign substance in the
wax of these candles," he announced. "They seem to be of organic origin
and I am certain that they contain the poison which has robbed your
father of his mentality. I am going to take them to a chemical
laboratory where there will be proper facilities to have them analyzed.
Perhaps there is an antidote that will restore your father's sanity."

As Locke spoke he carefully wrapped up the particles of drippings in a
piece of paper and put them in his pocket. As he did so, both Balcom and
Paul exchanged hurried glances, and Balcom left the group and started
toward the hall.

During all this procedure Zita, clad in a sumptuous morning frock hardly
befitting a secretary, was standing behind the portieres in the hall and
listening intently to all she could hear within the dining-room. As she
heard Balcom's footsteps she hurriedly turned and seemed to be going up
the hall. He looked after her and then called.

She came towa