at De Luxe Dora was waiting outside for
him in her speedster.

He had made this paramour of his take him to the very door of his
fiancee's home, and there wait until he had paid his respects to the
moneyed lady who would make happiness possible by supplying him with the
funds to pursue his pleasures and insure his father's hold on the
International Patents, Incorporated.

Paul looked at his watch, then, after a few words of condolence which
would hardly sound sincere from any one less gifted, made a hurried
departure toward the corner where the speedster was waiting.

"Who was the funny gink that hurried by a little while ago?" queried
Dora, in the vernacular of her calling. "He gave me the double O as
though he had something on me."

"That's a fellow we've got to look out for, kid," answered Paul, in the
same terms by which he was addressed, for, if nothing else, Paul could
be as much at home in the underworld as in a mansion on the Drive.
"Brent claimed that he was a chemist before he went 'bugs,'" continued
Paul, "but I have my doubts; in fact, I'm very leery of him because I
think he's a fly cop."

He took his place beside Dora, who started the car and headed down-town.

After Paul's departure Eva hurried to her father's room and tried to
comfort him. He was seated in a chair, staring blankly ahead of him. He
was quieter now, but his body twitched nervously from time to time.

The tears started to come to Eva's eyes as she saw her father's plight,
and she knelt down beside him and took his hand in hers. She stroked it
with her own hand and bent over and kissed it. As she knelt, crying
softly, she sobbed half-aloud:

"Why can't I confide in you, father? Why can't you advise me? I don't
love Paul Balcom and could never marry him. I know I love Quentin
Locke--I do--I do--"

As she sobbed she bent over his hand and pressed it to her lips.

Peter Brent sat staring into space, staring like a graven image.

CHAPTER VII

After her brief encounter with Balcom in the hallway Zita stealthily
mounted to Flint's room.

Flint's condition was unchanged. He lay sprawled out in a huge
arm-chair, his head swaying from side to side, as he muttered and
mumbled incoherently, while his leering smile caused even Zita to
shudder.

She was, however, alive to the importance of her mission. Steeling
herself, she raised Flint from the chair and steadied him with one hand
while she tried to smooth out the wrinkles of his