It was Eva Brent, daughter of the head of the firm, who had danced in
from the conservatory like a June zephyr in December.

"My dear," Locke could hear the patent magnate welcome, "it is all
right. Stay a moment and talk to this gentleman while I go down to the
museum."

Locke listened eagerly, glancing now and then at a photograph of Eva
Brent on his own desk, while she chatted gaily with the inventor. It was
evident that Eva had not the faintest idea of the hard nature of the
business of her father.

Meanwhile, Brent himself had left the library and passed through the
portièred door into the hall. He did not turn up the grand staircase in
the center of the wide hall, but hurried, preoccupied, to a door under
the stairs that opened down to the cellar.

He started to open it to pass down. As he did so he did not hear a light
footstep on the stairs as his secretary, Zita Dane, came down. But he
did not escape her watchful eye.

"Mr. Brent," she called, "is there anything I can do?"

Brent paused. "Wait a moment for me in the library," he directed, as he
turned again to enter the cellar.

He closed the door and Zita watched him with an almost uncanny interest,
then turned to the library to join Eva and the new-comer.

Down the cellar steps Brent made his way, and across the cellar floor,