THE MASTER MYSTERY. Arthur B. Reeve

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 Brent as he himself coughed and clutched involuntarily at his throat. Brent stared at Flint.

      "What is it?" he repeated, anxiously. "Have you suddenly gone mad, man?"

      But there was no reply. Instead, Flint laughed all the more madly.

      Brent was more than startled. If he could have seen himself in a glass he would have seen that he was already wide-mouthed and disheveled. Suddenly the smoke again blew in his face. He coughed again. His head reeled.

      Then, in a flash, it all dawned on him.

      He shielded himself from the candles. But it was too late.

      "My God!" he exclaimed, starting up. "The Madagascar madness!"

      Brent looked about wildly. He rushed to Flint and shook him. But Flint only laughed. He turned and moved toward the candles, reaching out for them. But even as he did so his hand faltered.

      He stopped and passed his hand across his tightening forehead. Slowly over his face came a stupid expression. He felt himself going, without power of retraining himself. His lips twitched and he swayed.

      Then he began to laugh uncontrollably.

      Flint rose and clapped him on the shoulder. Then both laughed foolishly, loudly.

      They were beyond help. It was the laughing madness.

      Outside, in the hall, Eva and Locke had been standing, talking for a moment, when suddenly, below, they heard a terrific noise in the cellar. Involuntarily Eva's hand clutched Locke's arm. Locke drew a revolver and, in spite of Eva's fearsome caution, hastened down the cellar stairs.

      About in the blackness of the cellar he groped until his foot touched something soft, a mass on the floor. He bent over. It was the butler, in a heap, unconscious, but still breathing.

      There was not a sound, not another being in the cellar.

      Together Eva and Locke helped the now half-conscious man to his feet and pushed and pulled him up the stairs; as slowly he recovered his power of speech.

      "What was it—tell us?" urged Locke.

      "I—I went down to fix the fuses—as the master ordered," muttered the butler, incoherently. "A huge figure—steel hand—it flung me across the floor—the last I remember."

      He passed his hand over his head as though recollection even was too horrible for description.

      Locke listened a bit doubtfully, then sent the butler on his way to bed, while Eva could scarcely restrain her fears.

      Over to the dining-room door Locke strode and listened. There was nothing but the sound of merriment inside, of uncontrollable laughter. Could it be that Brent and Flint were drinking? He dared not betray a fear to Eva. Instead he knocked.

      At that moment he could hear the sound of some heavy body falling; then more laughter as Brent in his hysteria struck the model of the automaton to the floor.

      With the model, unnoticed by Brent, now fluttered to the floor the letter he had been writing. But the madman paid no attention to that now as it sifted through the air and fluttered under the sideboard.

      "Mr. Brent," called Locke, "please open the door."

      Instead of an answer came a loud and insulting laugh, followed by an incoherent mouthing of words. Eva looked startled, blanched. It was so unlike her father. For the moment Locke was piqued. But he tried not to show it as he turned away from the door.

      "I am your father's employe," he said, sadly, "and it is his privilege, I suppose, to laugh at me." He hesitated.

      "Oh, but, Quentin—Mr. Locke—I'm—I'm so sorry. Surely he could not have meant it."

      At the head of the stairs Locke tried to smile.

      "Don't worry," he said, repressing his feelings. "It will make no difference between us. Good night."

      They parted, Eva closing her door for a sleepless night, Locke to work far into the night in his laboratory until sheer exhaustion overcame his feelings.

      Meanwhile, in the dining-room, the two men kept terrible vigil, hour after hour, oblivious of time, in wild and wanton laughter—maniacal abandon.

      A terrible blow had been struck and Reason was tottering on her throne.

      Two men had been stricken by an unknown hand—stark, stark mad.

      Chapter V

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      "Father—please—open the door!"

      It was early the following morning that the butler with frightened face had called Eva Brent to tell her that her father and Flint had been locked in the dining-room all night and were still laughing madly.

      Eva had hurried down-stairs, encountering Zita as she ran. It was true. She could hear the voices inside. Nor could she get any answer from the two men.

      "Oh—Zita—please—can't something be done?" Eva implored.

      With a hasty word Zita hurried away just as Herbert Balcom himself entered the house from the street.

      In utter surprise Balcom nodded at Zita as she poured forth the story of what had been discovered in the morning, then pushed past her in high excitement.

      "What's wrong?" he asked as he came upon the butler and Eva still knocking excitedly at the dining-room door.

      Eva was almost in a panic as she answered, "Father and Mr. Flint have been in there laughing ever since last night."

      Balcom tried to comfort her. But somehow his sympathy sent a cold shudder through the poor girl.

      Meanwhile Zita had encountered Locke hurrying down at the sound of the commotion. To him she told the story, again hurt that СКАЧАТЬ