THE MASTER MYSTERY. Arthur B. Reeve

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      Locke paused long enough to seize an umbrella from the rack, rip the cover off, and break out a rib, to which he tied a piece of string while he hurried to the group at the door.

      "Break down the door and call the police," ordered Balcom.

      The butler reached for a chair and was about to swing it over his head to break down the door.

      "Stop!" interrupted Locke.

      The young scientist knelt down, inserted the umbrella steel through the keyhole, and bent it by the string as he fished about with it on the other side to find the bolt. Meanwhile the butler telephoned frantically for the police.

      It was at this height of excitement that Paul Balcom entered. A moment's talk with Zita, and he, too, joined the group.

      Sympathetically he spoke to Eva, but Eva scarcely responded in the fashion of a girl to the man whom she was going to marry. Her attention was riveted on Locke, who was kneeling before the door. Paul saw it and an ominous scowl crossed his face.

      Carefully Locke worked the umbrella steel and the string until he had caught the bolt. Then he shot the bolt back and rose to his feet. All watched him expectantly as he threw open the door.

      Such a sight as met their eyes one could scarcely picture.

      There were Brent and Flint at the table—laughing—laughing. The candles had long since burned out. On the floor lay the automaton model.

      "Father!" cried Eva, running to him.

      But there was no look of recognition on Brent's face.

      "Don't you know me? Speak to me! Father!"

      Instead, Brent merely patted her shoulder and laughed hollowly. Eva, on her knees by him, sobbed and smoothed his head by turns.

      Locke, bending over Flint, found him in much the same condition.

      Meanwhile, Balcom and Paul had picked up the model of the automaton and exchanged a quick glance.

      "This man Locke's actions are suspicious," exclaimed Balcom, hastily. "He was in the house last night."

      Outside they could hear the arrival of the detectives summoned by the butler.

      "Go to Eva," nudged Balcom to Paul.

      A moment later the butler entered with the detectives.

      At the sight of the automaton model in Balcom's hands the butler cried out:

      "That is what attacked me last night—only larger—much larger!"

      All eyes were now on the butler. Quickly Balcom took advantage of the situation thus created. Locke, also, left Flint and moved over to the group examining the model. As he did so his eye caught a piece of paper under the sideboard. He was about to pick it up when he realized that all were looking at him. Quickly he covered his discovery and faced them.

      "This man is the stranger in the house," cried Balcom, in anger. "Arrest him and make him explain."

      It was the work of only an instant for the chief detective to step up to Locke and slip the bracelets on his wrists.

      "Don't!" cried Eva.

      "Please—my dear—your father," remonstrated Paul.

      At that instant Brent was seized with another violent fit of coughing and laughter. Eva, distracted, was half fainting.

      Thus, with Locke handcuffed, Balcom and Paul were triumphant.

      Locke saw his chance. But the handcuffs prevented him from using his hands. In the instant that all were diverted toward Brent, with incredible deftness Locke slipped his hand from the cuffs, one link of which fell open as if by magic, through a secret all his own. He reached down and picked up the paper under the sideboard and read it. It was the letter Brent had been writing and served only to increase his perplexity. He read it again, then crushed it into his pocket, and before any one had discovered his trick had slipped his hand back into the cuffs and they were locked again.

      At that very moment the telephone rang and the chief of the detectives answered. As he did so a perplexed expression crossed his face and he walked over quickly to Locke.

      "I—beg your pardon," he apologized as he began to unlock the handcuffs.

      "Here, my man, what are you doing?" interrupted Balcom.

      "I know my business. You lay off," growled the detective.

      A moment later Locke, with a slight smile on his handsome face, was answering the telephone.

      Not a soul save the detective, even yet, suspected the true identity of Locke, even as he answered over the telephone with a respectful, "Yes, sir."

      The fact of the matter was that the message had come most opportunely. It was from the chief of the Department of Justice himself, ordering Locke to stay at the house until he had secured the evidence that would allow the department to proceed against the company under the anti-trust law. That, then, was the explanation of the secret dictagraph which Locke had installed, the explanation of his apparent faithlessness to his employer.

      But weightier matters were now on Locke's mind. Here he was faced by the case of his life, involving the happiness of the very girl whom he had so soon come to love. His incentive was double—love and success: triple—above all, justice.

      By this time the household themselves were sufficiently calm to help Brent to his bedroom and Flint to a guest-chamber.

      Balcom was about to follow, when Locke, returning from the telephone, touched him on the shoulder and shoved the threat message which Brent had given him the night before under the face of the junior partner.

      "Read that," he demanded.

      Balcom read, controlling his features admirably, if control were necessary.

      "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded, coldly.

      "Were you in Madagascar lately?" shot back Locke.

      Locke could not be sure whether or not Balcom suppressed a start. At any rate, he did not conceal anger at the insinuation.

      "Certainly," he replied. "With my son I cruised through the Mozambique Channel and touched at Madagascar last summer. Why?"

      Locke nodded and the detective made a note of the reply.

      "What do you mean to insinuate by that question?" demanded Balcom.

      Without reply Locke shrugged nonchalantly and smiled.

      Not ten feet away, in the conservatory door, Paul listened, and his face darkened as he clenched his fists.

      There was a murderous glare in Paul's eyes as Locke unconcernedly withdrew, whispering to the detective, who nodded deferentially to the young scientist who had been assigned by the Department of Justice, strangely, to the very case which now he realized in some unknown way must concern himself and the very mystery of his own identity.

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