Eva read in amazement as he wrote. Quickly she comprehended. Then they walked silently until they were almost under the chandelier which held the transmitter of the dictagraph.
"I have something I want to say to you, Mr. Locke," began Eva, with a wink and a smile at him, "and it grieves me to say it."
"What is it?" asked Locke, with distinct anxiety, winking back.
"I am afraid I shall have to dispense with your services," continued Eva, as she reached out her hand and gave Locke's a little squeeze.
Up-stairs, Balcom and Zita listened intently, their heads close together so that each could catch every word. Balcom was nodding with satisfaction. Each looked at the other as though they could hardly believe their ears.
"But I have tried to serve and protect you," protested Locke, as his face wreathed in smiles at Eva, who was carrying the deception off perfectly. Then he added, plaintively, "I am sorry that I have failed."
"Your protection has led me into danger," returned Eva, in her best voice to denote anger, "and your seeming interest is out of place—and, besides, Mr. Locke, Paul Balcom does not like your being here. You know he is the man I am to marry."
As she said this, Eva looked roguishly at him. Locke's face clouded a little, although he knew it was only in a joke.
"But, Miss Brent," he continued to protest, "I had hoped—"
"Not another word, Mr. Locke," interrupted Eva, as she edged very close to him and gazed into his eyes. "Please leave this house at once—I hate you!" And, not suiting the action to the word, she reached out and gave his hand a squeeze that told more than words what her true thoughts in the matter were.