Brent had no intention of keeping the promise which Balcom had extracted from him by a species of moral duress that afternoon.
In fact, already he had gone too far in his plans for restitution—or was it self-preservation?—to turn back. It was late in the night that he himself secretly admitted to the house a tall, dark-haired stranger who evidently called by appointment.
"Well, Flint," he greeted, in a hushed tone, "what was it you asked to see me about?"
Flint replied not a word, but impressively tapped a bundle which he carried under his arm and began to undo the cord which bound it.
Brent looked startled, then caught himself. He had known Flint for some time—an adventurer, more or less unscrupulous, who had been the foreign representative of International Patents.
Flint took off his coat and threw it on a chair with an air of assurance that seemed to increase Brent's anxiety, then began again to untie the bulky package.
"Just a moment, Flint," cautioned Brent, stopping him.
With an air of uneasy secrecy Brent hurried to the door that led from the dining-room to the conservatory and bolted it securely. Then he made sure that the door to the library was bolted.
As he did so he did not see his secretary, Zita, watching in the hall, for the footsteps of Locke, approaching, had caught her quick ear and she had fled.
"Locke!" called Brent, hearing his laboratory, manager. "Under no circumstances allow me to be disturbed to-night."