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.