CHAPTER III


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