Look at me, Miss Brent. Am
I not cured?"
"You miserable sneak," scowled Locke, stepping over to him, "we don't
need your assistance now."
"I'm dealing with Miss Brent," insisted Flint, insolently.
Eva, a bit nervous over Balcom's overbearing manner, interposed. "Mr.
Locke," she said, with just a touch of dignity for effect on Balcom,
"this is a matter of life and death, and I am not in favor of permitting
a proven antidote to be taken out of the country by this--this man. I
have every confidence in you, but suppose--just suppose--that your
chemist friend is mistaken."
Flint immediately saw his advantage and pressed it home. "Are you going
to let ten thousand dollars stand in the way of your father's recovery?"
he insinuated. "Here," he added, taking pencil and paper from his pocket
and writing hurriedly.
"Baker's dock," Eva read, as he handed her the paper, "until five
o'clock."
Flint bowed decently enough to her, glanced upward, and, as he thought
of Eva's father lying stricken with the Madagascar madness in the room
above, an evil leer came over his fox-like face. As he left he
completely ignored both Locke and Balcom, unless it was that the look in
his eyes meant a sort of sinister triumph.
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