"I can remember it all now," he continued. "I was about to make
restitution when a man connected with the company--I am sure now that he
was an adventurer, a crook, in the pay of Balcom, although Balcom
probably tried to hide it--came to me. His name, as I remember it, was
Flint. I was about to write a letter that showed that it was my
intention to right a wrong, when--something interrupted me and--the rest
I can't remember."
Quentin, who had been standing behind the chair, now drew from his
pocket a piece of paper which he handed to Brent.
"Yes--that is it," cried Brent, excitedly, taking it, and spreading it
out before them. "See!"
It was a note addressed to Quentin Locke and read:
I have done you a great wrong about which you know
nothing, but for which I will make amends--
"It was broken off," exclaimed Brent, making a sad effort to recollect
what had happened. "I don't remember how. But this Flint had been
telling me something about an iron monster. He had a model--said he had
seen the real thing in Madagascar, that it had a human brain, that it
walked and fought, that it had strength and life--but no conscience.
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