in getting away.

"But the baron's guards tracked them down and murdered them both two days later. And Gustav Jerbette gained his first renown—he was then but a young student—when he immortalized them by painting his famous picture, 'Elaine Duchard's Escape'."

"And now Elaine—"

The old man straightened wearily.

"Our Elaine will die," he said. "Her mind will be wiped out when the Morriere pikes stab through my ancestor's body."

"There must be some way of calling her back—"

"If there is, I do not know it." He shook his head. "No. There is nothing we can do."

"We can try!"

Mark's voice rang out like the clang of a great iron bell, echoing with grim resolve. His tanned jaw jutted hard with determination. His eyes flashed brown fire.

Elaine's father let his hands fall in a hopeless gesture.

"What is there to try, my boy? Elaine's mind is gone, back a hundred and fifty years into the past. Her body lies unconscious in a hospital. What can we do?"

A savage, humorless smile played over the other's lips.

"Earlier this evening you said I was a man of action," he told the savant tautly. "You said I knew how to handle things I knew about. Well, I think it's time for action. Real action!"

"But what action can we take? What can—"

"Who's responsible for what's happened to Elaine?"

"Responsible? Adrian Vance is responsible, of course. There is too much evidence for it to be coincidence—"

"Right!" Mark's eyes were black with rage. "That snake planned this. He said he'd get revenge. This"—he gestured toward the mirror—"is his way of doing it!"

"All this is rather obvious," the scientist commented wearily. "But the fact that Vance is guilty of this atrocity does us no good. Nor does it help Elaine—"

"But it will!"

"It will? How?"

The younger man hunched forward tensely.

"We're going to catch that devil and strangle an answer out of him!" he grated. "We're going to make him tell us how to bring Elaine safely back to 1942!"

"And if he does not know how? If he cannot help us?"

"That'll be too bad. Because then we'll just keep on strangling him." He laughed harshly. "Oh, yes. Vance may win. We may not be able to save Elaine. But"—and his face was terrible to see—"Vance certainly won't live long enough to gloat much!"

A spark of hope sprang into Professor Duchard's blue eyes.

"I wish I could believe you—"

"Forget it. We've got more important things to do than wishing. Look out that window!"

The white-haired scientist turned to the casement toward which the other pointed. Saw dawn reddening the eastern sky.

"It's morning already," Mark went on determinedly. "In a few hours more, we can start things rolling by having you call up Vance."

"Call up Vance? What would I say?"

The devil's bitter mirth played in the other's eyes. But it was a mirth spiked with menace.

"Simple. Just don't let on anything's wrong. Pretend that the wedding's to come off as scheduled. Then tell him that things are in a mess. All the excitement's got you tied in a knot. Because he's such a close friend of Elaine's, you thought maybe he'd be willing to lend a hand."

The spark of hope in the professor's eyes brightened to a glowing coal.

"I wonder...." he mused. "It might work—"

"Of course it'll work. It's got to. It's the only chance we have...."

It was nine fifteen precisely when Adrian Vance rang the doorbell. He stepped back. Polished the nails of his right hand on the grey suede glove which still garbed the left.

The door swung open.

"Good morning, professor."

"Good morning, Adrian." The savant stepped aside. "Please come in."

Not by the slightest vocal tremor or change of expression did the old man hint of his secret—that if necessary Adrian Vance would never leave this place alive!

"It is kind of you to come," he told the antiquarian as he led the way toward the back of the dwelling. "I never knew that a wedding could cause so much turmoil." He chuckled softly. "Of course, I have had little experience in such matters, my wife being dead and Elaine an only child. And my own nuptials were celebrated a good many years ago."

Every word, every inflection, was perfect. No actor could have matched that sinister soliloquy.

Vance smoothed the sleek black hair that at once crowned and characterized him.

"It's a great privilege to be allowed to assist in any way at Elaine's wedding," he observed unctuously. "Anything which I can do to help make this a happier occasion for her is a pleasure."

Blue fire flared in the scientist's eyes. He looked away quickly.

A moment later his composure was regained.

"There are some things in the laboratory I wish to bring to the house," he announced. "If you will come this way—" He opened the back door. Led the antique dealer down the brick walk to the laboratory.

Together, they stepped inside.

The door swung shut. In the silence its jarring slam echoed like a shot fired in a tomb.

Vance cleared his throat.

"So this is your laboratory, professor—"

Mark Carter stepped out of the shadows. His tanned face looked as if it had been carved from the rock of ages. His eyes were pools of sudden death.

He spoke:

"Elaine's gone, Vance. Through the mirror. We want her back."

Just that. Nothing more. But suddenly Vance was shaking.

"What are you talking about? I don't know what you mean."

Professor Duchard said:

"You are lying. I have examined the mirror. I tested with black light. It showed the picture of the first Elaine Duchard."

"You're mad," said Vance. "You don't make sense."

"I fear I make too much sense, Adrian Vance. I wish I could disbelieve my own mind. But I cannot. I know that you have found a way to pass the barrier between space and time. I know that you have projected Elaine's mind into the past, leaving her body behind in a state of suspended animation."

"And we want her back, Vance," Mark broke in. "We want her back right now!"

He was moving forward, a juggernaut of menace, clenched fists half-raised.

"Keep away from me!" the antiquarian shrilled. His greasy face was paste-colored with terror. "Keep away! Don't touch me!"

The other caught his shoulders. Shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.

"Tell us!" he thundered. "Tell us how to bring her back!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! There wasn't anything wrong with the mirror I sent Elaine!"

"Tell us—"

The professor caught Mark's arm.

"Stop!" he begged. "Do not hurt him. There is a better way."

"A better way? What do you mean?"

The scientist turned to Vance.

"I am sure you are telling the truth," he said. "I feel certain the mirror is harmless." His tone was silky. A thin smile rippled across his aged face.

He was like a cat playing with a mouse.

"Only our friend, young Mr. Carter, remains to be convinced," he went on. "However, we shall have no difficulty in proving him wrong."

Adrian Vance stared at the professor in terrified fascination. His lips moved, but no words came.

The savant hurried across to an ancient desk which stood in one corner. Rummaged through it. Came back with a big sheet of heavy paper.

"Over there," said the professor—gesturing toward the spot where the mirror still stood upon the easel, again shrouded by the tablecloth—"is the glass that has caused all the trouble."

He smiled sympathetically at Vance.

"All so unnecessary, too, Adrian!"

"Unnecessary?"

"Of course. We shall demonstrate to Mark right now that it is not a means of time travel."

"Demonstrate?" Vance was shaking again. "How?"

Again the professor smiled.

"Oh, very simply. I have here"—he held up the heavy paper—"a lithographed portrait of the