ot only from his colleagues,
but from his only daughter, who heretofore had shared his every hope
and aspiration.

It was the very success of his last and most pretentious effort that
had placed him in the horrifying predicament in which he now found
himself--with the corpse of what was apparently a human being in his
workshop and no available explanation that could possibly be acceptable
to a matter-of-fact and unscientific police.

Had he told them the truth they would have laughed at him. Had he
said: "This is not a human being that you see, but the remains of a
chemically produced counterfeit created in my own laboratory," they
would have smiled, and either hanged him or put him away with the other
criminally insane.

This phase of the many possibilities which he had realized might be
contingent upon even the partial success of his work alone had escaped
his consideration, so that the first wave of triumphant exultation with
which he had viewed the finished result of this last experiment had
been succeeded by overwhelming consternation as he saw the thing which
he had created gasp once or twice with the feeble spark of life with
which he had endowed it, and expire--leaving upon his hands the corpse
of what was, to all intent and purpose, a human being, albeit a most
grotesque and misshapen thing.

Until nearly noon Professor Maxon was occupied in removing the
remaining stains and evidences of his gruesome work, but when he at
last turned the key in the door of his workshop it was to leave behind
no single trace of the successful result of his years of labor.

The following afternoon found him and Virginia crossing the station
platform to board the express for New York. So quietly had their plans
been made that not a friend was at the train to bid them farewell--the
scientist felt that he could not bear the strain of attempting
explanations at this time.

But there were those there who recognized them, and one especially who
noted the lithe, trim figure and beautiful face of Virginia Maxon
though he did not know even the name of their possessor. It was a tall
well built young man who nudged one of his younger companions as the
girl crossed the platform to enter her Pullman.

"I say, Dexter," he exclaimed, "who is that beauty?"

The one addressed turned in the direction indicated by his friend.

"By jove!" he exclaimed. "Why it's Virginia Maxon and the professor,
her father. Now where do you suppose th