a scientist as great as
Daimler. I wonder--do you still mock the Professor's beliefs?"

"That he can bring a dead man to life?" I smiled, a bit doubtfully.

"I will tell you something, Dale," said M. S. deliberately. He was
leaning across the table, staring at me. "The Professor made only one
mistake in his great experiment. He did not wait long enough for the
effect of his strange acids to work. He acknowledged failure too soon,
and got rid of the body." He paused.

"When the Professor stored his patient away, Dale," he said quietly, "he
stored it in room 4170, at the great warehouse. If you are acquainted
with the place, you will know that room 4170 is directly across the
corridor from 4167."

* * * * *

Creatures of the Light

_By Sophie Wenzel Ellis_

He had striven to perfect the faultless man of the future, and
had succeeded--too well. For in the pitilessly cold eyes of
Adam, his super-human creation, Dr. Mundson saw only
contempt--and annihilation--for the human race.

[Illustration]

In a night club of many lights and much high-pitched laughter, where he
had come for an hour of forgetfulness and an execrable dinner, John
Northwood was suddenly conscious that Fate had begun shuffling the cards
of his destiny for a dramatic game.

First, he was aware that the singularly ugly and deformed man at the
next table was gazing at him with an intense, almost excited scrutiny.
But, more disturbing than this, was the scowl of hate on the face of
another man, as handsome as this other was hideous, who sat in a far
corner hidden behind a broad column, with rude elbows on the table,
gawking first at Northwood and then at the deformed, almost hideous
man.

[Illustration: _The projector, belching forth its stinking breath of
corruption, swung in a mad arc over the ceiling, over the walls._]

Northwood's blood chilled over the expression on the handsome,
fair-haired stranger's perfectly carved face. If a figure in marble
could display a fierce, unnatural passion, it would seem no more
eldritch than the hate in the icy blue eyes.

It was not a new experience for Northwood to be stared at: he was not
merely a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five, he was scenery,
magnificent and compelling. Furthermore, he had been in the public eye
for years, first as a precocious child and, later, as a brilliant young
scientist. Yet, for all his experience with hero wors