, in a twentieth century scene and wearing
modern clothes, yet painted by Gustav Jerbette, there could be no doubt
that your brain--cloaked in Jacques Rombeau's body--did the job.

"However, Jerbette does leave a very accurate description of the mirror
Rombeau had made. And there is no doubt in my mind that it is the same
one Vance gave to Elaine."

"But it's impossible!" Mark protested. "I couldn't have made a time
mirror with the primitive equipment of that era--"

"I believe you could. Our work in discovering the formula for the one I
made gave you a sufficient understanding of the device's fundamentals to
construct a crude model."

"But a terrific bolt of electricity was required, professor. And there
was no electrical equipment in those days. It's a complete anachronism."

* * * * *

"You think so?" The old scientist smiled. "Well, I do not wonder. You
convinced Jerbette that Jacques Rombeau was stark, raving mad."

"You mean--"

"What other conclusion could any sane mortal draw from the actions of a
man who insisted on defying God and the elements by exposing great
circular trays of molten glass on top of the highest tower in all Paris
during the worst electrical storm in years, until finally one of them
was struck by lightning?"

Mark stared open-mouthed. Again he and the bewildered Elaine exchanged
glances. And instinctively their hands reached out across the aisle, to
join in love's tender clasp. The happiness of utter confidence and peace
glowed in their eyes.

Then, still holding the girl's hand, Mark turned back to the professor.
His brows knitted with incredulity.

"My God!" he exclaimed half to himself. "Could it be possible? Could I
have done such a thing?"

Abruptly, he halted.

"No!" he clipped decisively. "There are other angles to be considered.
Vance, for instance. You say he went with me through the time mirror--"

"Yes." The savant nodded slowly. "That, Mark, is the final proof. The
evidence beyond contradiction. The thing that convinces me--"

"Proof? Evidence? I don't get it."

"You will recall, Mark, that Jerbette's memoirs said Baron Morriere was
killed in that final battle with Jacques Rombeau?"

"Yes. Of course. What's that got to do with it?"

The scientist leveled a trembling finger at the window across the room,
through which the sunlight still streamed. Never had he been more
impressive. Solemn conviction gleamed in his blue eyes.

"No