n torment.

A hand touched his shoulder.

"Come, Mark. We can do no more good here."

Mute, stumbling, broken, Mark allowed Professor Duchard to lead him from
the room. Down the hall. Into the old man's study.

"Sit down, my boy, and pull yourself together."

Mark dropped into the cool, fragrant depths of a timeworn leather chair.
The professor relaxed in another.

"I want you to tell me your story again," Elaine's father said. "Think
back carefully. Give me every detail."

Slowly, spiritlessly, Mark forced himself to concentrate on the
happenings of the evening. His voice a dull monotone, he again recounted
his story.

"This woman," probed Professor Duchard, his bright blue eyes stabbing
into the other's brown orbs. "Tell me about her. What did she look
like?"

Mark shrugged.

"She was only a reflection in a mirror, professor. It was Elaine.
Probably the lighting gave me the illusion of someone else."

"Cease thinking of her as a reflection!" the savant retorted, his voice
suddenly sharp. "You are a newspaperman by trade. You have been trained
to observe closely. I want you to use those powers now. Think of this
woman as a person. Describe her to to me as if she were one--"

"She looked like Elaine," said Mark, racking his brain for details. "She
looked just like her. Only different, the way two identical twins are
different. You know what I mean, professor? The way a person's
individual personality sticks out of him in spite of his appearance--"

"Yes. I quite understand."

"Well, that was the way it was with this woman. She was Elaine, but she
wasn't. There was something about her that didn't belong to Elaine." His
brows knitted. "It seemed as if I'd seen her before, somewhere. Just
like I'd known her, but couldn't remember just when or where."

A pause.

"It was her clothing that made us notice her, though. She wore a red
satin dress with more white ruffles than I ever saw before. She had a
red hat, too, with a big plume. Her hair was done in a different style
than I've ever seen. All fixed up. And she wore gloves that reached to
above her elbow."

He searched his weary mind for more details. Gave it up in despair,

"I don't know, professor. I can't remember any more. She was just like a
picture of one of the women attending a Louis XVI ball in France--"

* * * * *

A sudden light sprang into his brown eyes. He stopped short in
mid-sentence.

"That's it!" he