rner.
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 late General George A. Custer. You will
recall he was killed by Indians at the battle of Little Big
Horn--popularly known as Custer's last stand."

Vance's teeth suddenly were chattering.

"We shall hang this picture on your chest, Adrian," Professor Duchard
went on. "Then we shall stand you in front of that mirror and give you a
chance to concentrate on the reflection." He chuckled softly. "Of
course, since the mirror has nothing to do with time travel, you need
have no fear of your mind leaving your body and going back to that of
General Custer, and death in a Sioux massacre--"

Without warning, Vance erupted into action.

As if by magic, the panic fled his face. His features contorted with
hate. His eyes suddenly were glistening pinpoints of jet.

And even faster moved his sinuous body. He snaked free of Mark's
restraining grasp. Sprang back like a wounded tiger. His right hand
darted under his coat to his left armpit like a Gila monster streaking
for cover.

Mark Carter's lips twisted in a snarl of rage. He lunged after the
antiquarian, big fists balled and deadly.

"Look out!"

It was Professor Duchard, his voice a shrill warning blast.

Mark's eyes shifted. He caught the sudden spearing movement of Vance's
right hand. Lashed out in savage fury to meet the new threat.

The antiquarian shrank back. The other's fist drove by him. Missed him
by a hair.

And then his right hand was back in view. Back, and gripping the butt of
a long-barreled Smith & Wesson Magnum. His teeth were bared, in a
grimace of hideous triumph.

Like a rattlesnake striking, he slashed out with the heavy gun. Brought
it down at his adversary's head in a vicious blow.

Mark still reeled, off balance, from his own missed blow. But he saw the
gun descending. Threw up his arm to ward