ere is. I have been working on equipment to prevent fighter
pilots 'blacking out' during power dives, and I believe there is a
relationship between time travel and terrific speeds in space. It is
possible that I could insulate you--"

"That's all I need, then. Make me a mirror, professor, and something to
insulate me--"

"But you have no focal point! You might go through time to a place a
thousand miles and a thousand years from where Elaine is captive--"

Mark laughed harshly.

"Wrong, professor! I've got the most accurate focal point in the world.
Or I will have--"

"The most accurate--? What do you mean?" The old man's face was
bewildered.

"I'll have the same focal point Elaine had, sir: Gustav Jerbette's
painting, 'Elaine Duchard's Escape'." Again that laugh. "I'm going now
to steal it from Adrian Vance!"

The house of Adrian Vance was one befitting a professional dealer in
antiquities. It set far back from the street, towering against the sky
like the black bulk of a medieval castle. A high iron fence surrounded
it.

At this moment Mark Carter stood surveying the estate from the shelter
of a nearby clump of trees.

"It's like a damned fortress!" he muttered to himself. "He's taking no
chances on anyone getting in."

* * * * *

Turning, then, he gripped a branch of the nearest tree. Swung up into
it. Clambered out, cat-like, until he lay beyond the fence and above the
grounds of Vance's home.

The limb bowed under his weight as he proceeded until at last he was
able to drop lightly to the ground.

One hazard passed!

"And with no worries about that fence being wired for an alarm system,
either!" he told himself triumphantly.

He hurried toward the house, thankful for the darkness of the night.

On one side of the big building lay a terrace. French windows opened
onto it.

Like a wraith in the night, taking advantage of every shrub and patch of
shadow, Mark crept close to the casements.

They were locked.

The trespasser stripped off his coat. Wrapped it around his hand, a
bulky, protective wad of cloth covering the flesh. Then, as silently as
possible, he pressed on one of the small panes of glass close beside the
lock. Harder ... harder ... harder....

With a faint tinkle of falling glass, the pane gave way.

Tense seconds crawled by on leaden feet. Mark's mouth was dry, his
throat cottony. He stood taut, his back to the wall, waiting fearfully
for some s