tch me closely."

Chris leaned forward in his chair. The room was well lit from three
sides; sunlight and firelight mingled to wash Mr. Wicker in their
joined apricot glow. Added to this, the two chairs--Chris's and Mr.
Wicker's--were not more than four feet apart. Chris hunched forward
yet a little more to lessen this space and watch for any movement,
however swift. He had seen magicians before, he told himself.

But what he saw was so amazing that Chris's lips parted in
astonishment and his eyes stared unblinkingly. For the tiny figure of
the old man before him, wizened with age and wrinkled past belief,
before his eyes shook off not ten or twenty years, but one hundred and
fifty! It left him, while not a young man, middle-aged; a vigorous man
of forty years. The face was smoothed out and firm; thick chestnut
hair was caught back with a black ribbon bow. Dark eyebrows were level
above the steady eyes.

"I don't believe it!" Chris breathed. "You looked almost like a mummy,
before. And now--"

Mr. Wicker rose from his chair, and now he stood six feet, no longer
wizened, no longer feeble.

"Fascinating, is it not?" he remarked, with a sardonic smile. "A good
trick, do you not agree?"

Chris sat looking at him, amazed but still incredulous. "Well yes," he
admitted, "but maybe with make-up, or something--"

"Ah," said Mr. Wicker, and his voice was deeper and more vigorous too.
"Ah. Then we shall try another. See if you can find me." And before
Chris's eyes Mr. Wicker vanished into thin air.

Chris looked about and got up. He looked under the chairs, under the
table, behind the curtains, up the chimney, up the spiral staircase,
out the windows--in short, everywhere and anywhere a man might hide,
and in a great many places where it was impossible for him to be.
Finally he stood in the middle of the room.

"You're not here," he said aloud.

"Oh, yes, I am," said Mr. Wicker's voice. "Look on the table."

Chris looked on the table. A bowl of flowers stood in the center. A
small silver tray with a finely blown glass and a round-bellied silver
pitcher of water stood at one side. A few leather-bound books were all
else to be seen, except--if one could count that--a bluebottle fly
that buzzed, lit on the flowers, and buzzed again.

[Illustration]

"It's not fair!" Chris challenged aloud. "You've got some trick hiding
place. You're just not here."

"Yes I am," came the voice. "I am within reach of your hand,
Chris