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 could see the gleam of firelight ahead where he had left that room in London a timeless white ago. Smoky memories were curling lazily through his mind—smoky—dissipating

■ the way it must have ended, though the writing ended sooner. Maybe the Snake died out there in the Shaking Lands, I thought. Maybe the way was open now for him to go back. As he had gone For I knew that he had kept his promise at last, that he and the girl were standing, at this very moment perhaps, oh the strange green grass among the flowers, with medieval sunlight pouring down around them, and no Snake to spoil their Eden

The scream of sirens from outside woke me out of that particular vision. I came back with a jolt into this world again, hearing the wardens' whistles and seeing the lights go on outside the windows as New York came back to life.

There was a click from the wall. I jumped. The lights that went on showed me John Argyle, one hand on the switch and a look of stunned disbelief making his face empty.

Looking at him, I knew all in one glance exactly what had happened. I knew, I think, even quicker than he. He was still stupefied by the surprise of it. But as he looked beyond me, I saw understanding dawn upon his face, and before I turned I knew what must hang on the wall behind me. I knew what he was seeing there. A mirror, and his own face. A face that the girl in the magical land had not remembered

Yes, he had returned to her. He had kept the promise he made when sorcery opened the way to her in the early days of the war. But that had not been this war. In 1914, too, there had been German bombers over London It was thirty years ago that John Argyle found the key to dreams.

So I knew what he had seen in the eyes of the golden girl, the Queen of Hearts with her yellow flower in her hand. Young, in a world made out of a Sorceror's longing for youth, and its key the Golden Apple of Idun that promised youth to the gods. But not to mortals.

I knew she had not known him. The thirty years had been nothing to her in her world of eternal Now. I wondered if the Snake were dead, and the way open for another man—a young man, luckier than Argyle—to find the pomander's secret and step through the Shaking Lands into that tiny world of beauty and loneliness, where a girl in a golden gown would still be waiting for the young John Argyle who never would return.

Argyle turned away from me and the mirror. I heard a thump upon the carpet. The Golden Apple of Idun had fallen from his hand.

Beauty of perfect innocence, combined with the powers of hell—an unearthly, creature was she, the last flaming hope of a civilization battling for its own extinction. So startingly timely as to be almost a prophecy, yet warmly, unforgettably human, Robert W. Chambers' deathless fantasy, THE SLAYER OF SOULS, is a must on your reading schedule!

Also, it is our great pleasure to announce that we are resuming illustrations which the change in format forced us to shelve temporarily. "The Slayer of Souls" will be illustrated by Virgil Finlay.

Don't miss it in the next issue—out February 28! —Mary Gnaedinger, Editor