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she needed them. But, sir, perhaps he has explained. Here is the letter he left for you.”

I walked home sad and troubled. Finding my family away still, I sat down where I was wont to see her face in the mirror. I wondered if she would come again, but first I must read the letter, and I began to unfold it, when suddenly I felt the strange sensation I always experienced when I became conscious of her presence. I raised my eyes involuntarily to the mirror, and there—and I confess for the first time in my life that I was afraid—there, instead of Freda, was Mr. Dolber himself!

He smiled as if to reassure me, a smile so glad that the fear left me, and I was sure he had a message. I was right, for in a moment the writing came:

“Hurry at once to Hugelschon and go to Freda’s room.’’

Then the mirror was empty, nor did I ever see in it anything but the reflection of material objects.

NEVER thought of disobeying the command, so I hurried to Hugelschon. The housekeeper met me, saying excitedly, ‘‘I was just going to send for you. Come with me.’’

She led me upstairs to Freda’s room and unlocked the door. We entered, and she locked it again on the inside—and then, to my wondering amazement and joy, I saw the reason for her caution, and for his message in the mirror. Freda herself lay on the bed apparently fast asleep. The housekeeper bent over her and in a voice of mingled delight and fear, exclaimed, ‘‘Oh, what shall I do?’’

She voiced my own feelings. How could we account for Freda’s appearance? We must act quickly. Would the letter help us? I drew the envelope from my pocket, and read:

“For years I have been investigating every phenomenon that seemed in any way to suggest the presence of a higher space, adjacent to that in which we live. The record of my experiments and their results fills volumes. It is enough to say that I succeeded so well in my investigations that I became able to place objects, even animals, within this space. These objects were always connected with my experimenting table by tubes containing powerful magnetic currents, by means of which I could bring back anything within range of my vision again. The idea at last came to me that if I could find an intelligent being, willing in the interest of scientific knowledge to co-operate with me, my discovery would be famous. Such a being, if sent into the invisible space, and reclaimed again into our own, would not only immortalize my fame, but also prove my theories by his testimony. ”

Here the writing abruptly ended. We could only conjecture the rest. He had undoubtedly used Freda as his ‘‘intelligent being.” She had trusted him, but he had failed to re-attract her sufficiently for her to become visible again. Possibly a human being required more forceful power than he had calculated. Hence the grief which had caused the mother’s death and his own torturing remorse. Death must have shown him the way to release her, and he had used the mirror as a medium of communication. He had believed that I would do my best to help Freda, nor was he wrong.

The only time we spoke of her curious experiences, Freda said: ‘‘It is not very clear to me now. I know that my father raised the rate of vibration in my body, so that it became invisible to people on this plane, but his formula for bringing me back refused to work—to his tragic dismay. While I was in this higher, or perhaps more inclusive, space, it became clear to me that nothing is ever really destroyed. It only changes its form, as ice becomes water, water turns into steam, and steam into an invisible gas; the elements vibrate differently, and each varying vibration has its own individual form. That is as much as I can explain in terms that you could understand.’’

Be that as it may, the mirror still reflects my Freda—and I am content. Who now, however, shall prove Professor Dolber’s theory of the fourth dimension? I, for one, dare not try.

 

end of the storm, for with uncanny suddenness the rain ceased and the moon once more cast her pallid beams on a strangely quieted sea.

There was no line of bobbing heads now. The waters were calm and deserted, and broken only by the fading ripples of what seemed to be a whirlpool far out in the path of the moonlight whence the strange cry had first come. But as I looked along that treacherous lane of silvery sheen, with fancy fevered and senses overwrought, there trickled upon my ears from some abysmal sunken waste the faint and sinister echoes of a laugh.

 

ing at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise. steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better. than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more? I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

 

Max O. Knorr, a railroad worker, was awakened at night by a locomotive bell. He found his home in flames. Thirty seconds after he led the five members of his family from the burning building, the walls suddenly careened and the roof collapsed, enveloped in flames.