And even as she lowered her dark lashes and looked in her bag for a cigarette, sanity whispered: “How could she? This girl, whose every movement, every expression, every feature, and every mannerism are familiar, yet is not, cannot be, Zalithea!” Memory plays odd tricks at times, and as Barry struck a match to light their cigarettes, a hitherto forgotten remark of Professor Blackwell’s flashed, intact, through his mind. It had been made on the evening that the Professor had examined Zalithea. “There is a small scar under the hair, just above the right ear, which suggests that the theory--now generally accepted, I believe--that surgery was practised by the ancients is not without foundation.” “Have you a small scar under your hair above the right ear?” he asked suddenly. At this Marguerite Devina unmistakably grew pale. “Yes,” she answered, and looked at him with half-veiled alarm. “How strange you should know that!” “Professor Blackwell told me.” “Is he a clairvoyant?” “No,” said Barry, and laughed without mirth. He met the glance of the dark eyes. “I once thought _I_ was, though. Now--I don’t know what to think. But there’s something I must tell you. Perhaps I should have told you right away. You are the living image, a miraculous double, of someone----” “Someone?” “Someone I love very dearly. There! I’ve told you! I came here, to Paris, to find her. And when I saw _you_----” His voice failed him. He turned his head aside miserably. The girl was silent for a time; then, very gently: “Do you mean,” she asked, “that you have come from America to--look for her?” Barry nodded. “What made you think you would find her in Paris?” “I don’t know. We were--very happy in Paris. But I’m on my way to Egypt.” “To Egypt!” “Yes. That was where--we met.” “And you really expect to meet her again, in Egypt?” “I don’t dare to expect. But if I left off hoping----” He did not complete the sentence. Marguerite Devina had abruptly stood up. Her head was averted. “Please forgive me,” said Barry. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Even as the words left his lips, he remembered where he had last uttered them--and to whom. She turned to him impulsively, and the memory was complete. Her lashes were wet with tears. “You haven’t!” she said. “But I must go.” Barry reached out a detaining hand. “Please,” he pleaded, “let me see you again!” She averted her head once more, and: “If I can,” she murmured. “I’m sorry--but I must hurry away now.” And, stumbling in her haste, she walked around the little table and ran across the lobby.… Back to his room Barry went in a state of mind which he found himself incapable of analyzing. Was it possible, in the natural order of things, for two human beings to be so absolutely alike? As well ask himself if it were possible for a girl to live three thousand years! One being possible, why not the other?