The old man pressed a key, and as he did so a sharp sting, hardly worse than a leech's bite, pricked Ronald Wyde's breast. A sense of languor crept slowly upon him, his feet tingled, his breath came slowly, and waves of light and shade pulsed in indistinct alternation before his sight; but through them the old man's eyes peered into his, like a dream. Presently Ronald would have started if he could, for two old philosophers were craning over him instead of one. But as he looked more steadily, one face softly dimmed into nothing, and the other grew brighter and stronger in its lines, while the room flushed with an unaccountable light. The little key clicked once more; a vague sensation that the current had somehow ceased to flow, roused him, and he raised himself on his elbow and looked in blank bewilderment at his own dead self lying by his side in the daylight, while the sunrise tried to peer through the webbed panes. "Is it over?" he asked, with a puzzled glance around him; and added, "Which am I?" "Either, or both," answered Herr Lebensfunke. "Your identity will be something of a problem to you for a day or two." Aided by the old man, Ronald awkwardly got into the sleazy clothes that went with the exchange--growing less and less at home each minute. He felt weak and sore; his head ached, and the wound left by the fresh amputation of his little finger throbbed angrily. "I suppose I may as well go now," he said. "When can I get my own self there back again?" "On Thursday night, if all works well," said the old man. "Till then, good-day."