Though the wayward spectre, when materialized, was an exact duplicate of Marc in all physical respects, there the similarity did a screaming about face and streaked rapidly in the opposite direction. Where Marc was sober and serious-minded, George was a veritable connoisseur of all things viceful and frivolous. And where Marc was inherently honest, modest and retiring, George was frankly a crook, a braggart and rank exhibitionist. Also, it was not consoling that the spirit was extremely careless in the manipulation of his ectoplasm ... a thing that any other, right-minded ghost would go to any lengths not to be. If Marc looked on the reappearance of George without pleasure, his attitude was not entirely unwarranted. Marc glanced at the shoe again and shuddered. Absently he wondered how he would ever manage to explain the silly thing if someone should suddenly pop into the office unannounced. Obviously, something had to be done about it; he couldn't just let it go on dangling there, looking smug and complacent like that. And certainly it showed no inclination to leave of its own accord. In fact, it seemed quite content, as though it might just go on hanging around forever. Clearly, the situation demanded positive action. With quiet deliberation Marc lifted a bronze paper weight from his desk and aimed it with care. The weight only grazed the toe of the shoe and fell dully to the carpet. But at least it produced some effect. The shoe instantly vanished. Marc leaned back and pressed a trembling hand to his eyes. Then he glanced quickly up through a haze of apprehension as a voice ... a duplicate of his own ... echoed across the room. "Well, I'll be damned!" it exclaimed. "My ectoplasm must have slipped. How long has that shoe been showing?" "Showing?" Marc said in a voice sounding a good deal less like his own than the other. "The awful thing has had me close to gurgling dementia for nearly ten minutes now. And if you must speak to me, please have the decent good grace to show yourself. It makes my spine fairly lurch to hear a voice coming out of nowhere like that." * * * * * Marc didn't realize the folly of his request until too late. Piecemeal, an arm, a leg, a mid-section at a time, George became visible, looking exactly like Marc right down to the last button. Marc gazed on this phenomenon with utmost revulsion. "Can't you materialize all at the same time?" he asked fretfully. "Do you always have to come into my presence looking like the victim of a hatchet murder?" George grinned agreeably. "Sorry," he said. "Can't concentrate on everything at once, you know." "It seems you could at least concentrate on consecutive things," Marc grumbled. "You needn't break out like a rash." He looked up and blanched. Neckless, George's head was hovering over his collar like a loosely anchored balloon. "Oh, Lord!" he gasped. "How sordid!"