On Mark ran, and on. Around the house as fast as he could go. Then the smooth plateau of the terrace loomed before him, with its wide-open French window. He slowed, silenced his pounding footsteps. On the other side of the big room, still peering out the window through which Mark had hurled himself, stood Vance. His sleek form was silhouetted behind the flashlight's beam. Like a wraith in the night, the other slipped inside. He crossed the room on tiptoe. His hand darted down to snatch the rolled picture from where it still lay on the floor. * * * * * And then Vance turned. His flashlight caught Mark. But this time it was the antiquarian who was surprised. He jerked back. Already his adversary was leaping for the cover of a heavy mahogany table. Vance snapped a shot at him. Tried again to place him with the light. Mark's hand came down on a porcelain vase. He hurled it at Vance with all his might. Vainly, his enemy tried to dodge. But too late. The vase _thunk'd_ home against his left shoulder. The flashlight fell to the floor. Like a thunderbolt, Elaine's fiance lunged forward. His left hand slashed down; pinioned the arm that held the Magnum. His right fist came up with express-train speed. Smashed home on the point of Vance's jaw. The antiquarian's body jerked spasmodically. Went limp. Sagged to the floor. But now the sound of harsh voices and running feet came to Mark's ears. Clutching the Jerbette painting in one hand, he ducked back out the window. Even in the gloom he could see black figures converging on the house. A sedan stood in the driveway, its spotlight sweeping the house. "The police!" Cold sweat stood out on Mark's forehead as he gasped the exclamation. But he did not hesitate. Keeping to the shadows, he headed for the still-open gate through which the car had come. The iron fence loomed close. He ran along it in a half-crouch. "Hey, you! Stick 'em up or we shoot!" For the barest fraction of a second Mark halted in mid-stride. The spotlight was swinging toward him. But the gate was only a dozen yards away. He made for it in a mad rush. Bullets sang about him. Slugs ricocheted from the iron spikes. But on he went. Lunged through the opening and into the shadowy fastnesses across the street. The return to Professor Duchard's laboratory was a nightmare of mad dashes and narrow escapes. Squad cars seemed everywhere. Police always on his heels. And then-- He was slipping through the door, alive and unharmed, with the picture clasped under his arm! The professor jerked about from the task of hanging a new and bigger time mirror on the easel. It still was shrouded with a heavy cloth. "It's ready?" The scientist nodded. "Yes. I got special co-operation from an old friend who is manager of a glass works." He paused. "And you?" Mark waved the Jerbette.