Once more, investigation proved fruitless. The law firm indignantly denied authorship of the letter. Someone evidently had purloined the stationery. The dead man, too, was a fraud, having never existed, and as for the person who had rented the building, the real estate agent could recall only that it was a young man named Smith, who had paid in advance weeks earlier, and had not been seen since. * * * * * By this time, the entire art world was in a state of nervous collapse. Dozens of masterworks had been rendered worthless by their sheer profusion. Others joined the list every day. Collectors sought frantically to sell--but no one would buy. Even those paintings as yet untouched by the blight could not be sold, for what buyer could be sure that a hundred identical canvases would not quickly turn up elsewhere? Dealers' offices were closed, museum doors were shut--and most horrible of all, artists were ceasing to paint. In desperation, the leading museums and galleries pooled funds to hire private detectives. Weeks passed, and the flow of originals continued, but the detectives failed to produce a single positive lead--except for one, and it was so fantastic that the art impresarios angrily rejected it. One shipment of masterpieces had been traced, through an intricate system of straw parties and other devices, back to the New York apartment of Dr. Cyrus E. Browl. Could the Wizard of Light be the mass-production virtuoso? Ridiculous! Several of the museum directors remembered his fumbling attempts to copy their treasures. It had been pathetic--the old man had been clumsier than the rawest novice, and besides, his eyes were so weak now, he could hardly see across a room! But one of the art experts was suddenly struck by the memory of that huge easel and the peculiar array of lightless lamps, and hastened off to pay Dr. Browl a visit. He quickly returned, looking much older, and in an unsteady voice made a report: "I've seen Dr. Browl--and I've seen _it_." "Seen what?" The dealer's cheeks quivered. "The thing. The thing that does it!" The art experts all stared at the speaker. "Then he _is_ the one?" someone asked. "Yes. And he is willing to see us tomorrow afternoon...." * * * * * The Wizard of Light occupied the four topmost floors of a mid-town apartment building. Most of that space was used for his laboratories (the city having granted him special permission), from which had issued many important inventions, although none in the last few years. Dr. Browl received his uneasy guests in a huge room whose far wall, opposite the main entranceway, was composed entirely of glass. It was, in fact, a gigantic window, which afforded a splendid view of the city.