resently, ushered by Ferdinand, and looking extremely
worried. Mr. Carr received him in his private office with ominous
urbanity.

"Mr. Yates," he said, forcing a distorted smile, "I have rather abruptly
decided to show you exactly how one of the Destyn-Carr instruments is
supposed to work. Would you kindly stand here--close by this table?"

Mr. Yates, astounded, obeyed.

"Now," said Mr. Carr, with a deeply creased smile, "here is the famous
Destyn-Carr apparatus. That's quite right--take a snapshot at it without
my permission----"

"I--I thought----"

"Quite right, my boy; I intend you shall know all about it. You see it
resembles the works of a watch.... Now, when I touch this spring the
receiver opens and gathers in certain psychic waves which emanate from
the subconscious personality of--well, let us say you, for example!...
And now I touch this button. You see that slender hairspring of Rosium
uncurl and rise, trembling and waving about like a tentacle?"

Young Yates, notebook in hand, recovered himself sufficiently to nod. Mr.
Carr leered at him:

"That tentacle," he explained, "is now seeking some invisible, wireless,
psychic current along which it is to transmit the accumulated psychic
waves. As soon as the wireless current finds the subconscious personality
of the woman you are destined to love and marry some day----"

"I?" exclaimed young Yates, horrified.

"Yes, you. Why not? Do you mind my trying it on you?"

"But I am already in love," protested the young man, turning, as usual, a
ready red. "I don't care to have you try it on me. Suppose that machine
should connect me with--some other--girl----"

"It has!" cried Carr with a hideous laugh as a point of bluish-white fire
tipped the tentacle for an instant. "You're tied fast to something
feminine! Probably a flossy typewriter--or a burlesque actress--somebody
you're fitted for, anyway!" He clapped on his monocle, and glared
gleefully at the stupefied young man.

"That will teach you to enter my premises and hold my daughter's hand
when she is drawing innocent pictures of Cooper's Bluff!" he shouted.
"That will teach you to write poems to my eighteen-year-old daughter,
Drusilla; that will teach you to tell her you are in love with her--you
young pup!"

"I am in love with her!" said Yates, undaunted; but he was very white
when he said it. "I do love her; and if you had behaved halfway decently
I'd have told you so two weeks ago!"

Mr. Carr tur