g us into the
Peace of God which passeth all understanding, Amen."

Silent, awed, in many cases speechless, the great congregation passed
out of the several exits of the church. Among them was the woman we
know as Judith Montmarte, and _her son_.

In spite of their pre-occupation, many of the outgoing congregation
turned to gaze with wondering eyes upon the handsome young fellow who
walked with such a regal air beside his mother, Judith Montmarte. Like
Saul, in Israel, he stood a head and shoulders above the tallest of the
crowd. And he was magnificently proportioned.

On the continent, and in New York and Chicago, Lucien Apleon, was
well-known, but only in certain of the _English_ circles was he known.
Those who knew him, whether men or women, fairly idolized him, in spite
of the impenetrable mystery that enveloped his birth.

For a full year Judith Montmarte had disappeared from the ken of the
world. Where she went, what she did, what happened to her, none ever
knew.

On her re-appearance in her Hungarian home, she called herself Madame
Apleon, and her child was Lucien Apleon. No one ever heard of a
husband, no one knew the history of that year of disappearance.

Lucien Apleon was now about twenty-five years of age, but with the
maturity of face and character of a much older man. He was accounted,
by all who knew him, to be the most accomplished man in _everything_,
that the world had ever known. The greatest scientists were babes
before him. As artist, sculptor, poet, musician, he could not be
approached by any living being. And there appeared an almost
_creative_ power in all he did, since works of every kind of art _grew_
under his hand.

Among those who had been in that service, and who turned to look at
Lucien Apleon, was Ralph Bastin. It was his last day in London,
previous to those years of wandering recorded in "The Twinkling of an
Eye."

Often during those years of adventurous wanderings the memory of Ralph
Bastin had recalled that wonderful service. One special moment of its
recall was during that fateful, sacrificial cave scene in that
Carribean Island.

CHAPTER II.

A "SUPER-MAN."

London was still in its first throes of wonder, speculation, and, in
some cases, fearsome dread, at the ever increasing discovery that a
number of its citizens had mysteriously disappeared.

"And the most curious part of the whole affair," a prominent London
philanthropist had remarked to an inf