nts or, surrounded by abstruse works upon the calculus and
sub-atomic phenomena, making interminable calculations.

Less than two miles away lived Dorothy Vaneman, who had promised to be
his wife. He had seen her but once since "the impossible" had happened,
since his prosaic copper steam-bath had taken flight under his hand and
pointed the way to a great adventure. In a car his friend was to build,
moved by this stupendous power which he must learn to control, they
would traverse interstellar space--visit strange planets and survey
strange solar systems.

While he did not forget his sweetheart--the thought of her was often in
his mind, and the fact that her future was so intimately connected with
his own gave to every action a new meaning--he had such a multitude of
things to do and was so eager to get them all done at once that day
after day went by and he could not find time to call upon her.

Crane remonstrated in vain. His protests against Seaton's incessant work
had no effect. Seaton insisted that he _must_ fix firmly just a few more
points before they eluded him, and stuck doggedly to his task.

Finally, Crane laid his work aside and went to call upon the girl. He
found her just leaving home, and fell into step beside her. For awhile
she tried to rouse herself to be entertaining, or at least friendly, but
the usual ease with which she chatted had deserted her, and her false
gayety did not deceive the keen-minded Crane for an instant. Soon the
two were silent as they walked along together. Crane's thoughts were on
the beautiful girl beside him, and on the splendid young genius under
his roof, so deeply immersed in his problem that he was insensible to
everything else.

* * * * *

"I have just left Dick," Crane said suddenly, and paying no attention to
her startled glance. "Did you ever in your life see anyone with his
singleness of purpose? With all his brilliance, one idea at a time is
all that he seems capable of--though that is probably why he is such a
genius. He is working himself insane. Has he told you about leaving the
Bureau?"

"No. Has he? Has it anything to do with what happened that day at the
laboratory? I haven't seen him since the accident, or discovery,
whichever it was, happened. He came to see me at half-past ten, when he
was invited for dinner--oh, Martin, I had been _so_ angry!--and he told
such a preposterous story, I've been wondering since if I didn't dr