ainst the
firm, pink flesh. Surprised, the Professor took out his handkerchief and
wiped it away. He noticed that the vicar's wife was wearing white kid
gloves.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she said again. "It--it startled me somehow. I
thought you must have cut yourself. I hope it's not much?"

"Some scratch, I suppose," he said. "It's nothing."

The vicar's wife, still slightly discomposed, launched out into some
parochial matter she had wished to mention to him. They chatted a few
moments and then parted. The Professor took an opportunity to look at
his hand. He could detect no sign of any cut or abrasion, the skin
seemed whole everywhere. He looked at his handkerchief. There was still
visible on it the stain where he had wiped his hand, and this stain
seemed certainly blood.

"Odd!" he muttered as he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Very
odd!"

His thoughts turned again to his projected "A History of the Higher
Mathematics," and he forgot all about the incident till, as it happened
that day month, the first of the month by the calendar, when he was
sitting in his study with an eminent colleague to whom he was explaining
his great scheme.

"If you are able to carry it out," the colleague said slowly, "your book
will mark an epoch in human thought. But the cost will be tremendous."

"I estimate it at twenty thousand pounds," answered the Professor
calmly. "I am fully prepared to spend twice as much. You know I have
recently inherited forty thousand pounds from a relative?"

The eminent colleague nodded and looked very impressed.

"It is magnificent," he said warmly, "magnificent." He added: "You've
cut yourself, do you know?"

"Cut myself?" the Professor echoed, surprised.

"Yes," answered the eminent colleague, "there is blood upon your
hand--your right hand."

In fact a spot of blood, slightly larger than that which had appeared
before, showed plainly upon the Professor's right hand. He wiped it away
with his handkerchief, and went on talking eagerly, for he was deeply
interested. He did not think of the matter again till just as he was
getting into bed, when he noticed a red stain upon his handkerchief. He
frowned and examined his hand carefully. There was no sign of any wound
or cut from which the blood could have come, and he frowned again.

"Very odd!" he muttered.

A calendar hanging on the wall reminded him that it was the first of the
month.

The days passed, the incident faded from