Get into that corner!"

Instinctively, the captive tensed to leap.

But the picture! What about it? He must have it! Without that painting,
the time mirror Professor Duchard was constructing would be useless!

Then, suddenly, a grim smile played across Mark's lips. There was an
angle! There was one wild chance by which he might escape alive and take
Jerbette's masterpiece with him!

"Hurry up, or I'll shoot!"

Like a stone from a sling, Mark hurled himself toward the window in a
headlong dive. The blackness of the outer night engulfed him.

In the room behind, Vance's Magnum roared a cannonade of death.
Copper-jacketed slugs splintered the sill at the fleeing man's heels.

Mark landed on one shoulder in a somersaulting roll. The next instant he
was on his feet and sprinting for the shadows at the corner of the
house.

Flashlight in hand, Vance sprang to the open window.

On Mark ran, and on. Around the house as fast as he could go. Then the
smooth plateau of the terrace loomed before him, with its wide-open
French window.

He slowed, silenced his pounding footsteps.

On the other side of the big room, still peering out the window through
which Mark had hurled himself, stood Vance. His sleek form was
silhouetted behind the flashlight's beam.

Like a wraith in the night, the other slipped inside. He crossed the
room on tiptoe. His hand darted down to snatch the rolled picture from
where it still lay on the floor.

* * * * *

And then Vance turned. His flashlight caught Mark.

But this time it was the antiquarian who was surprised. He jerked back.
Already his adversary was leaping for the cover of a heavy mahogany
table. Vance snapped a shot at him. Tried again to place him with the
light.

Mark's hand came down on a porcelain vase. He hurled it at Vance with
all his might.

Vainly, his enemy tried to dodge. But too late. The vase _thunk'd_ home
against his left shoulder. The flashlight fell to the floor.

Like a thunderbolt, Elaine's fiance lunged forward. His left hand
slashed down; pinioned the arm that held the Magnum. His right fist came
up with express-train speed. Smashed home on the point of Vance's jaw.
The antiquarian's body jerked spasmodically. Went limp. Sagged to the
floor.

But now the sound of harsh voices and running feet came to Mark's ears.

Clutching the Jerbette painting in one hand, he ducked back out the
window. Even in the gloom he could see bl