A soft tap pulsed through the room, and the Princess Lenore turned, the flicker of a frown marring the perfection of her brow.
"Well, Marta?" she demanded.
Her maid-in-waiting entered fearfully. She was old and ugly. The Princess would not have about her any who were not; her radiance must be at all times like that of a true jewel amidst paste. Even the ladies of the court were required to dress down their own lesser beauty when gathered for state occasions.
"Well, Marta?" repeated the princess.
"Your pardon, Highness," breathed the old woman. "A delegation from the women of the city—"
"What do they want?"
"It is something about…taxes, Highness. They say they cannot afford—"
"Taxes!" The princess’ eyes clouded. "Why must they fret me with their miserable woes? I know nothing of taxes. Bid them see my father."
Marta cringed humbly.
"They have tried to, Highness, but without success. That is why they have come here. To beg your intercession—"
"I cannot see them," said Lenore. "Tell them to go away. I am busy."
"But, Highness—"
"Away, I said!" The princess’ voice was silken-soft no longer; it flamed with sudden petulance. "I am too busy to hear their petty grievances. Send them away! And you, too!"
With abrupt, feline violence she snatched a handful of baubles from the table before her, hurled them at the aged servant. Marta stood like a withered Danae beneath the rich rain, whined, "Yes, Highness," and disappeared. The princess shut intrusion from her mind as the door closed. She turned once more to her playthings, picked up and fondled a pendant of intricately interwoven sapphire and tolumnis. Its green-and-scarlet flame burned cold against the smooth satin of her breast. She hummed softly to herself, happy....
It was then the voice spoke.
The voice was a man’s voice. Its masculine deepness was like the rasp of grating steel in the languid femininity of this room.
"Send them away, eh, Princess? Very well. As you have judged, so shall it also be judged against you! "
The Princess Lenore whirled to the doorway, startled white hands leaping to her throat. Her gray-green eyes were wide with shock…and horror. They widened even more as they found…no one!
"Wh-where are you?" she gasped. "Who dares enter the boudoir of the Princess Lenore?"
She heard no sound of footsteps, but the voice drew nearer with each word.
"I so dare, Princess. "
"And…and who are you?"
"My name does not matter. But you may call me Conscience, if you must give me a name. For I am the Conscience of an empire. "
The voice was beside Lenore now. She spun swiftly, her hands seeking emptiness about her.
"It is a trick! Someone will die for this! Leave! Leave this instant, or I call the guard—"
The voice of "Conscience" laughed.
"Call the guard if you will, Princess. I will have gone ere they arrive…and these with me! "
This time the sound came from behind her. Again the girl whirled, this time to see a stupefying sight. As if imbued with eerie lapidary life, the jewels were rising from her dressing-table in great handfuls. Leaping clots of rich iridescence climbed into thin air…and vanished!
*
Up till now the princess had been overwhelmed with shock; now she was struck to the quick with another emotion. She screamed aloud and darted forward in defense of her precious gems.
"Stop! They are mine! How dare you—?"
Her questing hands touched the disappearing jewels, and for an instant a strange, electrical tingling coursed her veins. Then the warmth of a human hand struck down her clawing fingers; the Voice cried sternly, "Let be, woman! These go to those who need them more than you! " Then with a quick change of tone, "Stand still, you little hell-cat —"
The Princess Lenore had flung herself forward upon the invisible thief, was groping with maddened fingers at a face, at eyes she could not see. Her hands touched flesh…her ears caught the swift sibilance of an indrawn breath. In all her life, never had Lenore been in such close contact with a man. Strong arms gripped her shoulders, shook her fiercely, an angry voice grated, "You greedy little fool! Are these all you live for, then? Cold stones? No wonder your heart is an icy barren, without sympathy or compassion. Don’t you know what it means to hunger and be without bread, to want and be without hope, to love and be without love? In all your life, have you known only the icy caress of gems? Not this—? "
And harshly, stunningly, the cries of the Princess Lenore were stifled by the crush of male lips upon her own. For an instant the world spun dizzily beneath her; it seemed a burning brand raced through her veins, crying a tocsin. A vast, engulfing weakness shook the princess; she fell back, trembling and shaken.
Then anger, fierce and bitter, cleared her senses. She opened her eyes…and found herself viewing an incredible sight: herself bent to the embrace of a tall, dark-haired man clad in the rough habiliments of the working class. A young man whose jacket pockets bulged with the jewels that had disappeared…a young man whose eyes were covered with a pair of strangely shaped spectacles....
With a start, she realized she was seeing her formerly invisible guest in the rock-quartz mirror. At her gasp, the stranger spun, saw his reflection in the glass. With an oath he loosed her, seized a heavy stool, and hurled it at the glass. Its smoothness shattered into a thousand gleaming splinters…and once again she saw no one.
"Vixen! " grated the voice. For a few more seconds, jewels continued to leap upward into what the Princess Lenore now knew were hidden pockets, while she stood helplessly by. Then—she never could explain just why, but by some curious absence of sensation she knew—the boudoir was deserted save for herself.
The Princess Lenore stared long and wonderingly at what had been a mirror, the most perfect example of Plutonian rock-quartz crystal ever moulded. Then one soft hand lifted strangely to lips which still tingled…and something like a smile, a thoughtful smile, touched those lips.
Then, at long last, the Princess Lenore called the guard.
IV
Neil Hardesty peered anxiously at the chronometer on his wrist. He said, "Almost midnight. Brian, are you sure it was—?"
"Positive!" said Brian Shaughnessey stubbornly. "It was Dirk Morris, Neil. You’ve got to believe me. I know how it sounds. Crazy. But it was him."
"You didn’t see him," reminded Hardesty gently. "You were under great stress. It might have been an hallucination, you know."
"Was that explosion," demanded Shaughnessey, "imagination? It blew the warehouse plumb from here to Tophet. If I’d been within five hundred yards, I’d have been blown to a bunch of rags. It was him, Neil. I’d know his voice any time, any place."
Vurrth said thoughtfully, "But Dirk dead, no?"
"That’s what we thought," said Brian doggedly. "But he ain’t dead. Either he’s still alive, or his ghost—" A strange look swept his features. He stopped, glanced at the new leader of the group. "Neil, could it have been a—"
"I don’t know," confessed Hardesty. "I honestly do not know. We’ll just have to wait and see, Brian. But if he’s coming here tonight, he’d better come soon. It’s almost midnight. After the curfew, we won’t be allowed to move on the streets."
"Particularly,"