A tiny, black, glistening, motionless monster stood between a man and a woman. There were now but two people in the laboratory—the Honorable William K. Vanderhook and his beautiful wife. The one was flushed with victory, the other was pallid with perplexity and fear.
In another instant our hero was eagerly bending over the instrument of his revenge. In one hand he held a tiny spoon, in the other a small vial upon which was a freshly printed label.
It was with infinite care that he scraped the spoon along the rim of the now stilled and silent cylinder. It was with unmeasured caution and infinite pride that he scraped up three great drops of clear, shining water and transferred them to the yawning mouth of the vial.
This done, the druggist fitted a cork nicely into the vial, while a wide smile of satisfaction illumined his countenance from brow to chin and from ear to ear.
When he turned and looked upon his wife the illumination increased.
And what of her? The woman for whom friendship had been sacrificed and a Mystic cut off in the height of his uselessness? Womanlike, as she watched Mr. Leffingwell disappear into vapor she had sensed the possibilities of the new dispensation. Alonzo had certainly lapsed. Bill had not. She had lost an admirer, but her husband was still in evidence. Alonzo was reduced to nothingness. Bill was yet a substantial fact. The Mystic could no longer contribute to her entertainment. Bill could make things very disagreeable. Astral advantages were gone. Material things remained.
Opinions to the contrary, women are philosophers—in accommodating themselves to the inevitable.
The lovely Imogene had almost dried her tears, even before the explosion came. When it was over she shook herself into adjustment as to her draperies and ribbons and frills. She fluffed up her bangs, slicked her eyebrows and looked almost as fresh as she generally felt.
When it was all over the avenger turned and, tossing the vial to the lady, said in a loud, triumphant voice,—“Well, here we are, Mrs. Vanderhook; here’s your essence of mysticism for your mooshoir, and here”—laughing uproariously,—“is a soov’nir spoon for your next pink tea. And now, my dear girl”—as Imogene began to look mournful again—“if you’ll give up this strenuous occultism and be contented with your old Billsey on the earth plane, I’ll cry quits, and get you anything you want—that isn’t astral.”
Imogene wiped her eyes. She looked at him inquiringly. Then she looked at the vial. Then she sidled up alongside her husband.