THE strange career of Marcus Rodney, inventor, scholar and electrician, has long been the source of a vast amount of gossip and speculation. The facts of his case are known to me alone, and I now intend to make them public, partially to relieve myself of a weighty secret, and partly to open the eyes of scientists to a great discovery.

       At the age of 30 Marcus Rodney was what the world calls "a failure." Although he was in perfect health, cultured, energetic and in mental attainments a many-sided man, society looked at his threadbare coat, his stern, forbidding countenance, learned that he lived in cheap lodgings and had "no visible means of support," and at once placed him outside its own narrow limits and left him severely alone. It is true that Rodney was entitled by birth to a standing in the community very different from the one he held. He had, however, become somewhat soured by his inability to acquire money, and made no effort to claim from the friends of his youth the consideration due him. He had invented various electrical contrivances, and had patented an improved sight for rifles, but his lack of tact and his unpleasant personality had made it difficult for him to interest capitalists in his designs.

       He was a queer fellow in many ways, abrupt in speech and, at times, very sarcastic. I remember a remark he once made to me which, to some extent, illustrated his character. He had been sitting for a long time, his huge head resting upon his hand, and his ungainly body reclining upon a sofa. "Old man," he exclaimed at length, turning his large, gray eyes full upon me, "when I die I want you to place upon my gravestone this epitaph, 'Q. E. D.'" The very essence of modern fatalism lay in his words.

       One night, not many years ago, I had left my luxurious quarters on Fifth avenue to visit my old friend in his dingy room on the east side. It was a warm evening in July, and as I entered his apartment he was sitting at an open window smoking a pipe. The cries of countless ragged children filled the air, and the odor of an uncleanly and over-populated neighborhood offended the senses. Little did I suspect at the moment that upon our conversation that night would hinge the fate of Marcus Rodney. He was in a more talkative mood than usual, but his loquacity did not seem to be the result of cheerful spirits. Never before had I heard him so bitterly bewail his lack of success, but he freed his overburdened heart to me in words of touching earnestness. Why should he, a man of ability, a scientist, a student, a worker, a progressive thinker, be condemned to poverty and neglect while the world poured its treasures into the laps of fools? What was his weakness? Where had he failed to take advantage of his opportunities? He put these questions to me spitefully, almost desperately. Finally he said:

       "The truth is, my friend, I repel men. There is something about me which antagonizes the very people I want to attract. There is not a child in the street there who would approach me. I have lived in this populous house for three years, and no man or woman has ever wished me 'good day.' I believe I am the only man in the city who was never besought by a beggar. When I enter an office to talk business with a stranger I seem to chill my victim by a single glance. Good God, sir! Am I a leper or a scoundrel? Have I the smallpox? Am I the Wandering Jew or the Prince of Darkness? Why should my fellow-men detest me?"

       After a moment he became calmer and continued: "All this has had an evil effect upon my nature. Whatever warmth of feeling I may once have had for mankind has been destroyed. Hereafter I shall let no sympathetic throb agitate my heart. From this time forward I shall take my way through the world coldly, unpityingly, remorselessly."

       He arose, lighted a candle, and going to a bookshelf brought a much-thumbed volume to the window. Placing the light advantageously, he said: "I have been reading a book by Hamerton, entitled, 'Human Intercourse.' I have been much struck by his opening sentences. Listen: 'A book on human intercourse might be written in a variety of ways, and among them might be an attempt to treat the subject in a scientific manner, so as to elucidate those natural laws by which intercourse between human beings must be regulated. If we knew quite perfectly what those laws are we should enjoy the great convenience of being able to predict with certainty which men and women would be able to associate with pleasure, and which would be constrained or repressed in each other's society. Human intercourse would then be as much a positive science as chemistry, in which the effect of bringing substances together can be foretold with the utmost accuracy.' Again later on, the author says: 'Sympathy and incompatibility — these are the two powers that decide for us whether intercourse is to be possible or not, but the causes of them are dark mysteries that lie undiscovered far down in the abysmal deeps of personality.'"

       He was silent for a time, and, relighting his pipe, puffed away nervously. I let him indulge his dreams for a while, though I was anxious to learn the cause of his interest in the works of the English writer. I realized, however, that it was best to permit him to take his own course in the conversation, as he was one of those eccentric men who cannot be hurried. My self-restraint was rewarded.

       "Sympathy and incompatibility," he repeated after a time. "Those are terms unknown to exact science. They may satisfy an artist, like Hamerton, but they mean nothing to me."

       Here he arose and paced up and down the narrow room.

       "But, I understand him," I interposed. "I have long believed that the indifference of one individual toward another is an impossibility. I was never presented for the first time to a man or woman that I did not feel either drawn to or repelled by that person. Sometimes the feeling for or against is slight, sometimes intense, but a negative condition of the emotions is impossible at such a time. Another curious fact is that this feeling of attraction or repulsion is sometimes reversed upon a second or third meeting with the individual in question."

       "Doubtless that is all true," he returned somewhat petulantly, "but it is simply a statement of phenomena. What I want is a scientific explanation of the facts you mention."

       "And that you will never obtain," I remarked confidently.

       He blew out the candle and drew his chair to my side. Peering into my face, he said: "O, yes, I will. And society shall pay dearly for my discovery."

       There was something uncanny in his manner that affected me unpleasantly. I pushed my chair back and gazed out into the night. The street had grown quiet, and a white, soft moon was just peeping with calm indifference above the homes of poverty. Across the way I could see a workman in his shirt sleeves sitting at an open window, while a slatternly woman leaned over his brawny shoulder. Why is it that such people are forever peering into the street? Do they hope to catch a glimpse of fortune making toward their doorway?

       After a while I turned to Rodney and asked:

       "What do you mean?"

       "I mean Ampere," he answered curtly.

       "Ampere, Ampere," I repeated. "Why the deuce don't you talk English?"

       He smiled condescendingly. "Can it be that I have a Philistine here?" he asked, musingly. "You come from your home of wealth to the East Side to ask who Ampere was?"

       "Ah, he was a man then?"

       "Yes, he was a man, and a great one. But he only paved the way for me." Excitedly he arose and paced the room again. I shall never forget the weird picture he presented. His long, tousled hair hung about his enormous head as though it had been flung there by a mischievous sprite. His gray eyes had turned black with excitement, and his face, unsymmetrical as a piece of gnarled oak, was almost ghastly in its pallor. His gigantic and clumsy figure seemed to fill the small room. His flannel shirt was open at the neck, and as he shuffled about in his loose slippers I could hardly believe that I saw before me a man possessing the culture of the schools and the breeding of a gentleman.

       He sat down by my side again.

       "Ampere," he explained in a cold, hard voice, as though lecturing to a class of schoolboys, "established the hypothesis upon which we explain the phenomena of electro-magnetism."

       "Yes," I returned, rather bored. "I don't care much for that sort of thing, don't you know?"

       "But he and his followers," went on Rodney pedantically, "have confined their researches and discoveries to a very limited sphere. You are fond of me, old man?"

       His question was so unexpected that I looked up in astonishment. What had my liking for him to do with Ampere? I began to fear that constant failure had affected my friend's brain.

       "You know I am, or I wouldn't be here."

       "That's so," he said, looking around the little room with a sad smile on his face. "You are the only visitor I ever entertain. It seems almost too bad that it is only a case of currents."

       I was more than ever convinced that he was losing his mind. I did not dare to speak for fear of agitating him still further. "A fine place to be caught with a mad man," I reflected, as I peered through the darkness toward the door. He observed my emotion and went on:

       "Come, come, my boy; I will tease you no longer, but the fact is I have made a tremendous discovery. The world is at my feet. In another month I shall be wealthy, courted, happy. And it's all owing to Ampere — and Hamerton. Strange combination, that? It's seldom you can make a compound of a Frenchman and an Englishman and obtain as a result riches, glory and all the good things of the earth. I tell you it's the greatest feat ever performed by what we might call mental chemistry."

       I let him have his say, and then asked calmly:

       "And what is the discovery?"

       "Let the results answer your question. It may be that I am over-sanguine in this matter. Heaven knows I have had bold hopes before, and they have always turned to dust."

       "Is that all you will say to satisfy my curiosity?" I remarked, rising to go. I had not wholly laid aside the fear that the man might at any moment become dangerous.

       "No, sit down. I will go a step further with you. Do you know why you and I have always been friends? 'Sympathy,' says Hamerton. 'Bosh,' say I. The fact is our respective electric currents have always flowed in the same direction. Result — attraction. Unfortunately for me the electric currents of other men flow in the opposite direction from mine. Result — repulsion. Why, then, are you not as unpopular as I am? you ask. Therein lies a mystery. Let us put it, for the sake of argument, that the electric current pertaining to your sensitive individuality is more adaptable than that which dominates my unyielding self. Do you follow me? You acknowledge that some men attract you and others repel you. You further assert that sometimes you like a certain man, and again detest him. That is, your electric current sometimes flows in one direction, sometimes in another. If you will be honest with yourself, you will admit that your liking for me not only has degrees of intensity, but sometimes changes into almost aversion. Fluctuation in the currents, sir. Just think of my theory for a moment. Does it not explain a vast number of social phenomena? Take matrimony, for instance. Two young people are drawn irresistibly toward each other. They marry. After a time the currents become disturbed. Perhaps some night the husband comes home with his electricity flowing from his feet to his head. It is the first time that this has occurred. His gentle wife has calmly maintained a current, which flows from her head to her feet, and greets him as usual. Ultimate result — divorce. Do you follow me?"

       "Whew! Well, I cannot honestly say that I do. But I'm not a scientific man. Perhaps if I knew more about the subject I might grasp your meaning more readily. Even admitting, however, that you are right in the main, I really can't see how your discovery will do you the slightest good. It is interesting, and, if you could prove your propositions, might give you some notoriety in certain circles. But you talk of wealth, power, and all that. What do you mean?"

       My dear boy," he remarked in a paternal way and with a ring of triumph in his penetrating voice, "the step from such a discovery to its practical application is very short. You have known me only as a theorist, a reader, a talker. You must not forget that I am a practical electrician, a mechanic, an inventor and — a desperate man."

       He said the last two words under his breath, as though rather ashamed of them. In a moment he went on:

       "I have not yet solved all the problems presented to me, but you will admit that if a man could obtain complete control of his own electric current, and at the same time be able to learn the direction in which the current of another person with whom he was conversing was flowing, he could fascinate or antagonize that person at will. Furthermore, if he could control the strength of his own current, he could moderate or increase that attraction or repulsion at pleasure. Then would all the prizes of the earth be his. For know, my friend, that it is not merit, nor intellect, nor energy, nor will, nor one of a thousand other things conducive to success which is the most potent factor in the attainment thereof. Give me only the power to win the affection of men and women and I will squeeze from this queer world all that men hold dear. I have seen men who were pigmies beside me intellectually far outstrip me in the race of life, because they were what is called 'magnetic.' My friend," here he arose and drew himself up to his full height, "my friend, I am about to become a magnetic man."

       I walked home musingly. The air was cool, for midnight had come, and the moon looked down on a city grateful for the bracing breeze which blew in from the sea. "Is Marcus Rodney a madman or a genius?" was the problem in my mind. Little did I imagine how important to me would be the solution of that question.

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CHAPTER II.

       Weeks passed, but I did not see Rodney again. In placing my friendship for him upon a purely scientific basis, he had shocked my tenderest feelings. For I had been unselfish in my intercourse with him, and had often sacrificed my inclinations for the sake of cheering him up by my presence. I would and could have done more for him than I had, if he had not been such a proud, unapproachable fellow; but, nevertheless, what small attentions he would accept I had always gladly rendered. I was annoyed, therefore, at the materialistic interpretation he had placed upon my affection for him, and could not persuade myself to see him again.

       It was early in the fall before I heard of him. One day I read in a newspaper that the war department had adopted "the Rodney sight for rifles." At the time I did not realize that the item referred to my friend's device, but not long afterward I read that Marcus Rodney, inventor of the improved rifle-sight had become manager of the Graball Electric Motor Company. I at once wrote him a letter of congratulation, to which he returned no answer. A week later a column was devoted in one of the morning journals to a description of Marcus Rodney's inventions, and the article stated, incidentally, that "this wonderful genius" was rapidly acquiring a large fortune from his royalties. The writer also asserted that "Mr. Rodney is one of the most fascinating men in the country, possessing a personality which attracts men instantly and surrounds him with warm and enthusiastic friends."

       "Do you know Marcus Rodney?" I was asked at my club one night.

       "Yes, I used to be intimately acquainted with him. Why?"

       "Well, his name is up for membership. His proposers are so uncompromising in their praise that they have almost made him a laughing-stock in the committee. What sort of a fellow is he?"

       "A gentleman and a genius. He will be a valuable addition to the club."

       I said this perfunctorily, though, to tell the truth, I did not look forward to Rodney's admission with any great pleasure. His picture, as I had last seen him, was in my mind, and I could not imagine him as a presentable club man. The following week, however, I was surprised to find that I had done him an injustice. I had entered the smoking-room of the club one evening after dinner, when my attention was instantly attracted by a tall, striking-looking man dressed richly but in good taste, who was puffing a cigar in front of the wood fire which crackled in the grate. The back of his head looked familiar, and as I stepped forward he turned toward me. It was Marcus Rodney. The old fondness for him came over me with added force, and I sprang forward and grasped his hand.

"Welcome, Welcome, Old Man."

       "Welcome, welcome, old man! I am delighted to have you among us."

       He smiled rather coldly and seated himself. I touched a button, lighted a cigar and drew a chair to the opposite side of the fireplace.

       "Permit me," I began, rather nervously, "to congratulate you upon your success. I knew it must come to you in time."

       "Excuse me," he returned, "you knew nothing of the kind. In fact, you had begun to look upon me as a permanent failure. But I told you one night last summer that wealth was within my grasp. You doubted me then. You did not fully realize that four parts of Ampere to one of Hamerton is the formula for the Philosopher's Stone."

       "Great heaven, Rodney, you don't mean to tell me that you have carried into practice your strange theory regarding electric currents? I can't believe it."

       He stood up and leaned against a table, his hands behind him.

       "This is my first visit to the club," he said. "You just rang for a boy, did you not?"

       "Yes."

       "He has never seen me, of course. Watch him when he comes in."

       We were alone in the smoking-room, and for a few moments there was silence, except for the jolly jarkling of the fire.

       A boy in uniform entered the apartment.

       "Two ponies of curacoa," I said to him.

       He did not hear me. With a strange smile on his face he was looking at Rodney.

       "Two ponies of curacoa," I repeated.

       The boy paid no attention to me, but slowly approached Rodney, like a rabbit fascinated by an anaconda. I now believe that Rodney reduced the force of the current at that instant, for Buttons came to his senses with a start.

       "Yes, sir — you want? You want?"

       He was still looking at Rodney, who repeated my order, and again were we left alone.

       I was more amused than astonished at the time, though since then I have pondered day and night over the details of Rodney's magnetic device. The only thing that I ever learned regarding his methods was that in attracting a person he always held at least one hand behind him, while in repelling any one he kept both hands before him. Perhaps scientists can make a better use of these bare facts than I can.

       Rodney resumed his seat and looked into the fire, as he calmly puffed a perfecto. He did not seem to care whether or not I was impressed by his power, and actually paid no attention to my comments on his recent performance.

       I watched him closely. There was a shadow on his face, and a strained look about his eyes, as though his effort to attract the waiter had been made at the expense of a certain amount of nervous force.

       "Well, Rodney," I said, after a time, "I suppose now that you have achieved wealth and fame you are perfectly happy?"

       He looked at me and smiled rather sadly.

       "No, my boy, I'm not happy. I once thought that money and glory were all that are needed to make a man contented. But, it seems, there is always one thing required to complete our existence. 'Man never is, but always to be blest.' The one thing necessary we never get." He sipped his liquor musingly.

       "And in your case that one thing is, at present — ?"

       "A certain woman."

       I was astonished. "You mean — you mean — that you're in love," I faltered.

       "Yes, that's it. I'm in love. God help me!"

       "Well, Rodney, if your recent manifestation of magnetic power finds no obstacle in sex, I am sure I would back your chances of winning any woman in the world."

       "That's the very point," he exclaimed. "Sex makes no difference to my device, and so I find myself undergoing the most terrible temptation a man ever endured."

       "What do you mean?"

       "Just this. When I found last summer that I could make men or women love me or hate me as I chose, I had no scruples about taking advantage of my power. It made no impression upon my conscience that I could so impress a capitalist that he would invest money in behalf of my sight for rifles. Was he not to be a gainer in the end? What did I care that by the use of my electro-magnetic apparatus I could fascinate a man and make him engage me to run his business? He obtained more benefit from the arrangement than I did. Why, in short, should I lose my self-respect if I obtained from the world that which was my due? I was simply repairing the defects with which nature had handicapped me. And so I went on from triumph to triumph, making money, fascinating men, manipulating my electric current so that it would fill my pocket. Behold the result! From poverty I am raised to affluence, from an insignificant individual I have become a famous man; I have my luxurious apartments, my horses, my clubs, and I dress and live as well as though I had never known the narrow affairs of the East Side. All this is the result of a simple invention which enables me to make any man my friend."

       "And yet you are not content," I suggested as he paused.

       "No, Unfortunately my scientific experiment has shown me that I have a conscience. Do you know Margaret Durand?"

       "Yes. I am going to her reception to-night."

       "So am I. Well, my dear boy, I love her. I love her with a purity and intensity that no man ever yet showed for a woman. Why? Because I have it in my power to fascinate her, to win her, and I will not give way to the temptation. Do you follow me? I could in an instant place myself above all men in her regard, but I scorn to take advantage of my power. She must love me naturally, not scientifically. I could make her as docile to my will as the waiter who came to us a while ago, but would that be fair to her? Would such a course result in happiness to either of us?"

       I puffed on in silence for a time. Never before had I had such a subtile problem in ethics presented to me. Had the temptation been mine I knew right well that I should have employed every influence in my power to win the woman of my love, but I could not undertake to solve such a problem for a friend. As he seemed to expect me to speak, however, I said:

       "You have never used the means at your disposal, then, to win her?"

       "As I told you, no."

       "Do you think that, laying aside the manipulation of currents, you could attract her?"

       "No."

       "What makes you think so?"

       "Look at me. Am I a man who would be likely to please such a woman?"

       "You might affect some women," I answered honestly, "but not Margaret Durand. As they say in society, you are 'not her style.'"

       "You are right, my boy. Thank you for replying to me with so much frankness. But place yourself for a moment in my position. I can win her consent to our marriage by the slightest effort. You have no conception of the power I now wield. If I was a bold, bad man, no family in the city would be safe for an instant if I chose to destroy its peace. Am I, then, to deny myself the only thing I crave because of a sentimental regard for that threadbare word 'honor?'"

       He arose from his chair and walked up and down the room in a manner which recalled to me our last meeting.

       "But," I said, " you know as well as I do that a union under such circumstances would not be ultimately happy. Suppose, for instance, that some day you forgot to keep with you your device, design, invention, contrivance, or whatever you call it. Where would you be then?"

       He stopped in his walk and looked at me earnestly.

       "Thank you for those words. They have made a man of me. I love her too well to take advantage of her. She shall love me for myself alone or not at all. I am willing to tap men with my electro-magnetic apparatus, but I shall not trust to it for a life companion. O Margaret, I worship you. If I win you not, death shall be my portion. But I shall play a square game. Rest content. Nature shall always direct your current. I shall not tamper with it."

       I sprang up and grasped his hand.

       "There is something in you," I exclaimed, "more than pertains to the average electrical expert. In fact, I believe you are a man. You are worthy of a thousand Margaret Durands."

       "Rather an oriental idea, isn't it?" he returned, smiling. "But we must be off, if we are going to the reception."

       I shook hands with him at the corner of the street and went home to dress for the evening. I felt as though I had had a glimpse of something unnatural. There was no doubt that Marcus Rodney had suddenly won wealth and notoriety. Furthermore, I had seen him dazzle a menial and I could not deny that he possessed the power he claimed. And Margaret Durand. Alas, a beautiful girl! I myself had been fascinated by her and had even gone so far as to offer her my hand, which she had gently and firmly rejected. Would she fall a prey to this terrible man, who had analyzed the world into currents and had profited by that analysis? I hoped not. Much as I liked Marcus Rodney I could not honestly wish him success in his affaire-du-cœur.

       Hurriedly completing my toilet, I lighted a cigarette, rushed downstairs, called a cab, and a few moments later drew up in front of a brilliantly-lighted house in Madison avenue, in front of which a hundred vehicles were standing. I joined the stream of guests entering the mansion, and finally managed to pay my respects to the daughter of the host, Margaret Durand. She looked unusually beautiful that night. Her red lips, her clean-cut features and her raven black hair formed a picture which almost awakened in me the old affection.

       "May I have a moment with you later?" I asked, as I passed along with the throng.

       "If you won't talk nonsense, you may," she answered, showing a set of exquisite teeth.

       An hour later I was seated in front of her in a retired corner.

       "Has Mr. Rodney come?" I asked.

       "I really don't know," she answered indifferently, and looking me full in the face.

       "He'll have to turn on the current to its highest limit to win this girl," I said to myself as I gazed into her honest eyes.

       "Good-evening, Miss Durand," said a deep voice behind me; and turning I saw Marcus Rodney. He looked remarkably well in a dress suit. His figure seemed to have lost its ungainliness, and his strong face looked almost ornamental in a drawing-room.

       Miss Durand arose and held out her hand. He took it calmly, and I gave him my seat and moved away.

       For the first time in such a gathering, I found myself ill at ease. Old friends spoke to me and I answered as though I had never known them. My thoughts were with Margaret Durand and Rodney. Had he brought his apparatus with him? Would he use it? Would she succumb before the power of his unfair device?

       Such questions as these worried me for a long time. Finally I returned to the little room in which I had left my friend and his beloved. Margaret had disappeared, but Rodney was still there. Never have I seen such a look in a man's face as his countenance at that moment held. His cheeks were pale, and beneath his staring eyes were deep tints of black. His white lips looked dry and feverish and he stared into vacancy like a man bereft of reason.

       I managed to get him out of the house without attracting attention and we walked many blocks in silence. He leaned upon my arm as though he had wholly lost his strength, and I in pity supported him. At length he whispered:

       "Thank Heaven, I didn't turn on the current! I'm a man yet."

       "You proposed to her, then?"

       "Yes. I asked her to be my wife. She refused. She said she did not care for me. What could I do? I had it in my power to make her worship me, and I restrained myself. O, my friend, never was a man so tempted. Her lips are so red! Her eyes are so bright! Her hair is so black! Her current must be one of tremendous force. And, look you, I have never even discovered which way it flows. All I know is that she does not like me by nature. I cannot, no, I cannot take a mean — a scientific — advantage of her. Good God, I wish I were dead."

       With these rather trite words he seemed to recover his energy, for he broke from my grasp and rushed away in the darkness.

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CHAPTER III.

       Two nights later I was sitting in a box at the theatre with Margaret Durand. The house was crowded, and the play, a famous American comedy, kept the audience in a tumult of laughter and applause. But my vis-a-vis seemed out of spirits. She watched the play listlessly, and seemed more inclined to carry on a whispered conversation with me than to follow the intricacies of a most amusing piece. Toward the end of the third act I saw her start and turn red as she caught sight of a tall, imposing figure standing near the main entrance. I followed her gaze and recognized Rodney, "grand, gloomy and peculiar" as usual.

       "A great man, Rodney," I whispered.

       She looked at me coldly and said:

       "Yes?"

       "Yes. A man of wonderful force. Everybody admires him."

       "Not everybody," she returned quickly. "Your statement is too sweeping."

       "But is he not extremely popular? He is called the 'success of the season.'"

       "I grant you that." Then in a lower tone. "Everybody seems to like him. I wonder why I don't?"

       "A case of currents," I had it on my lips to say, but suppressed the words in time.

       "Perhaps," I suggested, "you find him too earnest."

       "Much so. I wish he would not stand there. He has seen us and I can't bear his gaze." She drew her chair back out of range of Rodney's view.

       Here was a mystery. Evidently the man had a peculiar effect upon her. She felt so strong a repugnance for him that she had given expression to it with more frankness than good taste.

       As we left the theatre our little party passed Rodney, who was standing in the lobby. Miss Durand bowed coldly to him and he returned her salutation in almost an ominous way. I did not like the expression on his face. He had glanced at me with an angry gleam in his haggard eyes, and I knew he envied me my present position. We returned to the Durands for supper, and Margaret gradually grew more cheerful. Once in awhile, however, a cloud would pass over her beautiful face, and I felt intuitively that she was thinking of Rodney. As the party broke up she took me aside and said:

       "Will you do me a great favor?"

       "Willingly. There is nothing I would not do for you."

       "You once asked me to marry you. I want you to renew that offer."

       I was astonished, and for a moment lost control of my nerves. My body trembled, and I was obliged to seat myself on a sofa. The proposition was so unexpected, so unusual, that I felt a surprise which made me speechless. Margaret seated herself beside me, and pale and motionless waited my answer. We were alone for the moment, and turning I clasped her in my arms.

       "My darling, you have made me the happiest man in the world. Kiss me. Tell me you love me. You love me?"

       "I don't know," she answered, disengaging herself from my embrace. "I like you better than other men, and I want to be engaged to you. I am tired of having men I detest propose to me."

       I was not thoroughly pleased with this interpretation of her feelings, but there was no time to say more, as the guests had gathered in the hall and were making their adieux.

       "Come to me in the morning," whispered Margaret, and I promised her that I would.

       "Good-night, my fiance," were her last words, and I stepped forth into the darkness, a bewildered but happy man. I wandered about the streets for two hours in a curious state of mind. When Margaret Durand had refused me I had been desperate for a time, but, perhaps because my current is so "adaptable," I had fully recovered and had allowed our intercourse to rest on the basis of friendship. Now I was obliged to fall in love with her again. It was not a very difficult task, but I regretted that I did not have that control of my own electric flow that Marcus Rodney possessed.

       The light of approaching day had begun to glimmer in the East when I threw myself upon my bed worn out with the struggle of conflicting emotions. I was up again at 11 and hurried to a jeweler's. The handsomest engagement ring the store held was soon mine, and I drove at once to Madison Avenue. Margaret received me with a silent pressure of the hand. She looked pale and her eyes were heavy for lack of sleep. She smiled sadly, almost listlessly, as I placed the ring upon her finger and kissed her lips, less red than usual, to seal our betrothal.

       "I am afraid," she faltered, "that you will think I have been unwomanly."

       "Don't say that, Margaret. You do yourself a wrong. A slave who has received his freedom would be ungenerous to harbor unkind thoughts of his benefactor. I love you, and you have promised to be my wife. That one reflection is all that my mind has room for now."

       She smiled compassionately.

       "I want you to do something for me to-day," she said.

       "Willingly — later on." I placed my arm around her waist and felt no inclination to move. I was delighted to observe that the readjustment of the currents was going forward in a most satisfactory manner.

       "Yes — later on," she murmured. "I want you to see Marcus Rodney and tell him that you and I are engaged. Will you?"

       I was surprised at the request and rather dreaded the task she had set me.

       "Must I tell him to-day?" I asked feebly.

       "Please do. I want him to know at once. For — for — I am afraid of him. I hate him. But he is a peculiar man. He is one of those obstinate creatures who never know when they are beaten. He would not permit the woman he loves to become a sister to him."

       I started as though my current, which was flowing in the right direction, had suddenly been reversed.

       "What do you mean to imply?" I asked, rising and looking at her with offended pride in my eyes.

       "Sit down, dear," she exclaimed, springing up and throwing her arms around my neck. "I have never been anything to you but the girl you love, have I? And I am going to be your wife."

       Her arguments were irresistible. I resumed my seat and had the eminent pleasure of knowing that the currents had not been permanently disarranged by my ebulition of temper.

       How the next few hours were passed it is needless to recount. This is not a tale of passion but of science. Suffice it to say that when I left Margaret late in the afternoon I was willing to beard a thousand Rodneys in their den. There is nothing like love for a woman to make a man brave.

       As I was sworn to inform Rodney of our betrothal at once I hastened to the club. He was always there for a few hours before his dinner time. As I went up the steps, I saw him standing alone at one of the windows. His face had a gloomy, almost despairing expression, and he paid no attention to my nod.

       "How are you, old man?" I asked, as I joined him.

       "Not very well," he answered gruffly. "But you look chipper enough. I suppose the market turned your way to-day?"

       "Not exactly. I haven't been to the street, but a little flyer I took yesterday panned out exceedingly well to-day."

       There was something in my tone which aroused his suspicions. He looked at me sharply, and the peculiar power of his queer eyes almost made me abandon my design. "I will procrastinate," I said to myself.

       "Have you made any engagement for dinner, Rodney?"

       "No."

       "Well, dine here with me. Excuse me a moment. I will go and give the order."

       He bowed silently, and I left him.

       We had a very handsome dinner. I wanted to beget in him a condition of good humor before I broke to him a piece of news which I realized would place me in an unpleasant position. By the time we had reached the salad his face had begun to brighten a bit. If a man in love, I reflected, can manage to preserve his appetite he is not likely to break his heart. A well-filled stomach seems to keep the organ of the affections intact.

       "Everything is going well with you in a business way?" I asked toward the end of the dinner.

       "Yes. I will be a millionaire in three months."

       "You look tired, old man. Why don't you run over to Europe for the winter?"

       "You know right well why I don't. It is unkind of you to ask such a question."

       "But," I returned, "your affaire is at an end." There was a lump in my throat, but I boldly raised my glass of champagne toward my lips and said impressively. "Rodney, I propose a toast. Let us drink to my betrothed, Margaret Durand."

HE HURLED HIS GLASS TO THE FLOOR IN A RAGE.

       He hurled his glass to the floor in a rage. His face was ghastly, and his eyes met mine with a look which made me also turn pale.

       "Traitor," he exclaimed, "you shall pay for this. Am I a man to be trifled with? Do you think I should permit you to marry the woman I love? Hereafter, sir, we are strangers."

       He arose, drew himself to his full height and stalked out of the room.

       I sat for a time at the table, wondering what would be the outcome of all this. I was afraid of the man not for myself, but because I dreaded the effect of his confounded electric device upon Margaret. I knew that my words had destroyed his scruples regarding the application of his scientific fascinations to the object of our mutual affection. It was evident that Margaret harbored a vague suspicion that Rodney could overcome her will if he tried, and it was this fear which had led her to take the peculiar step she had pursued in my case, He must not see her again, I argued. My only safety lies in preventing a meeting between them. I must go to her at once.

       "Mr. Rodney paid for the dinner, sir, as he went out," I was informed when I stopped to settle my score.

       With his words "you shall pay for this," ringing in my ears, I had to laugh at the inconsistency of my rival's speech and deeds. I was annoyed too. To have my guest pay for a meal to which I had invited him proved that his hostility would stop at nothing in its search for revenge.

       I walked hastily up toward Margaret's home. It was a cool, clear night and the bracing air somewhat restored my equilibrium.

       "Is Miss Durand in?" I asked nervously at the door.

       "No; she has gone to a german at the Olney's, sir."

       This was strange. She had said nothing to me regarding such a purpose. I had pictured her to myself talking over her engagement to her mother, and, perhaps, taking her father into the secret. Once in a while in these days parents are informed of a girl's betrothal almost as soon as her intimate friends. However, as I had been invited to the Olney's, I decided to seek her there and ask for an explanation.

       I stopped a passing hansom and rolled up-town. My mind was oppressed with vague misgivings. I held Margaret by such a slight bond — for I knew that she did not love me as I wished to be loved — that I was not pleased at the outlook. Now that Rodney had taken the warpath with his current-controlling apparatus I felt almost helpless. All is fair in love, they say, but this rather unprincipled dictum was laid down before electricity was known to man. My fevered brain employed itself in drafting a measure to be introduced at the next session of the Legislature making it a misdemeanor for any one to win the affections of a woman by any machine, device or contrivance not readily obtainable by the public at large. "We'll have a nickel-in-the-slot courting machine yet," I muttered bitterly, as the cab drew up in front of the Olney's. The great house was crowded and the cotillion had not yet begun. I said a few words to the hostess and then began my search for Margaret. A few moments later I caught sight of her leaning against a door and talking to a harmless youth of 20 who had already become blase. At the same instant I saw Marcus Rodney enter the front drawing-room and greet the hostess.

       By some some strange impulse, I decided to defer my talk with Margaret, keep myself in the background and watch Marcus Rodney's maneuvers.

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CHAPTER IV.

       Unless a man is a boor it is impossible for him to do just as he pleases at a social gathering. While I stood watching Margaret and Rodney, who had not yet seen each other, I felt a light touch on my arm. Turning I met the smiling glance of my hostess.

       "Let me find you a partner for the cotillion," she said. "As one of the best dancers in the city, we cannot spare you."

       I was far from being pleased with her suggestion, but I saw at once that there was no escape. A few moments later, therefore, I was seated beside a vapid young woman, who seemed to feel that she had secured a prize. She smiled and chattered in a way which chilled me and convinced me that her current and mine would never flow in the same direction. Margaret with the blase youth by her side, was seated near the head of the line. Rodney, who did not dance, stood in the shadow of a portiere at the end of the room.

       "This is going to be a delightful german," simpered my partner.

       "I fear so — if I can't prevent it," I answered absently, looking toward Rodney.

       "Why, what do you mean?" she asked.

       "O, excuse me, I didn't quite catch your remark. Yes, yes, you are right."

       I felt that the girl was wondering at my strange demeanor; and so drew myself together and paid stricter attention to her ceaseless talk. But I could not get my mind off the drama which was passing before my eyes. I knew that Rodney was watching Margaret and myself, and I could not discover whether my fiancee had seen either me or my rival. She had not looked toward me, and she seemed to be unconscious of Rodney's presence.

       "What a beautiful girl is Margaret Durand," remarked my vis-a-vis rather enviously.

       "Yes, and he knows it."

       "He? Who?"

       "He. They. Anybody. Everybody. See?"

       Again my partner gazed at me in surprise. She had begun to think that I had been taking too much wine, I suspect, for her high spirits suddenly deserted her.

       The orchestra at that moment struck up a waltz and the cotillion had begun. Margaret and her partner sat next to the leaders, and soon afterward I was dancing with my fiancee, who had loyally given me her first favor.

       "Why haven't you spoken to me?" she whispered.

       "Why are you here?" I returned.

       "Because I wanted just one last dance before I was laid on the shelf," she answered, rebelliously. "Won't you forgive me?"

       "Of course I will." And I drew her a bit closer to me than the etiquette of the waltz strictly warrants.

       At that instant we passed the portiere at the end of the room.

       "Good heavens! there's Mr. Rodney," exclaimed Margaret in an agitated tone. "Didn't you tell him what you promised to?"

       "Yes; and it wasn't an easy bit of work, either."

       As I left her at her seat I saw that she was quite pale, and I returned to my place forebodingly.

       "Why is it that some men dance so much better than others?" asked my partner, who had just been waltzing with a clumsy youth.

       "Currents, I suppose," was my reckless reply.

       Fortunately it was our turn to dance at that moment, and I managed to escape the worst effects my random answer might have produced.

       "O, there's Mr. Rodney at the end of the room," exclaimed Miss Loquacious when we were again seated. "He's such a striking looking man. I have only met him once, but I was fascinated with him. It's too bad he doesn't dance."

       "He does," I said. "He dances on men and women."

       "What a queer man you are," exclaimed my puzzled partner.

       As the german went on I began to hope that my vague fears regarding Rodney's course were groundless. I danced with Margaret several times and found that she had regained a thorough command of her nerves. Nevertheless, Rodney did not stir from his place near the portiere, and the attention he had begun to attract seemed to make no impression on him. The hostess stood at his side for a few moments, and several men went over and shook hands with him. Still he stood there like an avenging spirit, cold, motionless, inflexible. At one time I caught his eye, and in his gaze was not anger, but contempt. This circumstance gave me food for thought. Why had his feeling toward me so suddenly changed?

       "What did the leader say to you about the next figure?" asked my partner.

       "He thought I was lying," I remarked quickly, as the explanation of Rodney's change of mood came into my mind on the instant.

       "Dance, please," said the leader to us at that moment, and again I was able to escape the consequences of my lapsus linguæ.

       The strain I was under had begun to wear upon me. I had not had my usual amount of sleep the previous night, and I realized by the ragged manner of my dancing that I was "played out," as the saying goes. Under such circumstances, the position I was in became torture. I watched Margaret closely. How beautiful she was! I loved her more passionately every moment. I longed to stand up and cry out: "Move on, gentlemen. Miss Durand belongs to me!" To sit there in such a state of mind and see that electro-magnetic hawk poised to swoop down on his prey was agony. I alternated between hope and fear. Perhaps he would not get a chance to speak to her; perhaps he did not have his device with him; perhaps, if he thought that I had lied to him, he would defer his experiment until a more convenient time. On the other hand, why did he come to a dancing party? And having come, why did he not "move on?" What did he mean by standing in the shadow of a curtain, like a stage assassin, making himself conspicuous, and worrying Margaret and me.

       It was not until the first intermission that I obtained any surcease from these tantalizing questions. As I passed through the hall with my partner on my arm I saw Rodney going upstairs. "Ah!" thought I, "he has given up the contest for to-night. He is going away." I felt like a new man. My spirits returned, and the nonsensical little creature at my side seemed to feel my change of mood, for her voice no longer trembled when she asked me a question.

       "Rodney has taken his leave," I whispered to Margaret, and she smiled cheerfully in return. The joyous notes of a waltz resounded through the house, and in my delight I grasped my partner about the waist and whirled her to her seat.

       I enjoyed myself immensely for a time. I was fond of dancing, and, being popular, received many favors. With a fickleness which has always pertained to my disposition I forgot all about Rodney, all about fatigue and lack of sleep, and remembered only that Margaret was mine, that music and beauty, and sweet odors, affected my senses, and, like a lotos eater, I abandoned myself to the moment's pleasure with an enthusiasm that threw my foolish little partner into ecstasies.

       "Stop flirting," said Margaret to me during a figure, and I frowned playfully as though she had wronged me.

       O, Youth and Health and Pleasure, what gods ye are! my mind cried out. What care I for men with electro-magnets concealed up their sleeves, as though they would cheat the world if they could. Such men cannot dance. Such men must skulk away as the fun grows apace and eat out their wicked hearts in solitude. Currents, did you say? What currents do we need that the hot blood, the gleaming eyes, the full, flushed cheeks, do not beget? Currents? Reserve them for the telegraph, the telephone, the cable, kill men with them if you like, but come not to us and measure love by volts and carry hatred in dynamos.

       Such triumphant thoughts filled my brain as the music ceased, and I motioned a waiter to bring us some lemonade. The german was well led, the favors were handsome, and I could see by the expression on Margaret's face that she was enjoying to the uttermost her last appearance in the world as a girl heart-free. As I sat sipping the cooling drink and listening to the gossip of the girl at my side, suddenly Marcus Rodney appeared at the opposite doorway.

       "Good God!" I exclaimed, and my partner jumped as though I had struck her.

       Straight across the room strode my rival, and I observed with dismay that he held both hands behind him. I could not stir. To have made a scene would have been absurd. "Perhaps he has no evil intentions," I thought. "Perhaps his hands are at his back from force of habit. Perhaps — but no. He makes straight for Margaret. Heavens, what shall I do? What can I do?"

       Was ever a man placed in such a position as I held at that moment? I knew that my fiancee was passing from me, that a power greater than any I could bring to bear had her in its grasp, and there I sat compelled to sip lemonade and talk nonsense to a light-headed girl.

       Rodney stopped in front of Margaret, and smilingly said a few words to her. I endured the torture of the damned, for I could see that she was strangely affected, though the expression on her face was one of repugnance. His will was stronger than hers, however, for she arose and took his arm. Then boldly down the centre of the room they walked together. What could I do? The apartment seemed to be going around in a circle, and the men and women before me seemed to dance about as though they mocked me. I seized my partner's lemonade and swallowed it at a gulp. Perhaps she would have had me arrested had not a cry of dismay at that instant rung through the house. I recognized the voice. It was Margaret's.

       I rushed down the room and tore back the portiere behind which Rodney and Margaret had disappeared. As I did so my fiancee fell fainting into my arms. I laid her upon a sofa, ran for water, and, upon my return, found that she had regained her senses.

My Fiancee Fell Fainting Into My Arms.

       "Mr. Rodney?" she said to me convulsively as I came up.

       "He is dead," remarked some one in the crowd, and Margaret again fainted.

       It was true. Marcus Rodney was dead, and no one, not even Margaret Durand, ever knew what killed him. Do I? you ask. Perhaps, though I am not a scientist. Is it not well nigh certain that by adding to his natural affection for Margaret a scientific one produced by his device, he overtaxed the powers of his heart? I leave the answer to older heads than mine.

       On his monument I have had the sculptor carve an electro-magnet, a broken heart and the letters "Q. E. D."

[The End.]

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       Copyrighted, 1889.