The Man with the Glass Heart can be found in Magazine Entry

The Man With the Glass Heart

Author or "Darkness and Dawn," "The Flying Legion," etc.

The one man who could mend that heart, wouldn't believe in it

WE HAD just lost our routine bridge game in the smoking room of the Ferrania—my traveling companion, Maynard, and I—and had set up the nightly beers for Harrison and Dr. Carmichael, our victors. Tobacco thereafter appeared.

The bright electric lighting, the leather divans and nicotin-scented warmth, contrasting cheerfully with the January bluster of mid-Atlantic, inclined our hearts to narration. All four of us settled down for a good "gam." Men never talk so well, I think, as when the gale is picking at the harp of the rig, the woodwork straining, and the surges slewing thunderously 'long-side in the dark.

Thus we spoke of many subjects, and the talk veered at last to the power of mind over matter. Dr. Carmichael was most interesting, and as I recall it, his tale ran somewhat like this:

HARDLY had the intruder opened the door and quietly stepped into the laboratory when Ackroyd glanced round with surprised vexation. For the master mind of electrical science hated interruption above all things. He failed to understand how this tall, stern-featured man, so ominously intense, had managed to slip past the laboratory guard.

So, standing up quickly beside the littered experiment bench that ran along the whole north wall of the room, the wizard crossed his shirt-sleeved arms, clamped his teeth still tighter on the old cob which was his constant solace, and from beneath frowning brows peered with hostility at the newcomer.

For a moment neither spoke. By the light which glowed greenly from the vacuum-tubes about the ceiling of this windowless den, each studied the other. Then the stranger closed the door and came forward.

"Please excuse this rudeness," said he in a deep, courteous voice, which, nevertheless. trembled a bit. "I know how very unwelcome I must be. Still, I am here. I had to come!"

"How the deuce did you get in?" snapped the scientist.

"Oh, just a little strategy. Nothing simpler. But let's waste no time on that. I've something far more vital to discuss. And every moment's precious. Now I—I—"

He stammered with sudden emotion. Ackroyd perceived that he was holding unto himself only by a strong effort. Removing the pipe from between his teeth, the scientist stared in wonder, trying to determine what sort of fellow this might be. A professional man, to be sure. Maybe a writer. Ah! Perhaps he wanted an interview.

"Sorry," blurted Ackroyd; "but if you want to write me up, or anything of that sort, I can't see you. Nothing to say. Positively nothing." And he moved to sit down at his work-bench.

The stranger raised an imploring hand. Ackroyd noted how long and fine the fingers were—white, supple, and adorned by a single plain gold ring.

"Pardon me again," said the intruder. "You mistake my errand. It isn't an interview I wan...

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