SECRETS ENTRUSTED
TO A FEW
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There are some things that can not be generally told—things you ought to know. Great truths are dangerous to some—but factors for personal power and accomplishment in the hands of those who understand them. Behind the tales of the miracles and mysteries of the ancients, lie centuries of their secret probing into nature's laws—their amazing discoveries of the hidden processes of man's mind, and the mastery of life's problems. Once shrouded in mystery to avoid their destruction by mass fear and ignorance, these facts remain a useful heritage for the thousands of men and women who privately use them in their homes today.
THIS FREE BOOK
The Rosicrucians (not a religious organization), an age-old brotherhood of learning, have preserved this secret wisdom in their archives for centuries. They now invite you to share the practical helpfulness of their teachings. Write today for a free copy of the book, "The Secret Heritage." Within its pages may lie a new life of opportunity for you. Address Scribe H.Y.T.
The Rosicrucians
(AMORC), SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A.
HOW GAMBLERS WIN
Twelve ways Professionals win with fair dice. No switching. No practice. One hundred keys and codes on twenty-four different backs. 50 cents. BEAT THE CHEAT. 28 pages of exposes, $1.00. The great OPEN BOOK, written in words of fire, 155 pages of exposes, $3.5o. Free catalog included.
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CORRESPONDENCE CORNER
(Concluded from page 144)
roughs and many other books by the same author. . . . Mrs. LaVerne Waddell, 4 Independent Street, Carnegie, Pa., is a post mark collector in need of some "exchangers." . . . S. Ritter, 1160 Simpson Street, N. Y. C., has about 55 SF and fantasy magazines he'd like to trade for others or for books of history or biography. He would also like to hear from ardent readers of history and biography. . . .
THE MAN WHO WASN'T
HIMSELF
(Concluded from page 138)
tance from the crowd in front of the laboratory doors, his hands pressed tremblingly to his face.
Mortain was dead, had killed himself—in the body of Jacques Perdeau![1]
The wailing sirens in the distance suddenly seemed clearer, closer. The sirens of the police—who searched for one Mortain, cobbler killer. Perdeau wanted to scream. He was trapped. Trapped in Mortain's body!
Wildly Perdeau looked right and left. Flight—that was all there was left. A futile flight, for from the evidence he had left they would track him down in a few scant hours. The guillotine . . .
Perdeau's eyes were filled with the hunted madness of an animal. In Mortain's ape-like body he turned and lurched off down the darkened alley. The sirens grew louder, nearer . . .
- ↑ This was the one little thing Perdeau forgot: the alcohol-sodden mind of Mortain was soon cleared of its poisons by the bloodstream of Perdeau's body, and instead of sleeping for ten hours of drunkenness, he recovered in a short time, and awoke to find himself in another body. His low type mind, faced with this incredible fact, could not accept it, and cracked under the strain. He went mad, and in the horror of madness, shot himself dead.—Ed.
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