CHAPTER IX

The Lost Hour § I “Here we are, sir!” Burke opened his eyes. He was in his car—and his car was drawn up before a familiar porch. Lazarvich stood at the door waiting for him to alight. He stared, dazedly, at the clock in the car. It recorded three fifteen. “It isn’t possible!” he muttered, and took out his watch. Three fifteen. Burke got out. His head was aching frantically. He felt ill. “See here, Lazarvich,” said he, and broke off abruptly. Vaguely, indefinitely, he knew that ther…