d roared: "You d--d Frenchman!"

I instantly changed my tactics, and endeavored to embrace him. He
kicked me twice, violently. I begged permission to kiss madame's hand.
He replied by throwing me down stairs.

I am in bed with my head bound up, and beef-steaks upon my eyes, but
still confident and buoyant. I have not lost faith in Macchiavelli.
Tra la la! as they sing in the opera. I kiss everybody's hands.

CHAPTER V.

DR. DIGGS'S STATEMENT.

My name is David Diggs. I am a surgeon, living at No. 9 Tottenham
Court. On the 15th of June, 1854, I was called to see an elderly
gentleman lodging on the Kent Road. Found him highly excited, with
strong febrile symptoms, pulse 120, increasing. Repeated incoherently
what I judged to be the popular form of a conundrum. On closer
examination found acute hydrocephalus and both lobes of the brain
rapidly filling with water. In consultation with an eminent
phrenologist, it was further discovered that all the organs were more
or less obliterated, except that of Comparison. Hence the patient was
enabled to only distinguish the most common points of resemblance
between objects, without drawing upon other faculties, such as Ideality
or Language, for assistance. Later in the day found him
sinking,--being evidently unable to carry the most ordinary conundrum
to a successful issue. Exhibited Tinct. Val., Ext. Opii, and Camphor,
and prescribed quiet and emollients. On the 17th the patient was
missing.

CHAPTER LAST.

STATEMENT OF THE PUBLISHER.

On the 18th of June, Mr. Wilkie Collins left a roll of manuscript with
us for publication, without title or direction, since which time he has
not been heard from. In spite of the care of the proof-readers, and
valuable literary assistance, it is feared that the continuity of the
story has been destroyed by some accidental misplacing of chapters
during its progress. How and what chapters are so misplaced, the
publisher leaves to an indulgent public to discover.

N N.

BEING A NOVEL IN THE FRENCH PARAGRAPHIC STYLE.

--Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I love you.

--You who read these pages. You who turn your burning eyes upon these
words--words that I trace-- Ah, Heaven! the thought maddens me.

--I will be calm. I will imitate the reserve of the festive
Englishman, who wears a spotted handkerchief which he calls a Belchio,
who eats biftek, and caresses a bulldog. I will subdue myself like him.

--H