ruth.

In a short time Jacques Dollon, making a violent effort, sat up. Casting
scared and bewildered glances about him, he cried:

'Who are you? What do you want of me?... Ah, the ruffians! The bandits!'

'There is nothing to fear, monsieur. I am simply the doctor they have
called in to attend to you! Be calm!... You must recover your senses,
and tell us what has happened!'

Jacques Dollon pressed his hands to his forehead, as though in pain:

'How heavy my head is!' he muttered. 'What has happened to me?... Let me
see!... Wait.... Ah ... yes ... that's it!'

At a sign from the doctor, the superintendent had stationed himself
beside the bed, behind the young painter.

Keeping a finger on his patient's pulse, the doctor asked him, in a
fatherly fashion, to tell him all about it.

'It is like this,' replied Jacques Dollon.... 'Yesterday evening I was
sitting in my arm-chair reading. It was getting late. I had been working
hard.... I was tired.... All of a sudden I was surrounded by masked men,
clothed in long black garments: they flung themselves on me. Before I
could make a movement I was gagged, bound with cords.... I felt
something pointed driven into my leg--into my arm.... Then an
overpowering drowsiness overcame me, the strangest visions passed before
my eyes; I lost consciousness rapidly.... I wanted to move, to cry
out ... in vain ... there was no strength in me ... powerless ... and
that's all!'

'Is there nothing more?' asked the doctor.

After a minute's reflection Jacques answered:

'That is all.'

He now seemed fully awake. He moved: the movement was evidently painful:
'It hurts,' he said, instinctively putting his hand on his left thigh.

'Let us see what is wrong,' said the doctor, and was preparing to
examine the place when a voice from the studio called:

'Monsieur!'

It was Monsieur Agram's secretary. The magistrate left his post by the
bed and went into the studio.

'Monsieur,' said the secretary, 'I have just found this paper under the
chair in which Monsieur Dollon was: will you acquaint yourself with its
contents?'

The magistrate seized the paper: it was a letter, couched in the
following terms:

_Dear Madame,_

_If you do not fear to climb the heights of Montmartre some
evening, will you come to see the painted pottery I am preparing
for the Salon: you will be welcome, and will confer on us a great
pleasure. I say 'us,' because I have excellent new