the American sculptor in a
composition consisting largely of wax. The widower's one grief was that
he was forced to separate himself from his life's companion for a period
of, at least, a week.

A pretty enough scheme, wasn't it, Polycarp? We shall shortly bury the
wax effigy in Brompton Cemetery, with the assistance of Hugo's
undertakers, and a parson or so, and grave-diggers, and registrars of
deaths, and so on and so on. Louis Ravengar will breathe again, thankful
that typhoid fever has relieved him of an unpleasant incubus, and since
Camilla is underground, he will speedily forget all about her. She will
be absolutely safe from him. The inconsolable widower will
ostentatiously seek distraction in foreign travel, and in a fortnight,
at most, will, under another name, resume his connubial career in a
certain villa unsurpassed, I am told, for its picturesque situation.

To-morrow or the next day I must make that new will, dispensing with the
shutting-up of the flat. The secret instructions, however, will stand.

You may wonder why I confide all this to the phonograph, Polycarp. I
will tell you. The record will be placed by me to-morrow in my safe in
your vault. To-night I shall lock it up in the safe here. When I am
dead, Polycarp, you will find that the secret instructions instruct you
to realize all my estate, and to keep the proceeds in negotiable form
until a lady named Mrs. Catherine Pounds, a widow, comes to you with an
autograph letter from me. You will hand everything to that lady, or to
her representative, without any further inquiry. But it has struck me
this very day, Polycarp, that you, with your confounded suspicious and
legal nature, when you see Mrs. Catherine Pounds, if she should come in
person, may recognise in her a striking resemblance to Camilla. And you
may put difficulties in the way, and rake up history which was not
meant to be raked up. This phonographic record is to prevent you from
doing so, if by chance you have an impulse to do so. Think it over
carefully, Polycarp. Consider our situation, and obey my instructions
without a murmur. The thought of the false death certificates and burial
certificates, and of the unprofessionalism of Darcy, will abrade your
legal susceptibilities; but submit to the torture for my sake, Polycarp.
You are human. I shall add to the letter which Mrs. Catherine Pounds
will bring you a note to say that if you have any scruples, you are to
listen to the phonograph