by
an instrument something like a hypodermic needle; and that poison was
so powerful that almost instantly it caused paralysis of the heart.
After all, that isn't so remarkable as it might seem. The blood in
the veins of the hand would be carried back to the heart in four or
five seconds."

"But you've already said there's no poison so powerful as all that."

"I said we didn't know of any. I wouldn't be so sure that Catherine
de Medici didn't."

"What has Catherine de Medici to do with it?"

"Nothing--except that what has been done may always be done again.
Those old stories are, no doubt, exaggerated; but it seems fairly
certain that the Queen of Navarre was killed with a pair of poisoned
gloves, the Duc d'Anjou with the scent of a poisoned rose, and the
Prince de Porcian with the smoke of a poisoned lamp. This case isn't
as extraordinary as those."

"No," I agreed, and fell silent, shivering a little, for there is
something horrible and revolting about the poisoner.

"After all," went on Godfrey, at last, "there is one thing that
neither you nor I nor any reasonable man can believe, and that is
that this Frenchman came from heaven knows where--from Paris,
perhaps--with Vantine's address in his pocket, and hunted up the
house and made his way into it simply to kill himself there. He had
some other object, and he met his death while trying to accomplish
it."

"Have you found out who he is?"

"No; he's not registered at any of the hotels; the French consul
never heard of him; he belongs to none of the French societies; he's
not known in the French quarter. He seems to have dropped in from the
clouds. We've cabled our Paris office to look him up; we may hear
from there to-night. But even if we discover the identity of
Theophile d'Aurelle, it won't help us any."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Because it is evident that that isn't his name."

"Go ahead and tell me, Godfrey," I said, as he looked at me, smiling.
"I don't see it."

"Why, it's plain enough. He had five cards in his pocket, no two
alike. The sixth, selected probably at random, he had sent up to
Vantine."

I saw it then, of course; and I felt a good deal as the Spanish
savants must have felt when Columbus stood the egg on end. Godfrey
smiled again at my expression.

"The real d'Aurelle, whoever he may turn out to be, may be able to
help us," he added. "If he can't, we may learn something from the
Paris police. The dead man's Bertillon measurement