ld proceed any further the little French Judge
ruthlessly cut him short.

"Bah!" Contempt and geniality were mingled in his tone. "Who are we,
poor ignorant worms, that we should dare to say 'is' or 'is not'? Your
Shakespeare, he was right! 'There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'"

The faces of the four Englishmen instantly assumed that peculiarly
stolid expression always called forth by the mention of Shakespeare.

"But Spiritualism----" started the Host.

Again the little French Judge broke in:

"I who you speak, I myself know of an experience, of the most
remarkable, to this day unexplained save by Spiritualism, Occultism,
what you will! You shall hear! The case is one I conducted
professionally some two years ago, though, of course, the events which I
now tell in their proper sequence, came out only in the trial. I string
them together for you, yes?"

The Bore, who fiercely resented any stories except his own, gave vent to
a discontented grunt; the other three prepared to listen carefully. From
the drawing-room, whither the ladies had retired after dinner, sounded
the far-away strains of a piano. The little French Judge held out his
glass for a creme de menthe; his eyes were sparkling with suppressed
excitement; he gazed deep into the shining green liquid as if seeing
therein a moving panorama of pictures, then he began:

On a dusky autumn evening, a young man, tall, olive-skinned, tramps
along the road leading from Paris to Longchamps. He is walking with a
quick, even swing. Now and again a hidden anxiety darkens his face.

Suddenly he branches off to the left; the path here is steep and muddy.
He stops in front of a blurred circle of yellow light; by this can one
faintly perceive the outlines of a building. Above the narrow doorway
hangs a creaking sign which announces to all it may concern that this is
the "Loup Noir," much sought after for its nearness to the racecourse
and for its excellent _menage_.

"_Voila!_" mutters our friend.

On entering, he is met by the burly innkeeper, a shrewd enough fellow,
who has seen something of life before settling down in Longchamps. The
young man glances past him as if seeking some other face, then
recollecting himself demands shelter for the night.

"I greatly fear----" began the innkeeper, then pauses, struck by an
idea. "Hola, Gaston! Have monsieur and madame from number fourteen yet
departed?"

"Yes, mons