which defies the ponderings of our
poor brains--mine and my two friends."

Then he proceeded to pour into my attentive ear this gruesome tale of
mystery:

"We three--that is, myself, yon tall bearded Briton," pointing to the
glass door of the refreshment-room, "whose name is Jack Hobson, and
young Emmanuel Topp, junior partner in a great beer firm, whom you may
behold now at his fifth bowl of tea and his seventh muffin--are
teetotallers----"

"Teetotallers!" I could not help exclaiming. "Lord bless me! that is
certainly about the last thing I should have taken you for, either of
you."

"Well," he replied with some slight confusion, "at least, we _were
total_ teetotallers, though I admit we can now only claim the character
of partial abstainers. The fact is, when, about a fortnight ago, we were
discussing the plan of our projected visit to the great Paris
Exhibition, Topp suggested that while in France we should do as the
French do, to which Jack Hobson assented, remarking that the French knew
nothing about tea, and that a Frenchman's tea would be sure to prove an
Englishman's poison. So we resolved to suspend the pledge during our
visit to France.

"It was on the second day after our arrival in Paris. We were dining in
a private cabinet at Desire Beaurain's, one of the leading restaurants
on the fashionable side of the Montmartre--Italiens Boulevard. Our
dinner was what an Irishman might call a most 'illigant' affair. We had
sipped several bottles of Sauterne, and tasted a few of Tavel, and we
were just topping the entertainment with a solitary bottle of champagne,
when I became suddenly aware of the presence of another party in the
room--a _fourth man_--who sat him down at our table, and helped himself
liberally to our liquor. From what I ascertained afterward from Jack
Hobson and Emmanuel Topp, the intruder's presence became revealed to
them also, either about the same time or a little later. What was he
like? I cannot tell. His figure and face remained indistinct
throughout--phantom-like. His features seemed endowed with a stronge
weird mobility that would defyingly elude the fixing grasp of our eager
eyes. Now, and to my two companions, he would look marvellously like me;
then, to me, he would stalk and rave about in the likeness of Jack
Hobson; again, he would seem the counterfeit of Emmanuel Topp; then he
would look like all the three of us put together; then like neither of
us, nor like anybody else. Oh, s