anner on the frontier of Morocco--Jean Daspry and I returned
on foot through the dark, warm night. When we arrived in front of
the little house in which I had lived for a year at Neuilly, on the
boulevard Maillot, he said to me:

"Are you afraid?"

"What an idea!"

"But this house is so isolated.... no neighbors.... vacant lots....Really,
I am not a coward, and yet---"

"Well, you are very cheering, I must say."

"Oh! I say that as I would say anything else. The Saint-Martins have
impressed me with their stories of brigands and thieves."

We shook hands and said good-night. I took out my key and opened the
door.

"Well, that is good," I murmured, "Antoine has forgotten to light a
candle."

Then I recalled the fact that Antoine was away; I had given him a
short leave of absence. Forthwith, I was disagreeably oppressed by the
darkness and silence of the night. I ascended the stairs on tiptoe,
and reached my room as quickly as possible; then, contrary to my usual
habit, I turned the key and pushed the bolt.

The light of my candle restored my courage. Yet I was careful to take my
revolver from its case--a large, powerful weapon--and place it beside
my bed. That precaution completed my reassurance. I laid down and, as
usual, took a book from my night-table to read myself to sleep. Then I
received a great surprise. Instead of the paper-knife with which I had
marked my place on the preceding, I found an envelope, closed with
five seals of red wax. I seized it eagerly. It was addressed to me, and
marked: "Urgent."

A letter! A letter addressed to me! Who could have put it in that place?
Nervously, I tore open the envelope, and read:

"From the moment you open this letter, whatever happens, whatever you
may hear, do not move, do not utter one cry. Otherwise you are doomed."

I am not a coward, and, quite as well as another, I can face real
danger, or smile at the visionary perils of imagination. But, let me
repeat, I was in an anomalous condition of mind, with my nerves set on
edge by the events of the evening. Besides, was there not, in my present
situation, something startling and mysterious, calculated to disturb the
most courageous spirit?

My feverish fingers clutched the sheet of paper, and I read and re-read
those threatening words: "Do not move, do not utter one cry. Otherwise,
you are doomed."

"Nonsense!" I thought. "It is a joke; the work of some cheerful idiot."

I was about to laugh--a good loud