re hastily than did your aunt," he said. "She
called me an impostor; you think me a rogue and a swindler. Here are
your jewels, madam," he said, turning to Aunt Phoebe. "I shall be more
than satisfied if the result of this evening's experiment prove to you
that, as your poet says, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

"I don't understand it all," said Aunt Phoebe piteously, as she
mechanically took the morocco case into her hands.

"Don't try to do so now," I said. "You must come home with me as quickly
as you can;" for I was feverishly anxious to escape from this
house--from this man with this horrible, terrifying power.

He bowed silently to us as I hurried Aunt Phoebe out of the room; but
as I was going down the stairs an irresistible impulse came over me to
look back.

He was standing on the landing, politely holding the little lamp so that
we might see our way down the uneven, irregular stairs, and the light
fell upon his face. Was the expression I saw upon it one of triumph, or
one of defeated dishonesty? I could not say. Even now, though I have
thought it all over and over till my head has got dazed and confused, I
cannot make up my mind whether he had hoped, by means of his strange
mesmeric power, to obtain possession of the Anstruther diamonds--a
design only frustrated by my unlooked-for appearance--or whether his
action was altogether prompted by a determination to demonstrate and
vindicate the truth of the phenomena connected with his science.

Sometimes I lean to one view, sometimes to the other. I have now told
the facts of the case simply and without exaggeration just as they
occurred, and my readers must judge for themselves whether Dmitri
Sclamowsky was, in the matter of Aunt Phoebe's heirlooms, a
disappointed swindler or a triumphant enthusiast.

SAINT OR SATAN.

A story, strange as true--a story to the truth of which half the
inhabitants of the good city of Turin can bear testimony.

Have you ever been to Turin, by the way? To that city which reminds one
of nothing so much as a gigantic chess-board set down upon the banks of
the yellow river--that city with never-ending, straight streets, all
running at right angles to each other, and whose extremities frame in
delicious pictures of wooded hill or snow-capped Alp; whose inhabitants
recall the grace and courtesy of the Parisians, joined to a good spicing
of their wit and humour; whose diale