ce he left. I am
hopeful for you this afternoon, Allen. I believe you are going to do
well. Come up and see me afterwards, if you will. I am going to my hotel
to lie down for half-an-hour. I am not really tired but I have no friend
here to talk with or anything to do, and it is a wise economy of the
human frame. To-night, mademoiselle will have returned. Just now every
one has deserted me. I will rest until six o'clock. Au revoir, friend
Allen! Au revoir!"

Selingman climbed the hill and entered the hotel where he was staying.
He mounted to his room, took off his coat, at which he glanced
admiringly for a moment and then hung up behind the door. Finally he
pulled down the blinds and lay down to rest. Very soon he was asleep....

The drowsy afternoon wore on. Through the open windows came the sound of
carriages driven along the dusty way, the shouts of the coachmen to
their horses, the jingling of bells, the hooting of motor horns. A lime
tree, whose leaves were stirred by the languorous breeze, kept tapping
against the window. From a further distance came the faint, muffled
voices of promenaders, and the echo of the guns from the Tir du Pigeons.
But through it all, Selingman, lying on his back and snoring loudly,
slept. He was awakened at last by the feeling that some one had entered
the room. He sat up and blinked.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed.

A man in the weird disguise of a motor-cyclist was standing at the foot
of the bed. Selingman continued to blink. He was not wholly awake and
his visitor's appearance was unpleasant.

"Who the devil are you?" he enquired.

The visitor took off his disfiguring spectacles.

"Jean Coulois--behold!" was the soft reply.

Selingman raised himself and slid off the bed. It had seemed rather like
a dream. He was wide-awake now, however.

"What do you want?" he asked. "What are you here for?"

Jean Coulois said nothing. Then very slowly from the inside pocket of
his coat he drew a newspaper parcel. It was long and narrow, and in
places there was a stain upon the paper. Selingman stared at it and
stared back at Jean Coulois.

"What the mischief have you got there?" he demanded.

Coulois touched the parcel with his yellow forefinger. Selingman saw
then that the stains were of blood.

"Give me a towel," his visitor directed. "I do not want this upon my
clothes."

Selingman took a towel from the stand and threw it across the room.

"You mean," he asked, dropping his voice a litt