ances. In any case he was
contemptible. It was certain, at all events, that neither he nor anyone
else could work miracles.

'I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Arthur. 'If he really knows Frank
Hurrell I'll find out all about him. I'll drop a note to Hurrell tonight
and ask him to tell me anything he can.'

'I wish you would,' answered Susie, 'because he interests me enormously.
There's no place like Paris for meeting queer folk. Sooner or later you
run across persons who believe in everything. There's no form of
religion, there's no eccentricity or enormity, that hasn't its votaries.
Just think what a privilege it is to come upon a man in the twentieth
century who honestly believes in the occult.'

'Since I have been occupied with these matters, I have come across
strange people,' said Dr Porhoet quietly, 'but I agree with Miss Boyd
that Oliver Haddo is the most extraordinary. For one thing, it is
impossible to know how much he really believes what he says. Is he an
impostor or a madman? Does he deceive himself, or is he laughing up his
sleeve at the folly of those who take him seriously? I cannot tell. All
I know is that he has travelled widely and is acquainted with many
tongues. He has a minute knowledge of alchemical literature, and there
is no book I have heard of, dealing with the black arts, which he does
not seem to know.' Dr Porhoet shook his head slowly. 'I should not care
to dogmatize about this man. I know I shall outrage the feelings of my
friend Arthur, but I am bound to confess it would not surprise me to
learn that he possessed powers by which he was able to do things
seemingly miraculous.'

Arthur was prevented from answering by their arrival at the Lion de
Belfort.

The fair was in full swing. The noise was deafening. Steam bands
thundered out the popular tunes of the moment, and to their din
merry-go-rounds were turning. At the door of booths men vociferously
importuned the passers-by to enter. From the shooting saloons came a
continual spatter of toy rifles. Linking up these sounds, were the voices
of the serried crowd that surged along the central avenue, and the
shuffle of their myriad feet. The night was lurid with acetylene torches,
which flamed with a dull unceasing roar. It was a curious sight, half
gay, half sordid. The throng seemed bent with a kind of savagery upon
amusement, as though, resentful of the weary round of daily labour, it
sought by a desperate effort to be merry.

The E