e! Here--all alone! What are you doing? Where have you come from?"

Her eyes full of tears, she stammered:

"My husband has just got lost!"

"Lost! Where?"

"On an omnibus."

"On an omnibus?"

Weeping, she told him her whole adventure.

He listened, thought, and then asked:

"Was his mind clear this morning?"

"Yes."

"Good. Did he have much money with him?"

"Yes, he was carrying my dowry."

"Your dowry! The whole of it?"

"The whole of it--in order to pay for the practice which he bought."

"Well, my dear cousin, by this time your husband must be well on his way
to Belgium."

She could not understand. She kept repeating:

"My husband--you say--"

"I say that he has disappeared with your--your capital--that's all!"

She stood there, a prey to conflicting emotions, sobbing.

"Then he is--he is--he is a villain!"

And, faint from excitement, she leaned her head on her cousin's shoulder
and wept.

As people were stopping to look at them, he pushed her gently into the
vestibule of his house, and, supporting her with his arm around her
waist, he led her up the stairs, and as his astonished servant opened
the door, he ordered:

"Sophie, run to the restaurant and get a luncheon for two. I am not
going to the office to-day."

THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

He was dead--the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate
whose irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France.
Advocates, young counsellors, judges had greeted him at sight of his
large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes, bowing
low in token of respect.

He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak.
Swindlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to
read the most secret thoughts of their minds.

He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and
followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red trousers had
escorted him to the tomb and men in white cravats had spoken words and
shed tears that seemed to be sincere beside his grave.

But here is the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk
where he had kept the records of great criminals! It was entitled: WHY?

20th June, 1851. I have just left court. I have condemned Blondel to
death! Now, why did this man kill his five children? Frequently one
meets with people to whom the destruction of life is a pleasure. Yes,
yes, it should be a pleasure, the greatest of a