he ghostly face
reflected in the glass. For there, there was the same pallid
countenance, death-distorted and drawn, which I had conjured up in many
a frightened dream as that of the murdered Count--there was Henri
d'Artin.

How long I stood transfixed, pointing into the mirror, I know not. As
men think of trifles even in times of deadly fear, so did my lips frame
over and over again the last question I had in mind before all sense
forsook me, "Where is the last d'Artin? Where is the last d'Artin?
Where--?"

And in answer to my question, that long, rigid finger pointed _directly
at me_ from out the dusty glass. It was as if the hand of the dead had
told me who I was.

It had been no blind chance, then, which led me to the Paris house of
the "Black Wolf's Head;" the girl's ring with the same device, and the
grewsome narrative beneath the shadow of the Wolf at the Norman
ruin--nothing less than fate had brought these lights to me.

Verily some more logical power than unreasoning accident must direct
the steps of men. A God of justice perhaps had placed these tokens in
my path. And soldiers call this "Fortune."

* * * * * *

I dispatched Pachaco to Biloxi with the news of death, and long before
the afternoon our few simple arrangements for his funeral had been made.

"Bury me here, Placide, beneath this great oak," he had said to me one
day. "The Infinite Mercy will consecrate the grave of penitence,
wherever it may be."

He had his wish.

[1] These documents have been included in an appendix to this volume.

[2] A very slight investigation showed that this last named Francois
Rene Alois de Pasquier was none other than my own good father, who
assumed the name de Mouret to avoid the consequences of a fatal duel in
France. This I learned from the pious Cure of St. Martin's, who knew
him well.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A NOTE WHICH WENT ASTRAY.

Meanwhile Jacques had undertaken to manage my little affair at Biloxi
with tact and discretion. And this is how the fellow did it:

It seems that Jacques thought no harm of the note, and when he took it
first to the house my lady was out. The honest fellow, doing his best
to carry out my instructions, refused to leave it. When he returned,
my lady worked, bent down amongst her flowers, in the little garden
beside their cottage. The Chevalier stood some distance off, busied
someway, Jacques knew not how, but with his face t