it myself that I wrote it out and sent it to
Professor Flammarion, who was just then making a study of the Unknown,
which he preserved in his later book 'L'Inconnu.'

"The occupying myself with the story brought my mind around again to
memories of Lucien. One day, I saw a notice in _Le Figaro_ to the
effect that his book, 'The Force of the Wind,' had appeared in a
second large edition, and had aroused much attention, particularly in
spiritualistic circles. I seemed to see him again before me, with his
long nervous neck, which was so expressive. The vision of this neck
rose up before me whenever I drank the same sort of whisky that I had
drunk so often with him, and the longing to hear something more of my
lost friend came over me. I sat down one evening when in a sentimental
mood, and wrote to him, asking him to tell me something of himself and
to send me his book.

"A week later I received the little book and the following letter
which I have here in my pocket. It is somewhat crumpled, for I have
read it several times. But no matter. I will read it to you now, if
you will pardon my awkward translating of the French original.

"Here it is:

"DEAR FRIEND:

"Many thanks for your letter. Here is the book. I have to thank you
also that you did not lay my behavior of your last days in Paris up
against me. It must have seemed strange to you. I will try to explain
it.

"I have been nervous from childhood. The fact that most of my books
have treated of fantastic subjects,--somewhat in the manner of Edgar
Allan Poe--has made me more susceptible for all that world which lies
beyond and about the world of every-day life. I have sought
after,--and yet feared--the mystical; cool and lucid as I can be at
times, I have always had an inclination for the enigmatical, the
Unknown.

"But the first thing that ever happened in my life that I could not
explain or understand was the affair of the manuscript. You remember
the day I stood in your room? I must have looked the picture of
misery. The affair had played more havoc with my nerves than you can
very well understand. Your mockery hurt me, and yet under all I felt
ashamed of my own thoughts concerning this foolish occurrence. I could
not explain the phenomenon, and I shivered at the things that it
suggested to me. In this condition, which lasted several weeks, I
could not bear to see you or anyone else, and I was impolite enough
even to leave your letter unanswered.

"The boo