e eyes."

And absorbed in these thoughts, Monsieur de Vargnes unfortunately allowed
several minutes to elapse, and then he thought to himself suddenly:

"No, I am not the sport of any hallucination, and this is no case of an
optical phenomenon. This man is evidently some terrible criminal, and I
have altogether failed in my duty in not arresting him myself at once,
illegally, even at the risk of my life."

The judge ran downstairs in pursuit of the doctor, but it was too late;
he had disappeared. In the afternoon, he called on Madame Frogere, to ask
her whether she could tell him anything about the matter. She, however,
did not know the negro doctor in the least, and was even able to assure
him that he was a fictitious personage, for, as she was well acquainted
with the upper classes in Haiti, she knew that the Academy of Medicine at
Port-au-Prince had no doctor of that name among its members. As Monsieur
de Vargnes persisted, and gave descriptions of the doctor, especially
mentioning his extraordinary eyes, Madame Frogere began to laugh, and
said:

"You have certainly had to do with a hoaxer, my dear Monsieur. The eyes
which you have described, are certainly those of a white man, and the
individual must have been painted."

On thinking it over, Monsieur de Vargnes remembered that the doctor had
nothing of the negro about him, but his black skin, his woolly hair and
beard, and his way of speaking, which was easily imitated, but nothing of
the negro, not even the characteristic, undulating walk. Perhaps, after
all, he was only a practical joker, and during the whole day, Monsieur de
Vargnes took refuge in that view, which rather wounded his dignity as a
man of consequence, but which appeased his scruples as a magistrate.

The next day, he received the promised letter, which was written, as well
as addressed, in letters cut out of the newspapers. It was as follows:

* * * * *

"MONSIEUR,--

"Doctor James Ferdinand does not exist, but the man whose eyes you saw
does, and you will certainly recognize his eyes. This man has committed
two crimes, for which he does not feel any remorse, but, as he is a
psychologist, he is afraid of some day yielding to the irresistible
temptation of confessing his crimes. You know better than anyone (and
that is your most powerful aid), with what imperious force criminals,
especially intellectual ones, feel this temptation. That great Poet,
Edgar Poe, h