tances
in connection with that name which helped to fix it in your memory?"

"There were certain circumstances," the doctor admitted, "which made it
a name that I am unlikely to forget."

"Unpleasant circumstances?" queried Monsieur Dupont.

"The most unpleasant that have ever occurred to me in the whole length
of my practice."

"It is for that story," said Monsieur Dupont, "that I have come to ask.
May I beg all the details that you can recall?"

"Perhaps you will first tell me," the doctor returned, "for what purpose
you require this information?"

"I require it," Monsieur Dupont replied impressively, "to save the life
of an innocent man, who is wrongly accused of the crime of murder. I
require it also prove three deaths, and possibly to prevent another
three."

Again the doctor started. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

"Three deaths?" he exclaimed sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Three deaths," repeated Monsieur Dupont. "Of three very beautiful
women."

The doctor sprang to his feet.

"My God!" he cried hoarsely.

"Will you tell me the story?" said Monsieur Dupont.

Doctor Lessing sat down again in his chair. He was considerably shaken.
He leant back and closed his eyes, remaining silent for a few moments.

"I think," he began at last, "that I can, at all events, remember the
chief facts of the case. It was such a remarkable and distressing one
that it stands out in the annals of such a peaceful spot as this, and it
has therefore remained in my memory, though so much else has faded. But
you must make allowances for the flight of time. Look out of the window
to the left, and you will see a large red house, on the slope of the
hill."

"I see it," said Monsieur Dupont, following the direction.

"That was Oscar Winslowe's house, forty years ago. Winslowe was an
unprincipled and dissolute man. He was only about twenty-five or six at
that time, but already he was sodden with drink, drugs, and vice of
every description. He was the worst kind of blackguard. But his wife was
the exact opposite to him, a gentle, delicate girl. She was not
beautiful, but her nature more than compensated for lack of beauty. He
had married her for her money, and treated her abominably. I became
friendly with her, partly because of the pity I felt for her on account
of his treatment, and partly because I sincerely admired the beauty of
her character. In consequence of that friendship, I undertook to watch
over her entry