he most grotesque and
startling devices. The windows, long, narrow, and pointed, with
trellised panes, were at so great a height from the ground that the
light was limited, and whilst certain spots were illuminated, many of
the remoter angles and recesses were left in total darkness. Monsieur
Paul Nicholas did not attempt to explore. At each step he took he fully
anticipated a something, too dreadful to imagine, would spring out on
him. The rustling of drapery and the rattling of phantasmagoric armorial
trophies, in response to the vibration of their footsteps, made his hair
stand on end, and he was reduced to a state of the most abject terror
long before they arrived at their destination.

At last he was ushered into a small, bare, dimly lighted room. From the
centre of the ceiling was suspended an oil lamp, and immediately under
it was a marble table. Walls and floor were composed of rough uncovered
granite. The atmosphere was fetid, and tainted with the same peculiar,
pungent odour noticeable outside.

"This is the room," Mlle de Nurrez said. "Prince Dajarah will be here in
a minute. Have you your pistol ready?"

"Yes, see!" and Paul Nicholas pulled it out from his coat-pocket and
showed it her.

"Have you any other weapons?" she asked, examining it curiously.

"Yes, a sheath-knife," Paul Nicholas replied a trifle nervously.

"Let me look at it," Mlle de Nurrez exclaimed. "I have a weakness for
knives--a rather uncommon trait in a woman, isn't it?"

He handed it to her, and she fingered the blade cautiously. Then with a
sudden movement she leaped away from him.

"Fool!" she cried. "Do you think I could ever love a man as fat as you?
The story I told you was a lie from beginning to end. I don't remember
either of my parents--my mother ran away from home when I was two, and
my father died the following year. I married entirely of my own free
will--married the man I loved, and he--happened to be a werwolf!"

"A werwolf!" Paul Nicholas shrieked. "God help me! I thought there were
no such things!"

"Not in France, perhaps," Mlle de Nurrez said derisively; "but in Spain,
in the Pyrenees, many! At certain times of the year my husband won't
touch animal food, and if I didn't procure him human flesh he would die
of starvation, or in sheer despair eat me. Here he is."

And as she spoke the door opened, and on the threshold stood a
singularly handsome young man clad in the gay uniform of a Carlist
general.

"Capi