et pen would fade, for it was a poor affair. This
photograph I will bring you to-morrow."

"Bring it to Burwell's house," I said.

* * * * *

The next morning the stranger called as agreed upon.

"Here is the photograph of the card," he said.

"And here is the original card," I answered, breaking the seal of the
envelope I had taken from Burwell's iron box. "I have waited for your
arrival to look at it. Yes, the writing has indeed vanished; the card
seems quite blank."

"Not when you hold it this way," said the stranger, and as he tipped the
card I saw such a horrid revelation as I can never forget. In an instant
I realized how the shock of seeing that card had been too great for the
soul of wife or friend to bear. In these pictures was the secret of a
cursed life. The resemblance to Burwell was unmistakable, the proof
against him was overwhelming. In looking upon that piece of pasteboard
the wife had seen a crime which the mother could never forgive, the
partner had seen a crime which the friend could never forgive. Think of
a loved face suddenly melting before your eyes into a grinning skull,
then into a mass of putrefaction, then into the ugliest fiend of hell,
leering at you, distorted with all the marks of vice and shame. That is
what I saw, that is what they had seen!

"Let us lay these two cards in the coffin," said my companion
impressively, "we have done what we could."

Eager to be rid of the hateful piece of pasteboard (for who could say
that the curse was not still clinging about it?), I took the strange
man's arm, and together we advanced into the adjoining room where the
body lay. I had seen Burwell as he breathed his last, and knew that
there had been a peaceful look on his face as he died. But now, as we
laid the two white cards on the still, breast, the savant suddenly
touched my arm, and pointing to the dead man's face, now frightfully
distorted, whispered:--"See, even in death It followed him. Let us close
the coffin quickly."

THE GREAT VALDEZ SAPPHIRE

(ANONYMOUS)

I know more about it than anyone else in the world, its present owner
not excepted. I can give its whole history, from the Cingalese who found
it, the Spanish adventurer who stole it, the cardinal who bought it, the
Pope who graciously accepted it, the favoured son of the Church who
received it, the gay and giddy duchess who pawned it, down to the
eminent prelate who now holds it in tru