talker, but he is a little slow. Thus it is, _mon cher_
Errington. This gentleman named Gueldmar had a most lovely wife--a
mysterious lady, with an evident secret. The beautiful one was never
seen in the church or in any town or village; she was met sometimes on
hills, by rivers, in valleys, carrying her child in her arms. The people
grew afraid of her; but, now, see what happens! Suddenly, she appears no
more; some one ventures to ask this Monsieur Gueldmar, 'What has become
of Madame?' His answer is brief. 'She is dead!' Satisfactory so far, yet
not quite; for, Madame being dead, then what has become of the corpse of
Madame? It was never seen,--no coffin was ever ordered,--and apparently
it was never buried! _Bien!_ What follows? The good people of Bosekop
draw the only conclusion possible--Monsieur Gueldmar, who is said to have
a terrific temper, killed Madame and made away with her body. _Voila_!"

And Duprez waved his hand with an air of entire satisfaction.

Errington's brow grew sombre. "This is the story, is it?" he asked at
last.

"It is enough, is it not?" laughed Duprez. "But, after all, what matter?
It will be novel to dine with a mur--"

"Stop!" said Philip fiercely, with so much authority that the sparkling
Pierre was startled. "Call no man by such a name till you know he
deserves it. If Gueldmar was suspected, as you say, why didn't somebody
arrest him on the charge?"

"Because, ye see," replied Macfarlane, "there was not sufficient proof
to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, the actual meenister of the
parish declared it was a' richt, an' said this Gueldmar was a mon o' vera
queer notions, an' maybe, had buried his wife wi' certain ceremonies
peculiar to himself--What's wrong wi' ye now?"

For a light had flashed on Errington's mind, and with the quick
comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. He laughed.

"That's very likely," he said; "Mr. Gueldmar is a character. He follows
the faith of Odin, and not even Dyceworthy can convert him to
Christianity."

Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity.

"Mon!" he exclaimed, "ye never mean to say there's an actual puir human
creature that in this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours,
is so far misguidit as to worship the fearfu' gods o' the Scandinavian
meethology?"

"Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, but it's true enough!
Old Gueldmar is an Odinite. In this blessed, enlightened nineteenth
century of