“I ran thither. Not a trace of a horse’s hoofs; not a single vestige of Ravalette’s footprints save one, and that one the fac-simile of the description formerly given. My own foot-marks were plain enough, but only the one other was to be found! Here the mystery grew thicker and thicker, nor could I see the first glimmer of a way to clear it up.

“Slowly and despondently, I retraced my steps toward Paris, taking care to inquire as I went, whether any person had seen two men on horseback go toward Charronne, Villette, Menilmontant, or through the Barrières. I might just as well not have asked.

“But the chapter of devilry was not yet concluded, for what subsequently took place actually threw all that had gone before it entirely in the shade. These things I will now relate, first premising my narrative.

“One day, about a week before I first spoke to Ravalette in the Louvre, I happened to be spending an afternoon in the Palais Royale, along with my friends the Barons di Corvaja and Du P——t, to both of whom I had taken letters from America. On the day alluded to, I met at D——’s room in the Rue Beaujolais, and then and there became acquainted with, an English gentleman of easy means and polished mind, by the name of Carr. This gentleman resided with his family in a splendid mansion in the Rue du Chemin Vert. After a long and interesting conversation, we parted, but not till Mr. Carr had cordially taken me by the hand, expressed a desire to maintain the acquaintance, and invited me to call on him at his residence in the Rue du Chemin Vert. I felt gratified at his frankness, and accepted his polite invitation. Mr. Carr named the day, and I agreed to go; and accordingly had spent the evening and took tea with him, his family and a few select guests, some five or six days before the eventful day, the achievement of which I have just recounted. The thing which I am about to narrate is not only strange, but in many respects horrible, and my mind is agitated to the last degree by the astounding occurrences—things which I beheld with my own eyes, felt with my own senses, realized with my own spirit; and yet I scarcely dare give credit to that which I am sensible cannot, could not have been an illusion. My soul is filled with wonder; and I hasten to give a true version of the affair while all is yet fresh and vivid before me; indeed, it will ever be so, till age shall numb my faculties.”

[CHAPTER IV.]
MURDER WILL OUT.

“The circumstances were, briefly, these:

“I attended, as before observed, the fête sociale, at the house of my friend Mr. Carr—Leonard Carr. The party was given in honor of a young literary friend of the family, who had recently gained great renown as a writer of fiction. To this young man I was introduced just before we all sat down to the festive board to partake of the many good things so bounteously set before us.

“After the repast was concluded we all adjourned to the parlor and entered into conversation. Topic after topic had been discussed, and at length the ‘Turning tables,’ then so rife in all parts of the world, and Paris especially, became the theme of observation and criticism.

“ ‘Bah!’ said Mrs. Carr, ‘I deem the whole thing silly, besides being one of the most contemptible humbugs ever ran after by a pack of silly people—I was going to say—fools: I am convinced there is really nothing in it, and that all this stuff about moving furniture, and ghosts, and other spectral gentry, is but the product of heated fancy, if not of heads and hearts devoid of truth, principle, and moral rectitude; stories got up for swindling purposes, and to gull that credulous pack of ninnies known as “The Public,”—and a precious set they are, to be sure! Who believes, for instance, a tithe of the reputed wonders of the famous American “Miracle Circle,” or that they are anything more than clever tricks played off by a set of waggish fellows on a gullible community of Yankees, having in view the ultimate object of exposing and exploding the whole so-called spiritual mysteries? I don’t, I’m sure.’

“Poor lady! She little dreamed under what cruel circumstances she was doomed so soon to verify the truth of the Latin motto,