"The only thing of interest," I continued, "in this banal story, sad, perhaps, for me alone, is that M. James Sandy Rose leaves an unpublished work which in his will he has charged me to bring out. I am going to do this...."
I threw a persuasive glance at the young journalist.
"It is one of the most curious books I have ever read, and, though the author was my familiar friend, it is a revelation to me...."
"Really?"
"It is indeed so. The public, without knowing what there is in the book, await it with impatience."
"Ah!"
"When you have read it, when you have merely seen it, you will agree with me."
This innocent advertisement was duly inserted in Le Temps and in Le Nouveau Courrier des Provinces, to which the old gentleman had been asked to contribute. I gained some moments of amusement, nothing more.
Here is the book, of course without commentaries. In accordance with the imperative requirements of the will, I have not corrected its style, but revised it where that was necessary, for Louis Delacolombe, educated in English, had retained some traces of his school-years in his language. I think that it was written as fast as the pen would move, and with a feverish hand, in the space of a few days.
I have summarised in a final note the results of my personal inquiry. There is no need to read it, but I think, however, that it will interest those whose curiosity is aroused by my friend's enigmatical narrative.