elapsed since the loss for me not to have heard something respecting the
MS., had it been found by anyone who knew how to make use of it.
Besides, I would defy the most clever reader of cryptography to master
my MS. without--Ah, Bah! where's the use of talking about it? Should not
you like some tobacco? Daylight's last tint has vanished, and there is a
chill air sweeping down from the hills."

As they left the window, Platzoff added: "One of the most annoying
features connected with my loss arises from the fact that all my labour
will have to be gone through again--and very tedious work it is. I am
now engaged on a second MS., which is, as nearly as I can make it, a
copy of the first one; and it is a task which must be done by myself
alone. To have even one confidant would be to stultify the whole affair.
Another glass of claret, and then I will introduce you to my sanctum."

The coloured man who had opened the door for Captain Ducie had been in
and out of the dining-room several times. He was evidently a favourite
servant. Platzoff had addressed him as Cleon, and Ducie had now a
question or two to ask concerning him.

Cleon was a mulatto, tall, agile and strong. Not bad-looking by any
means, but carrying with him unmistakable traces of the negro blood in
his veins. His hair was that of a genuine African--crisp and black, and
was one mass of short curls; but except for a certain fulness of the
lips his features were of the ordinary Caucasian type. He wore no beard,
but a thin, straight line of black moustache. His complexion was yellow,
but a different yellow from that of his master--dusky, passionate,
lava-like; suggestive of fiery depths below. His eyes, too, glowed with
a smothered fire that seemed as if it might blaze out at any moment, and
there was in them an expression of snake-like treachery that made