Chapter IX: The Quest of the Beautiful

It is unfortunate that, with a physical appearance so repellent that it is wont to inspire dislike before others of my attributes are known, I should be further handicapped at the beginning of my narrative by the fact that every reference made to me by those whose stories have preceded mine has seemed to invest me with a malevolent influence.

Profoundly interested as I have been in the adventures which we have heard described on the Barge of Haunted Lives, you readily will understand that it was inevitable that the story of the Hypochondriacal Painter should impress me most, because of its exposition of the theory that human features owe their contour to the quality and activity of the human mind. Though the Painter, dedicating all those years to its demonstration, appears to have been the first to attempt to endow man with the physical attributes of divinity, the theory long has been accepted as a fact by physiognomists.

It does not require the discernment of a carefully trained observer to find in the portraits of famous men the expression of those qualities which made their work distinctive. How strangely like, in their suggestiveness of that mental power that finds expression in analysis, are the features of Michelangelo and Auguste Rodin! Who would look upon the pictures we have of Newton, William Blake and Swedenborg without knowing they were ever peering into the rumbling depths or up at the mist-enshrouded altitudes of the infinite? Who would find aught but the spirit of a conqueror behind the visages of Caesar, William of Normandy, Richard I, Peter the Great and Napoleon? In the faces of Scott, Byron, Tennyson, Mozart, Chopin and Beethoven how simple it is for us to see and identify their temperamental differences in the fields of poetry and music, but when we come to look upon those of Carlyle and Schopenhauer can we be blind to that which they express--that hopelessness which comes to men, who, having sunk their ideals in the turbid current of materialism, recognize only the follies and sorrows of our world?

When we think upon all this, it would seem, my friends, that it is a law of Nature that physical and mental grace must go hand in hand, and, indeed, careful observation will assure us that, so far as men are concerned, physiognomy, in nine cases out of ten, is a fairly true index of character. As indicative of feminine qualities, however, it means little, for well we know that the fairest women often are the most faithless, unreasoning and immoral. And Nature, itself, is as changing in its moods as is a woman. Ever mocking its own masterpieces, it creates only that it may destroy. At times it seems to exult over its own contradictions. It makes jests of its own laws, which men have been wont to regard as immutable. Its sweetest songs come from the throats of the most insignificant birds. Its rainbows are the products of storms. Its precious stones are found embedded in hoary rocks, which men must blast with gunpowder in order that sunlight may reveal the beauty of the gems. Less often to the stately mansions of the rich than to the wretched hovels of the poor does genius come to breathe her fire into the soul of the youth who is destined to yield to men some of the treasured knowledge of the gods.

Shakespeare has said “Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like a toad, ugly and venomous, hath yet a precious jewel in its head.” And, my friends, though Nature, in a mischievous mood, did fashion me in a mould that made me scarcely less repulsive than adversity or a toad, it gave to me such a jewel as that of which Shakespeare spoke. It is because of my possession of this, as you shall see, that the world has seemed very fair to me, and my life well worth the living.

Despite the fact that my grotesque face has caused me to be regarded as a monstrosity, my father and mother were noted for their physical graces. Why I should have come into the world with such a terrible visage not even men of science have been able to understand. But, from the moment of my birth, in a small city in France, my mother, fond as she was of her other children, found the sight of me so hateful that she scarcely could be brought to look upon me.

Before I was a year old I was committed to the care of a peasant and his wife, who lived many miles from the chateau in which I was born. I remained there for the first eight years of my life, then I was sent to a school near Tours. There the ridicule to which I was subjected by reason of my grotesque appearance became so unbearable that I fled. I soon was overtaken, however, and my parents caused a tutor and his wife to be installed in a cottage that was situated in the heart of an old French forest. There I remained until I was twenty years of age. Then, for the first time in many years, I saw my father. He stayed with me only a few minutes, during which time my future was discussed. My father told me that if I would consent to assume the name of Leon Grenault, and never reveal my relationship with my family, I would receive an income of ten thousand dollars a year. I accepted the condition, and, bidding farewell to my kind old tutor and his wife, I set out for Italy. Since then I have been an indefatigable traveller, but not until recently did I make my first visit to the United States.

I have said that, in fashioning me so unkindly, Nature gave to me something that was akin to the mythical jewel in the head of the repulsive toad. It is a sense of beauty. Since my early childhood I have been an inordinate lover of all that is beautiful. With me the search for the most beautiful faces, landscapes, flowers, gems, porcelains, pictures and poems has constituted the dominant purpose of my life. I will not pause to tell you to what absurd lengths my searches often took me, and what insupportable burdens of ridicule they have laid on my shoulders. There was nothing that was beautiful that did not charm me. There were many beautiful things for which I gladly would have sacrificed my life, merely to look upon.

With features so forbidding that all human beings shrink from me instinctively, I move among things of earth as the fallen angel moved among the shades of Paradise. The angel knew the reason of his fall, but what heinous sin I committed in some former period of existence, and for which I should be punished so cruelly, I know not. The sight of human happiness thrills me with sympathetic pleasure, while the suffering and sorrows of others drive me, sometimes, almost to madness, and I shrink from them as did Mephistopheles from the upraised cross. Incapable of inspiring affection in the breast of man, woman or child, it has seemed to me that I have craved love more than any creature of the earth. Only in my dreams does love come to me--from my mother, from laughing children and--another. When I wake it is to seek things that are beautiful.

And it was in this quest for the beautiful that I found myself one day in Constantinople. It matters not to others what particular object it was that led me there, but, one day, while I was sitting in my room in a hotel, I was informed that Glyncamp, an American mind-reader, had called to see me. As no man or woman ever before had expressed a desire to see me privately on other than business matters my surprise took the form of curiosity. Accordingly, I sent word to Glyncamp that I would see him.

My visitor greeted me cordially as he entered the room, and, frankly and without embarassment, he told me that, having observed me as I was passing along a street, he had been so impressed by my strange physical appearance that he desired to learn something of my mental qualities. I took the explanation in good part, and from that hour the remarkable American and I were friends. His vast store of learning filled me with even more wonder than did that mysterious power which enabled him to read the thoughts of human minds.

One day, while we were chatting together, Glyncamp asked me what was the dominant purpose of my life. I replied:

“When I have seen the most handsome man, the most beautiful woman and the most wonderful gem that the earth now holds, I shall die content.”

Glyncamp laughed quietly.

“In that case you may prepare to die within the next two years, for I think I shall then be in a position to show all these to you,” he said.

I looked at him incredulously.

“You have seen them?” I asked wondering.

“I have seen the woman,” he replied, “and I know where, hidden in a wonderful valley, the man may be found--a man so handsome that he is said to believe himself a god. But the gem of which I speak, I have not seen. It soon will be mine, however.”

“How did you come by this knowledge?” I asked.

The American looked at me sharply.

“That, my friend, is my affair,” he answered, curtly.

Perceiving that I had been indiscreet, I apologized for the rudeness of my question. It pleased him to make light of the matter, however; then, suddenly, a look of gravity overspread his features.

“Would you take a journey to see this wonderful man?” he asked.

“I would travel around the world to see such a man,” I replied enthusiastically.

“You would go to the United States.”

“Yes.”

“And report to me concerning what you saw?”

“Yes, yes.”

He told me, then, that once, while he was testing his skill on an old painter, who had ridiculed his pretensions, he had learned his secret.

“Follow Nathan Bonfield when he goes into a great range of mountains, and he will lead you to the place where he guards his secret so jealously,” Glyncamp explained. “But in no circumstances must Bonfield know that he is followed. If he were to discover you, it is more than probable that you would meet with a serious misadventure. Take with you a camera, and if you return to me with photographs of this remarkable young man, I will give to you the opportunity of seeing the most beautiful young woman who is on our earth to-day.”

I accepted the conditions, and two days later I was on my way to the United States. Greatly to my surprise, Glyncamp offered to pay the expenses of my journey in the event of my proving successful in my quest.

Upon arriving in the United States, I had considerable difficulty in locating the strange old artist, but, at last, I succeeded in discovering his haunts. Then I found the house in which he had his room. At length came a day when, having followed him, as I had done on several former occasions, I saw him enter the Grand Central Station. He was about to travel without luggage. So would I.

I boarded the train without a ticket, for, as yet, I had not the slightest idea what my destination was to be. I took a seat behind the car which Bonfield had entered, and it was while I was looking out of the window to assure myself that the painter was not leaving the car that I beheld, for the first time, the young woman whose beauty was destined to have such an important influence on my life. She, too, boarded the train--she and her escort entering the second car ahead of me.

I was now confronted by the greatest dilemma I ever had faced in my life. Should I follow the painter or the young woman?

I decided to follow the woman.

In the course of that long journey to the mountains I saw the young woman four times. Twice she and her escort left the train and took another. I, unobserved, did likewise, and on each occasion I was amazed to find that the painter made similar changes.

At last the young woman and the man who was with her alighted at a way station. I saw that buckboards were in waiting to take them and their luggage away, and, satisfied that I would have little difficulty in tracing them in the event of my return in the course of twenty-four hours, I remained on the train to follow the painter. At the next station he, too, alighted. Here no vehicle of any description was in waiting, and from Bonfield’s actions it soon became apparent that he expected none. Still wearing the same garments in which he had left New York, he entered the wilderness with all the assurance of a sturdy mountaineer. Once I saw him halt to fashion a stout stick into a staff, then, with this in his hands, he continued on his way.

Hour after hour I followed him, passing through one valley after another. Twice or thrice he turned to look behind him, but I kept myself concealed from his view.

At last, however, more than an hour after the evening shadows began to fall, we entered that strange mountain fastness that has been described to you--Deadwood Valley--and I knew by the action of the old painter that our journey was well-nigh done. Removing his hat, he wiped his forehead, then, placing his fingers to his mouth, he emitted a series of long, shrill whistles. These evoked from the other end of the valley sounds which were so similar that I fancied at first that they were only echoes of those I had heard before. The old man now resumed his journey with quickened steps. As I made my way along the narrow path and among the thick brush, I started as, moving around a great boulder that lay at the foot of the mountainside, I found myself within thirty paces of him. He was standing still, and it was apparent that he had decided to await there the coming of the man who had answered his signals. Moving stealthily nearer, I crouched down among the stones.

I had not long to wait, for scarcely five minutes passed before I heard the sounds of low voices, the swishing of branches and the snapping of twigs. Then, overcome by wonder and delight, I half rose and was about to utter an expression of admiration when I realized my danger and restrained my emotions.

The mysterious young man whom I had come so many thousand miles to see was before me. Glyncamp was right. There could not have been a more splendid type of manhood in all the world!

If I had expected to see any demonstration of affection between this remarkable young man and the patriarch who had made this long journey to see him, I was disappointed. The painter saluted the younger man with marked respect. The intelligent features of the newcomer lightened for a moment, but neither by a bow nor the offer of a hand did he bid the graybeard welcome.

“I had not expected you so soon, Nathan,” was all he said.

Then, as the two walked off together, I saw that an Indian was following them. At last they came to the door of a cavern through which they passed from my view.

Such, then, was my first view of Rayon Demain.

Having carefully noted the entrance to the cavern, and taken a view of the valley in order that I might carry certain landmarks in my mind, I set out again for the railroad. I was in no danger of losing my way, for it lay along a watercourse for a considerable distance, and, while I had been following the painter, I carefully noted in a memoranda book the position of landmarks that would serve for my future guidance.

By this time night had closed in on the wilderness, and, after going a little way, I lost the narrow path. I spent several minutes seeking it and, when I found it, I decided to wait until moonrise before proceeding further.

But by the time the moon rose I altered my purpose. Though I came to the mountains without luggage, I had with me a pocket camera. I now decided that I would spend the following day in this valley and accomplish the purpose that had led me thither, before I undertook the task of finding the beautiful young woman I had seen on the train. I reflected that people do not make long journeys to mountainous districts to remain for only a few days, and there was little doubt that I would be as well able to trace the young woman two days hence as I would be to-morrow.

Accordingly, when the light of the moon streamed into the valley, I approached the cavern cautiously, then passed it and made my way along the shore of the lake to where the waters narrowed.

Heaven guided my steps that night, for, fatigued as I was, I walked on and on, vainly seeking something that would afford me shelter. And so, at last, I came to another valley.

Ah, how can I describe the sensations that overcame me as I beheld that vast moonlighted Paradise? But one who was quite as appreciative as I, and far more eloquent, has pictured its glories to you, so I will not weary you with my impressions. The names of these two valleys were, of course, unknown to me, so I called one the Valley of the Perfect Man, and the other the Valley of the Garden.

For nearly an hour, as I gazed upon the magnificent prospect that lay before me, I forgot my fatigue, and the very thought of sleep in the presence of so much beauty seemed impious. On and on I walked along the shore, now and then crossing, on stepping stones, little brooks whose murmurs seemed to be hymned eulogies of the loveliness around me.

At length, however, I stopped abruptly. Stealing softly to me through the forest-odored air came the sweet notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnes. For two or three minutes they held me spellbound, then all was still. My heart was beating wildly. Had I been dreaming? Had the notes I heard been the sighing of the nightwinds and the singing of the brooks that had echoed in the composer’s fancy in the hour in which he had committed to paper that sweet, spirit-haunting air?

But, as I strode quickly onward, I knew that my senses had not deceived me. Before me rose the dark, shadowy outlines of a house that was constructed of roughly hewn forest logs. Glints of lamplight around the lowered shades indicated that within those walls were persons, happier than I, who had been watching the musician while the notes were stealing from the piano to where I stood listening in the forest.

For several minutes I halted and looked around me. I saw a stable and other outbuildings in the clearing, and, faintly outlined on the lake shore, were several small boats. Then, retreating into the woodland shadows, I listened expectantly. But from the house there came no sound. At last the glints of lights disappeared from the windows, and I knew that the occupants of the house had retired for the night.

In the forest fringe, just beyond the clearing, was a large, three-walled shed in which were standing several pieces of farm machinery and a covered wagon. On the seat of the wagon was a folded blanket. Here was the shelter I sought.

The open front of the shed faced the lake, and, having unfolded the blanket, I was preparing to wrap it around me and lie down on the bottom of the wagon, when I turned for a last look at the beautiful moonlit waters.

Once more I was on the point of turning away from the enchanting scene when something moving on the lake caught my eye. Then I saw it was a canoe which was slowly approaching the beach. Crouching low in the wagon, I watched the little craft curiously. I saw it held only one person.

As the bow of the canoe touched the shore, its occupant leaped out and drew the boat up on the beach. This done, he stole noiselessly toward the house.

It was the Indian I had seen in the Valley of the Perfect Man!

Moving stealthily toward the darkened log-house, he tried the door. I saw him retreat from this, and then disappear in the shadow. Two or three minutes passed before he reappeared. Now he strode quickly to where he had left his canoe on the beach. Thrusting this back into the water, he leaped lightly aboard and seized his paddle. A few moments later boat and boatman had disappeared in the shadow cast over the water by a thick cluster of trees. So noiseless and stealthy had been his movements that, at times, one might have fancied that he was nothing more than the shadow of some great bird flying overhead.

This mysterious visit excited within me a feeling of uneasiness, and I watched for nearly half an hour longer, then, yielding at last to the fatigue of the day, I folded the blanket around me, and, lying down on the wagon floor, I slept.

I was awake at dawn, and, fearing discovery, I carefully refolded the blanket, and, after returning it to the seat on which I had found it, I left the shed. A healthy appetite was now beginning to assert itself, but curiosity still held me to the place. I was resolved to see something of the occupants of the log-house before I turned my back upon it, for I knew that it was no ordinary musician whose hands had swept those piano keys while the notes of that wonderful nocturne were floating out to mingle with the forest airs. The thought had come to me that, perhaps, here I would find the woman I sought. Accordingly, I took my station in a leafy covert and waited.

My patience was at length rewarded. Something white appeared suddenly between the curtains of an open window. My blood leaped exultantly in my veins, and my eyes were almost dazzled by the fairest sight they ever had looked upon.

Before me, clad in the snowy, lace-trimmed gown that she had worn during the night, was the young woman whose beauty had enchanted me on the day before. The darkness of the night still lingered in the great, luxuriant mass of flowing hair, but on her face and in her eyes were reflected all the glowing splendors of the dawn. And, as I watched her, the house in which she stood assumed the aspect of a shrine around which sweet odors, whispering winds and the feathered singers of the forest were paying homage to their divinity.

Was Glyncamp wrong when he told me that he had seen the most beautiful woman in the world? Or was it possible that he indeed had seen the woman on whom I was gazing now?

For two or three minutes the fair creature stood at the window, looking at forest, lake and turquoise sky. Then she disappeared, and I, overwhelmed and intoxicated by her wondrous beauty, rose, turned and went staggering like a drunkard through the forest.

This, then, was the beginning of that love which so suddenly came to me and lighted all the candles in the gloomy hall of my life. Before, like a prisoner in a cell, I had been groping at each beautiful ray that had filtered in through my barred windows, but now--now I was blinded by an effulgence that was more dazzling than the noonday sun.

On and on I strode until I came to a mountain trail, which, it was plain, led from the log-house in the Valley of the Garden. I had no thought of hunger now, and I travelled quickly, only pausing occasionally to drink at some laughing mountain brook. Leaving the log-house further and further behind me, I did not doubt that the trail I was following would bring me at last to the station at which I had seen the young woman and her escort alight from the train the preceding day.

My surmise proved to be correct, but, as I drew near the little village in which the station was situated, I hesitated. My face always had inspired fear and distrust among country people, and I asked myself whether it was wise for me to show myself at a place to which occupants of the log-house must come for their supplies. I did not want it known that there was a man of my appearance in the neighborhood, for, in such circumstances, all my movements would be carefully watched, and, without doubt, false stories concerning me would be circulated by superstitious persons who would suspect that I was none other than the devil himself.

I remembered that the next mountain hamlet was about ten miles further down the railway line, so, skirting the little village, I directed my steps to the station below.

Arriving at last at my destination, I disregarded the expressions of horror on the faces of the persons I met, and, after enjoying a hearty meal, I purchased a couple of mules, a kit of tools, firearms, fishing tackle, a compass and enough provisions to last me for a week. These purchases I made into stout packs and placed on the mules, then, with a dull-looking Swedish boy who, for a generous sum, found it possible to forgive the physical abnormalities of his new master, I followed a trail which, for a considerable distance, ran parallel with the railway.

By nightfall I had found a site for my camp--in the wilderness about a mile north of the log-house, and a half a mile from the path that led from the Valley of the Perfect Man to the Valley of the Garden.

Carl, my boy, soon learned that I was not nearly so bad as Nature had painted me, and, after that difficulty was overcome, it was not long before I felt that I had his confidence.

A shack soon was constructed, but the first night the boy occupied it alone. Directing my steps again to the log-house, I took a station in the covert from which I had observed the beautiful stranger in the morning.

The action of the Indian on the night before had excited my distrust, and now that I knew whose safety might be menaced by anyone who had evil designs on the house or its occupants, I resolved to watch the place while it was otherwise unguarded.

The night passed without adventure, but, when morning dawned, I saw the young woman appear again at the window as I had seen her before. Now, however, I remained in my place of concealment, and later I saw her, clad in a dainty morning dress, step out into the clearing. I watched her while one of the menservants taught her how to handle the paddle of a canoe. In the afternoon I followed her as she walked along the beach or through the leafy aisles of the forest. But the man who had come with her to the mountains I did not see, and I wondered whether he was her brother or her husband.

Once I heard an elderly woman call to her--addressing her as “Paula.” The servants addressed her as “Miss.” But why should I, who was so afflicted with the most hideous human features in all the world, exult to find that she still was unwed?

Night after night I kept vigil near the log-house, and once, waxing bold, I pinned some verses to one of her windows. Ah, how can I describe the sensations that overwhelmed me when I saw her take them from the envelope--when a rush of color came to her face, and a bright, wondering light slowly kindled in her eyes. Then, as I watched her closely, I saw she was not offended, and I wondered who it was she thought had written the lines.

I saw her leave the house a little more than an hour afterward, and enter her canoe, and my gaze followed her as, in the gleaming little craft, she glided over the waters of the lake. But when the canoe was headed for the northern shore my heart grew cold. Did she suspect the mystery that lurked amid the awe-inspiring shades of the Valley of the Perfect Man?

Then, with a rapidly beating heart, I ran along the shore, and, as I ran, I saw the canoe enter the stream that flowed through the mountain pass.

Before I succeeded in getting to this stream the storm broke. Strong as I am physically, the vigor of this baffled me. Blinded by lightning, battered by rain, deafened by thunder, and blocked by brooks, which, overflowing their banks, had become fiercely whirling torrents, my strength was spent at last, and I sought refuge between two rocks under a widespreading tree.

When the storm subsided, I saw two men leave the log-house and put out in a boat. That these were menservants starting in search for the young woman was plain. The water was still too rough for the task they had undertaken, however, and before the boat was a hundred yards from the shore it was overturned. The men succeeded in swimming ashore.

I now continued on my way to the upper valley, and, in time, I arrived at the mountain pass. There I beheld the object of my search, but, loth to see her recoil from me, I did not reveal myself to her eyes. I resolved to watch her until the men from the log-house should succeed in getting to her.

At length, when twilight fell, I saw her move forward. Then, in the most wonderful voice I had ever heard, she sang to a beautiful air the words of the verses I had pinned to her window curtain in the morning, and I knew that it was to me--the unknown writer--that she sang.

And now, for the first time, the idea came to me that perhaps, after all, I might devise some means of making this wonderful woman mine--that we might love in spirit, as the angels love. I knew, however, that this would be impossible if she were to see me.

Scarcely had this thought taken form in my mind when I observed that the mysterious young man of the upper valley had approached and was watching the singer.

All of the strange words and scenes which followed were heard and witnessed by me. When the young woman was again alone, I spoke to her, and, unseen, I took her across the lake in the manner she has related.

The next day I left the valley behind me and secured the services of a clergyman who lived in a distant town. In the night shadows of the wilderness, Paula Trevison became my wife.

I was resolved that, from that moment, only in spirit should we meet. I would write to her and talk with her at times when she would be unable to see me. Taking advantage of her Eastern superstitions, I would make her believe that I was a spirit bridegroom.

Thus far all had gone well, but, in less than five minutes after the conclusion of the ceremony, my dream fabric began to totter. My boy had just set off on muleback with the clergyman, when, from the direction of the log-house came the sounds of firearms. My heart seemed to leap to my throat, and a great fear held me spellbound. Then, from the brushwood rushed the figure of a man. For only a moment did I see his face in the moonlight.

It was Rayon Demain!

I hurried after him, and thus came to the log-house.

Many of the incidents that followed already have been described to you. Rayon acted like a frenzied demon. I dragged from the burning log-house the woman he had hurled into it, and I smote him down when he attacked the young woman who was now my wife. But those whom I served shrank from me appalled. Among them I had no friend. Then Rayon and I met for a second time. We grappled and fought--Hyperion with a satyr, and the satyr once more triumphed. Rayon again lay at my feet. I could have killed him then, but who was I that I should reduce to senseless dust that masterpiece of nature?

While I hesitated, Rayon rose suddenly to one of his elbows. Then he levelled a revolver at me, and fired. The ball entered my chest, and I fell.

I did not lose consciousness, but a great numbness overspread my body and I felt half-dazed. I forgot what had happened, and, rising, I went stumbling through the forest. Instinct led me to the shack. Two days before, I had caused my boy to purchase a third mule, for one of the others had gone lame. I mounted the lame one now, and rode along the trail to the railway. There I boarded the way car of a freight train, and fell unconscious on the floor.

When my senses returned to me I was in a comfortably furnished bungalow which, I soon learned, was the Summer home of a New York physician--thirty miles distant from Deadwood Valley. I told my host I had been shot accidentally by a friend who doubtless had mistaken me for a deer.

Three weeks later I was in New York. There, after many unsuccessful efforts, I learned that Miss Trevison had gone to Europe.

In her confession to me on the lake, Paula had told me of her relationship with Prince Maranotti, and, believing that she had gone to him, I set out for Italy. There, of course, I failed to find her. I tried to get into communication with Glyncamp, but he had mysteriously disappeared.

For several months, amid the most harrowing disappointments, I continued my search, then I learned that in New York Miss Paula Trevison had become the wife of Philip Wadsworth. This information so affected me that I nearly lost my reason. Three or four times I was almost on the point of taking my life. How she had come to wed again while the man she believed to be her husband still was living, I could not understand. And yet, believing herself to be the wife of Rayon Demain, it was possible that, overcome with horror and loathing as the result of his mad acts on the night of the burning of the log-house, she had sought and obtained a divorce.

I now resolved to seek the young woman out and confess to her the manner in which I had deceived her. Accordingly, I went to New York and there learned she had parted from Wadsworth scarcely more than an hour after the wedding ceremony. Having obtained her address, I wrote to her, asking her to see me on the following day. In this letter I told her I had something of importance to reveal. Not only did she fail to answer my letter, but she disappeared the day after she received it, and I learned she had gone to Europe. Once more I went to Italy.

I found Prince Maranotti at Basselanto, and informed him that his sister had become my wife. Not for a moment, however, did he believe I was speaking the truth, and he treated me as if I were a harmless lunatic. I called on him several times after this, but he refused to see me.

At dawn one morning I hid myself in the garden, thinking to meet him when he took his accustomed stroll before breakfast. The effort was successful, but he warned me that if I did not leave the grounds at once he would have me committed to an asylum. I knew he would keep his word, but, angered as I was, I was not disposed to offer violence to Paula’s brother. So, with bowed head, I hurried to the railway station.

Convinced that my wife was not in Italy, I decided to return to New York. The following day I boarded a steamer at Naples, and it was not until I reached the United States that I learned of the death of Paula’s brother on the morning I had left him.

Two days ago I was visited by a stranger, who informed me that Mr. Westfall was in possession of certain facts that it would be in my interest to know. Accordingly I called upon him and received the invitation which has resulted in my presence on the Barge of Haunted Lives.

* * * * *

“And so the Princess is the wife of the Gargoyle, after all,” hissed the Whispering Gentleman, as he turned toward Westfall.

“No, no, it is impossible!” exclaimed the Fugitive Bridegroom, distractedly.

“If she isn’t, it’s not you, who deserted her, but the man who went through fire and water to get the Rajiid diamonds for her, who ought to have her,” growled the one-eyed Duckhunter.

“The law will quickly relieve her of her present desperate plight,” said the Nervous Physician, complacently. “The law will not compel a woman to accept as her husband the man who killed her brother.”

“Killed her brother!” exclaimed the Decapitated Man, wonderingly.

The Nervous Physician nodded, then, giving a sudden start, he glanced apprehensively over his left shoulder.

“You knew you were under suspicion, did you not?” asked Westfall, addressing the Sentimental Gargoyle.

“Under suspicion--yes,” the Gargoyle answered. “It is suspicion that is founded on the fact that I was in the park of Basselanto on the morning of the murder of Prince Maranotti. That I was there at that time, I never have denied, but of his death I am guiltless, nor did I know at the time I left the park that any crime had been committed there. More than this, I know nothing of the identity of the murderer or of any motive for the awful deed.”

“Well, if a gentleman who was able to give exceedingly damaging testimony against you had lived to tell his story, you would not now be here to assert your preposterous claim to this fair lady’s hand,” said the Nervous Physician, irritably.

The Gargoyle stiffened in his chair.

“Who was the gentleman of whom you speak, sir?” he demanded, sharply.

“Perhaps it is well that you tell your story now, Doctor,” said Westfall, gravely.

The Nervous Physician nodded. Then, in quick, nervous accents, he began his narrative.