tawny eyes rolled with frightful rapidity in their sockets.

Felix recognized Li, son of Mung, son of Tseu, the literate
mandarin of the 114th class. The murderer had never seen his
victim, but could not doubt his identity a moment, thanks to the
marvelous resemblance between the solicitor's clerk and the china
monster that dropped into bits at his feet the night of January
12th, 1840.

Meantime the man had done counting his package, and held it out
to Felix, saying, in his grating, vibrating tones, "Monsieur le
Marquis, here are forty thousand pounds sterling; please to give
me your receipt." And Felix heard the voice say in a shriller
under-key, "Felix, here is an instalment of the million, the
price of your crime. Felix, my assassin, take this money from my
hand."

"From my hand," echoed a thousand fine voices, quivering all
through the air of the room.

"No, no," cried Felix, pushing the clerk away, "the money would
burn me! Begone with you!"

He dropped exhausted into a chair, half suffocated, with drops
of sweat rolling down his convulsed face. The man bowed to the
floor, and slowly moved away backwards. With every gradual step
Felix saw his natural shape return. The rays of the autumn sun
ceased to light up that mysterious apparition, and only
his attorney's humble clerk stood before Felix. With a rush
overpowering his will, Felix dashed after the old man, already