bed shows doubtfully white, and that dark blot upon the pillow must be
the face of our sleeping man. It is turned towards the window; the
mouth is open; probably the good Doctor is snoring, albeit, across
this distance of time, the sound fails to reach us.

The room is as bare, square, and characterless as other hotel rooms;
nevertheless, its occupant may have left a hint or two of himself
about, which would be of use to us. There are no trunks or other
luggage; evidently he will be on his way again to-morrow. The window
is shut, although the night is warm and clear. The door is carefully
locked. The Doctor's garments, which appear to be of rather a jaunty
and knowing cut, are lying disorderly about, on chair, table, or
floor. He carries no watch; but under his pillow we see protruding
the corner of a great leathern pocket-book, which might contain a
fortune in bank-notes.

A couple of chairs are drawn up to the bedside, upon one of which
stands a blown-out candle; the other supports an oblong, coffin-shaped
box, narrower at one end than at the other, and painted black. Too
small for a coffin, however; no human corpse, at least, is contained
in it. But the frame that lies so quiet and motionless here, thrills,
when awaked to life, with a soul only less marvellous than man's. In
short, the coffin is a violin-case, and the mysterious frame the
violin. The Doctor must have been fiddling overnight, after getting
into bed; to the dissatisfaction, perhaps, of his neighbor on the
other side of the partition.

Little else in the room is worthy notice, unless it be the pocket-comb
which has escaped from the Doctor's waistcoat, and the shaving
materials (also pocketable) upon the wash-stand. Apparently our friend