One might account for it supposing the Antwerp skin to be that of a
young bird, or of a moulting bird, or perhaps of a different sex from
the bird whose feather I had secured.

Still, these ideas were not proven. Nothing concerning the birds had
been proven. I had but a single fact to lean on, and that was that the
feather I possessed could not have belonged to any known species of
bird. Nobody but myself knew of the existence of this feather. And now
I meant to cable to Bronx Park for it, and to place this evidence at
the disposal of the beautiful Countess d'Alzette.

My cigar had gone out, as I sat musing, and I relighted it and resumed
my reading of the type-written notes, lazily, even a trifle
sceptically, for all the evidence that she had been able to collect to
substantiate her theory of the existence of the ux was not half as
important as the evidence I was to produce in the shape of that
enormous green feather.

I came to the last paragraph, smoking serenely, and leaning back
comfortably, one leg crossed over the other. Then, suddenly, my
attention became riveted on the words under my eyes. Could I have read
them aright? Could I believe what I read in ever-growing astonishment
which culminated in an excitement that stirred the very hair on my
head?

"The ux exists. There is no longer room for doubt. Ocular
proof I can now offer in the shape of _five living eggs_ of
this gigantic bird. All measures have been taken to hatch
these eggs; they are now in the vast incubator. It is my plan