"What was it?" I asked presently, in an awestruck whisper.

Monsieur Maurice, instead of answering my question, opened the sketch-book
at a page full of little outlines of animals and birds, and laid his finger
silently on the figure of a sleeping tiger.

I shuddered.

"_Pauvre petite_!" he said, shutting up the book, "it is too terrible
a story. I ought not to have told it to you. Try to forget it."

"Ah, no!" I said. "I shall never forget it, Monsieur Maurice. Poor Ali!
Have you still the piece of fringe you found lying in the road?"

He unlocked his desk and touched a secret spring; whereupon a small drawer
flew out from a recess just under the lock.

"Here it is," he said, taking out a piece of folded paper.

It contained the thing he had described--a scrap of fringe composed of
crimson and yellow twist, about two inches in length.

"And those other things?" I said, peering into the secret drawer with a
child's inquisitiveness. "Have they a history, too?"

Monsieur Maurice hesitated--took them out--sighed--and said, somewhat
reluctantly:--

"You may see them, little Gretchen, if you will. Yes; they, too, have their