funeral had been one of the grandest that quarter of Paris had ever
seen, naming many high and important officials who had attended it.
Adolph turned his face to the wall and groaned. His frightful dream was
to last him his life.

When he trod the streets of Paris a week later, he was but the shadow
of his former portly self. He was gaunt and haggard, his clothes
hanging on him as if they had been made for some other man, a
fortnight's stubby beard on the face which had always heretofore been
smoothly shaven. He sat silently at the café, and few of his friends
recognised him at first. They heard he had received ample compensation
from the Government, and now would have money enough to suffice him all
his life, without the necessity of working for it, and they looked on
him as a fortunate man. But he sat there listlessly, receiving their
congratulations or condolences with equal apathy. Once he walked past
the shop. The front was boarded up, and glass had been put in the upper
windows.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets of Paris, some saying he was
insane, and that he was looking for his brother; others, that he was
searching for the murderer. One day he entered the police-office where
he had first made his unlucky complaint.

"Have you arrested him yet?" he asked of the officer in charge.

"Whom?" inquired the officer, not recognising his visitor.

"Picard. I am Adolph Delore."

"It was not Picard who committed the crime. He was in London at the