distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; 'you were with
----.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I know what she said
in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only a confused sound, which
did not impress me at the time as indicating a struggle, and which was
followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or a sullen truce had been
restored in the household, and thought no more about the affair. The next
morning the wife was found dead, strangled. The husband had disappeared,
and has never, I believe, been heard of to this day."

We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the account
had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm cafe, with appetizing
viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me again the
husband's name.

"Heinrich Spellerberg."

"And who had the woman been?"

"I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little blonde.
The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. She, too,
was German, but slight and delicate in physique."

"You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?"

"No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong."

"Do you remember the exact date of the murder?"

"Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February 17,
187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and on, ever