has been said, One half of the world does not know how the other half
loves!

But such incongruities would distress Tournicquot no more--to-day he
was to die; he had worn his chessboard trousers and his little green
coat for the last time! For the last time had the relentless virtue of
Lucrece driven him to despair! When he was discovered inanimate,
hanging to a beam, nothing comic about him, perhaps the world would
admit that his soul had been solemn, though his "line of business" had
been funny; perhaps Lucrece would even drop warm tears on his tomb!

It was early in the evening. Dusk was gathering over Paris, the promise
of dinner was in the breeze. The white glare of electric globes began
to flood the streets; and before the cafes, waiters bustled among the
tables, bearing the vermouth and absinthe of the hour. Instinctively
shunning the more frequented thoroughfares, Tournicquot crossed the
boulevard des Batignolles, and wandered, lost in reverie, along the
melancholy continuation of the rue de Rome until he perceived that he
had reached a neighbourhood unknown to him--that he stood at the corner
of a street which bore the name "Rue Sombre." Opposite, one of the
houses was being rebuilt, and as he gazed at it--this skeleton of a
home in which the workmen's hammers were silenced for the night--
Tournicquot recognised that his journey was at an end. Here, he could
not doubt that he would find the last, grim hospitality that he sought.
The house had no door to bar his entrance, but--as if in omen--above
the gap where a door had been, the sinister number "13" was still to be
discerned. He cast a glance over his shoulder, and, grasping the rope
with a firm hand, crept inside.

It was dark within, so dark that at first he could discern nothing but