“Thank Heaven!” said Dhoula Bel.

“Thank Heaven!” repeated the Stranger.

“It is finished!” said Beverly, and, as he spoke, Dhoula Bel moved behind the screen, and, the very instant that he did so, there came the sharp crack of fire-arms in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied with any amount of oaths uttered in not very choice French.

Immediately, running to the door along with the Commissary of Police and one of his comrades, I demanded to know the cause of the disturbance.

“By the Holy Evangelists! I fired straight into his head, and it didn’t faze him an inch!” said the sergeant.

“And I struck him square in the middle of the head, and that didn’t harm him in the least!” said another.

“And I put two Derringer bullets and four Colt’s fair into his breast, at ten inches, and blast me if all six didn’t fly back and hit me!” exclaimed a third.

“And I’ll swear that he didn’t come through the open door, for it was fast shut, with my hand on the knob, every second of the time!” said the fourth.

“It was the devil!” said a fifth.

“Or his imp!” said the sixth.

“And I’ll swear he never passed by me on the lower stair!” observed the seventh man.

“Come hither into the room and tell us what you are driving at,” said the Commissary.

“I’m driving at nothing just now,” said the sergeant, as he came in “but I have been trying to drive some bullets through the devil! Do you remember telling me not to let a certain person go out, even if I had to shoot him to prevent it?”

“Certainly I do. Go on.”

“Well, the first thing I knew, that gentleman stood outside the door, and said, as he made faces and ran out his tongue at me, ‘I’m going out in spite of you, monsieur.’ ‘Are you, indeed?’ ‘Of course I am: just see me do it,’ said he, and he marched straight for the stairs, and four of us undertook to clinch him, and did so. Gentlemen, have you ever picked up a hot potatoe? Well, I have, and did not let it drop quicker than we four let go of that individual; only that instead of burning us, it felt for all the world like one feels at the Polytechnic when he takes hold of those infernal things with wires to them, and which discharge a quart or two of lightning into you before you can say Jack Robinson! We let go of the gentleman very quickly, and he passed two or three steps downward, all the while laughing at us, which made me furious, and I fired point-blank at him, and we all attempted to cut him down, but you might just as well have tried to kill a shadow. Messieurs, that man disappeared in the smoke of our pistols! He never passed out in visible form!”

During the sergeant’s relation I had determined to see if Dhoula Bel had really left the room, and for that purpose I carelessly walked toward the window and past the screen. There was nobody whatever behind or near it. I walked back, said nothing, but resumed the seat I had formerly occupied.

“Are you sure of what you tell us; that you are wide awake, and not dreaming?” said the Commissary.

“As certain as I am that he is not now in this room.”

“Which shows how easily people may be deceived,” said a voice from behind the screen, and instantly thereafter Dhoula Bel himself walked out into the middle of the floor—stone floor it was—and after pointing his finger scornfully at the sergeant and his men, he deliberately walked back behind the screen again.

My hair stood up with fright and horror; not so the seven brave Frenchmen; for with one accord they rushed toward the screen, exclaiming: “But we have you now, man or devil!” dashed it away with a single blow, and—

There was no one whatever behind it.

The sergeant fell as if he had been shot.

Determined to preserve myself from surprise, I steadily kept my seat and watched the Stranger and his companion. The latter rose from his chair, advanced toward Hokeis and his daughter, who had both sat silent and spell-bound during the whole of this extraordinary scene of diablerie, and spoke a few words in a low tone to them.

While this was going on, the tall Stranger passed into the other room, and within a period of twelve seconds I rose and followed, but he too had disappeared!

There was a marriage in Paris next day. A son of Adam had wedded with a daughter of Ish.

Two weeks later we carried an invalid to the baths of Switzerland. We remained there two months, then, finding that he grew worse, conveyed him back to Paris.

Three months elapsed. A funeral cortége wound up the paths of Père le Chaise. A coffin was lowered into a new-made grave. Upon its brink stood an old grey-haired man upholding and consoling a beautiful but sorrow-hearted woman—one who had but recently been a bride.

Four months passed: I was on the eve of quitting France. I went to the cemetery, and for an hour sat by a tombstone, on which was sculptured these words—

“Beverly, the Rosicrucian.

“Je renais de Mes Cendres!”

That was all!

Across the sea, I tread my native soil again. I have availed myself of the knowledge imparted by my friend.