‘tn

Let us look after the rich invalids, and look after them—according to their purses !”

At that spot the old woman pausces. With her trembling finger she points out among the shadows a reddish light. There is the housc of Vort Kartif, the herring- salter.

“There 7" said the doctor.

“Yes,”' said the old woman.

“ Hurrah ! cries the dog Hurzof.

A sudden explosion from the Vauglor, shaken to its very base. A\ sheat of lurid flame springs up to the zenith, forcing 1ts way through the clouds. Dr. Trifulgas 1s hurled to the ground. He swears roundly, picks himself up, and looks about hin.

The old woman is no longer there. Has she disappearcd through some fissurc of the carth, or has she flown away on the wings of the mist? As for the dog, he 1s therce still, standing on his hind legs, his jaws apart, his lantern extinguished.

“ Nevertheless, we will go on,” mutters Dr. Trifulgas. The honest man has been paid his hundred and twenty fretzers, and he must earn them.

)

“UHE POINTED OUT A REDDISH LIGHT.”

VI OxLy a luminous speck at the distance of half a kertz. It is the lamp of the dymg— perhaps of the dead. Of course, 1t is the

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

herring-salter’s house ;. the old woman pointed to it with her finger ; no mistake is possible. Through the whistling swishes and the dashing swashes, through the up- roar of the tempest, Dr. Trifulgas tramps on with hurried steps. As he advances, the house becomes more distinct, being isolated in the midst of the landscape.

[t is very remarkable how much it resembles that of Dr. Trifulgas, the Six- four of Luktrop. The same arrangement of windows, the same little arched door. Dr. T'rifulgas hastens on as fast as the gale allows him. The door 1s ajar ; he has but to push it. He pushes it, he enters, and the wind roughly closes it behind him. The dog Hurzof, lett outside, howls, with intervals of silence.

Strange ! One would have said that Dr. Trifulgas had come buack to his own house. And yvet he has not wandered ; he has not cven taken a turning. He 1s at Val Kar- nion, not at Luktrop. And yet, here 1s the same low, vaulted passage, the same wooden staircase, with high banisters, worn away by the constant rubbing of hands.

He ascends.

He reaches the landing. Beneath the door a faint light filters through, as 1n Six-four. Is 1t a

| delusion 2 In the _ dimness he recog- nises his room— the yellow sofa, on the right the old chest of pear- wood, on the left the brass-bound strong box, In which he intended

to deposit his hundred and

twenty fretzers. There 1s his arm- chair, with the

leatherncushions; therce is his table, with its twisted legs, and on it, close to the expiring lamp, his phar- macopaela, open at page 197.

“\What 1s the matter with me?"” he murmurs. What 1s the matter with him? Ifear!

His pupils arc dilated ; his body 1s con- tracted, shrivelled ; an icy perspiration freczes his skin—every hair stands on end.

But hasten! Ifor want of oil, the lamp