“One evening before meeting Linda on the balcony, I took out of my medical cabinet a jar of glycerin and a small bottle of hydrocyanic acid, together with one of those little pencils of glass which chemists use in mixing certain corrosive substances.  That evening for the first time Linda allowed me to caress her.  I held her in my arms and passed my hand over her long hair, which snapped and cracked under my touch in a succession of tiny sparks.  As soon as I regained my room the golden cat, as usual, appeared before me.  I called her to me; she rubbed herself against me with arched back and extended tail, purring the while with the greatest amiability.  I took the glass pencil in my hand, moistened the point in the glycerin, and held it out to the animal, which licked it with her long red tongue.  I did this three or four times, but the next time I dipped the pencil in the acid.  The cat unhesitatingly touched it with her tongue.  In an instant she became rigid, and a moment after, a frightful tetanic convulsion caused her to leap thrice into the air, and then to fall upon the floor with a dreadful cry—­a cry that was truly human.  She was dead!

“With the perspiration starting from my forehead and with trembling hands I threw myself upon the floor beside the body that was not yet cold.  The starting eyes had a look that froze me with horror.  The blackened tongue was thrust out between the teeth; the limbs exhibited the most remarkable contortions.  I mustered all my courage with a violent effort of will, took the animal by the paws, and left the house.  Hurrying down the silent street, I proceeded to the quays along the banks of the Loire, and, on reaching them, threw my burden into the river.  Until daylight I roamed around the city, just where I know not; and not until the sky began to grow pale and then to be flushed with light did I at last have the courage to return home.  As I laid my hand upon the door, I shivered.  I had a dread of finding there still living, as in the celebrated tale of Poe, the animal that I had so lately put to death.  But no, my room was empty.  I fell half-fainting upon my bed, and for the first time I slept, with a perfect sense of being all alone, a sleep like that of a beast or of an assassin, until evening came.”

Some one here interrupted, breaking in upon the profound silence in which we had been listening.

“I can guess the end.  Linda disappeared at the same time as the cat.”

“You see perfectly well,” replied Tribourdeaux, “that there exists between the facts of this story a curious coincidence, since you are able to guess so exactly their relation.  Yes, Linda disappeared.  They found in her apartment her dresses, her linen, all even to the night-robe that she was to have worn that night, but there was nothing that could give the slightest clue to her identity.  The owner of the house had let the apartment to ‘Mademoiselle Linda, concert-singer,’ He knew nothing more.