sunken eyes, and sparse hair streaked with grey.  He entered the room with a courteous bow and inquiring look.  Rising from the chair in which I had rested myself by the fire, I advanced towards him and addressed him by name in my suavest tones.  He inclined his head and looked at me more inquiringly than before.”  I have taken the liberty to request an interview with you this morning,” continued I, “because I have been told that you may probably be able to give me some information of which I am in search, with regard to an old mansion in this part of the county, called `Steepside,’ and in which I spent last night.”

Scarcely had I uttered these last words when the expression of the old priest’s face changed from one of courteous indifference to earnest interest: 

“Do I understand you rightly, monsieur?” he said.  “You say you slept last night in Steepside mansion?”

“I did not say I slept there,” I rejoined, with an emphasis; “I said I passed the night there.”

“Bien,” said he dryly, “I comprehend.  And you were not pleased with your night’s lodging.  That is so, is it not, monsieur,—­is it not?” he repeated, eying my face curiously, as though he were seeking to read the expression of my thoughts there.

“You may be sure,” said I, “that if something very peculiar had not occurred to me in that house, I should not thus have troubled a gentleman to whom I am, unhappily, a stranger.”

He bowed slightly and then stood silent, contemplating me, and, as I think, considering whether or not he should afford me the information I desired.  Presently, his scrutiny having apparently proved satisfactory, he withdrew his eyes from my face, and seated himself beside me.

“Monsieur,” said he, “before I begin to answer your inquiry, I will ask you to tell me what you saw last night at Steepside.”

He drew from his pocket a small, old-fashioned snuff-box and refreshed his little yellow nose with a pinch of rappee, after which ceremonial he leaned back at his ease, resting his chin in his hand and regarding me fixedly during the whole of my strange recital.  When I had finished speaking he sat silent a few minutes, and then resumed, in his queer broken manner: 

“What I am going to tell you I would not tell to any man who had not done what you have done, and seen what you saw last night.  Mon Dieu! it is strange you should have been at that house last night of all nights in the year,—­the 22nd of December!”

He seemed to make this reflection rather to himself than to me, and presently continued, taking a small key from a pocket in his vest as he spoke: 

“Do you understand French well, monsieur?”

“Excellently well,” returned I with alacrity; “a great part of my business correspondence is conducted in French, and I speak and hear it every day of my life.”

He smiled pleasantly in reply, rose from his seat, and, unlocking with the key he held a small drawer in a chest that stood beside the chimney-piece, took out of it a roll of manuscript and a cigar.