“Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that strain over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my lamp light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the way. Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you dine?' I heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech was plainly distinguished. 'You lie!' he said, in vehement tone of rage; 'you were with----.' I did not catch the name he mentioned, nor did I know what she said in answer, or actually what happened. I heard only a confused sound, which did not impress me at the time as indicating a struggle, and which was followed by silence. I imagined that harmony or a sullen truce had been restored in the household, and thought no more about the affair. The next morning the wife was found dead, strangled. The husband had disappeared, and has never, I believe, been heard of to this day.” We reached the restaurant as the doctor finished his story. How the account had impressed me I need not tell. Seated in the warm café, with appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me again the husband's name. “Heinrich Spellerberg.” “And who had the woman been?” “I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique.” “You didn't save any of the newspapers giving accounts of the affair?” “No. My evidence was printed, but they spelled my name wrong.” “Do you remember the exact date of the murder?” “Yes, because it was the birthday of a friend of mine. It was February 17, 187-. Twelve years ago! And that tune has been with me, off and on, ever since--forgotten, most of the time; a few times recalled--as to-night.” “And the man, what did he look like?” “Slim and of medium height. Very light complexion and eyes. His face was entirely smooth. His hair, a bit flaxen in colour, was curly and plentiful, especially about the back of his neck.” “In your evidence did you say anything about the strain of music, which was manifestly of the murderer's own composition?” “No, it did not recur to me until later.” “And nothing was said about it by anybody?” “No one but myself knew anything about it--except the murderer; and unless he afterward circulated it, he and you and I are the only men in the world who have heard it.” “But if he continued, wherever he went, to exercise his profession, he doubtless made some use of that bit of melody. The tune is so odd--quite too good for him to have wasted.” “Still, neither of us has ever heard it, or anything like it. And if you ever should come upon it, it would be interesting to trace the thing, wouldn't it?” “Rather.” I began to whistle the air softly. Presently two handsome girls, with jimp raiment and fearless demeanour, came in and took possession of an adjacent table. “What'll it be, Nell?”