“Monsieur le Préfet, my information is grave and I must not be hurried,” continued the voice. “At the very hour of the theft of the picture I was passing the Louvre. Suddenly, a man jostled me. He was carrying what was undoubtedly a picture in a sack. He hastened down a side street, casting suspicious glances about him. He was a Man with a Squint and——” “Ah, zut,” cried the Chief of the Police, hanging up the receiver. And on the top of all this incoherency, light-headedness. Always and always, when Paris is shaken by a sensational _affaire_, some light-headed soul loses what remains of his reason. On to the Place de la Concorde came a pale-faced, wild-eyed man, with a chair. After mounting the chair, he folded his arms across his chest and broke out into a fixed, ghastly grin. As he stood motionless on his chair, always grinning, a crowd inevitably assembled, and M. Lépine appeared. “What are you doing there?” demanded the latter. “Hush! I am Monna Lisa,” replied the Man with the Grin. “Then at last we have found you!” exclaimed the Chief of the Police. “All France has been mourning your loss. Come with me quickly. You must return immediately to the Louvre.” “Yes, yes,” assented the light-headed one, descending from his chair and confidently passing his arm under the arm of M. Lépine. “Take me home to the Louvre.” A wonderful spectacle, the Man with the Grin disappearing on the arm of the Chief of the Police, relating, as he went, that he had escaped from his frame in the Louvre in the dead of the night.