The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of the language addressed to him. “The room is as fresh and sweet as a room can be,” he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust. The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked at him with grave and anxious scrutiny. “You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours, who smell nothing. If you want evidence from more noses, look there!” He pointed to two little English girls, at play in the corridor. “The door of my room is wide open—and you know how fast a smell can travel. Now listen, while I appeal to these innocent noses, in the language of their own dismal island. My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell here—ha?” The children burst out laughing, and answered emphatically, “No.” “My good Westwick,” the Frenchman resumed, in his own language, “the conclusion is surely plain? There is something wrong, very wrong, with your own nose. I recommend you to see a medical man.” Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out the horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left the hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. The night-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar, and to think quietly over what had happened. CHAPTER XIX Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the rising moon. Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. The strange effect produced on him by the room—following on the other strange effects produced on the other relatives of his dead brother—exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this sensible man. “Perhaps,” he reflected, “my temperament is more imaginative than I supposed it to be—and this is a trick played on me by my own fancy? Or, perhaps, my friend is right; something is physically amiss with me? I don’t feel ill, certainly. But that is no safe criterion sometimes. I am not going to sleep in that abominable room to-night—I can well wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shall speak to a doctor or not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn’t seem likely to supply me with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell from an invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback. If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of the theatre.” As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, he became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observing him with marked attention. “Am I right in supposing you to be Mr. Francis Westwick?” the lady asked, at the moment when he looked at her. “That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour of speaking?”