At the moment of going to press, we have received an item of news which we dare not guarantee as authentic, because of its very improbable character. We print it, therefore, with all reserve. Yesterday evening, Dr. Delattre, the well-known surgeon, was present, with his wife and daughter, at the performance of _Hernani_ at the Comédie Française. At the commencement of the third act, that is to say, at about ten o’clock, the door of his box opened and a gentleman, accompanied by two others, leaned over to the doctor and said to him, in a low voice, but loud enough for Mme. Delattre to hear: “Doctor, I have a very painful task to fulfil and I shall be very grateful to you if you will make it as easy for me as you can.” “Who are you, sir?” “M. Thézard, commissary of police of the first district; and my instructions are to take you to M. Dudouis, at the prefecture.” “But—” “Not a word, doctor, I entreat you, not a movement—There is some regrettable mistake; and that is why we must act in silence and not attract anybody’s attention. You will be back, I have no doubt, before the end of the performance.” The doctor rose and went with the commissary. At the end of the performance, he had not returned. Mme. Delattre, greatly alarmed, drove to the office of the commissary of police. There she found the real M. Thézard and discovered, to her great terror, that the individual who had carried off her husband was an impostor. Inquiries made so far have revealed the fact that the doctor stepped into a motor car and that the car drove off in the direction of the Concorde. Readers will find further details of this incredible adventure in our second edition. Incredible though it might be, the adventure was perfectly true. Besides, the issue was not long delayed and the _Grand Journal_, while confirming the story in its midday edition, described in a few lines the dramatic ending with which it concluded: THE STORY ENDS AND GUESS-WORK BEGINS Dr. Delattre was brought back to 78, Rue Duret, at nine o’clock this morning, in a motor car which drove away immediately at full speed. No. 78, Rue Duret, is the address of Dr. Delattre’s clinical surgery, at which he arrives every morning at the same hour. When we sent in our card, the doctor, though closeted with the chief of the detective service, was good enough to consent to receive us. “All that I can tell you,” he said, in reply to our questions, “is that I was treated with the greatest consideration. My three companions were the most charming people I have ever met, exquisitely well-mannered and bright and witty talkers: a quality not to be despised, in view of the length of the journey.” “How long did it take?” “About four hours and as long returning.” “And what was the object of the journey?” “I was taken to see a patient whose condition rendered an immediate operation necessary.” “And was the operation successful?”