"Yes, he discovered it all," continued he. "I had thought myself safe, for had I not effectually disposed of the body? Steeping it in chemicals and wrapping it in asbestos, I had in the dead of night, in the secrecy of my cellar, committed it to the flames. Ho! ho! A true classical funeral that, as became the subject, for was he not the pagan Cæsar of my picture? 'Vulcan, arise! Vasari claims thine aid.' Ah! what a glorious night that was as I moved round the funeral pyre, pouring on oil and chanting an ode from Horace! What a splendid picture it would have made--'A Pagan Funeral!' How I regretted that I had not prepared my canvas for the event! But it was too late to think of that. Then, one dark night, on some lonely common, I scattered the ashes to the four winds. Not a trace of my victim left! And yet, after all my care and caution, that old dotard of a Matteo had discovered my secret--discovered it by accident. I was at Paris, exhibiting my picture to admiring thousands. Among those who thronged to gaze at my 'Cæsar' was a Colonel Langworthy, but just returned from India. 'That face is very like my friend Willard, who disappeared so strangely last Christmas!' he cried. I turned to the speaker, and whom should I see at his elbow but old Matteo, with his great eyes staring at me. He had heard this chance remark: he at once divined my secret. I was so infuriated that next day, when the Colonel was coming to take a second view of my picture, I ordered him to be thrust out--a mad act, for it got into the newspapers, and confirmed Matteo's suspicions. Thenceforward I had no peace, for no bribe would stop his mouth. He was forever reproaching me. I had made him an accessory to a crime, he said. His conscience troubled him for having in a manner aided me to escape on that Christmas morning. He could not sleep at night. Poor fool! He could go no more to Mass with such a sin on his soul. He followed me to Rivoli. He must--he must confess all to the priest. Damn him! he did! That was why Father Ignatius refused me the Mass that morning, and Daphne present, too, to witness my humiliation! It was that that caused her to look with a different face on me, and to turn from my love with scorn. I marvel now that she is still living when I recall my fury at her refusal. She was nearer to death then--nearer to her lost George--than she had been since her bridal morning. My old nurse said I was mad that day; perhaps I was. No matter. Let Daphne refuse me, hate me as she will, she cannot recall her dead hero to life. There was consolation in that thought. That night, as I was making preparations to depart from Rivoli, I came across his grey cloak. I always carried it with me. It was a joy to gaze on it, to think how I had won it. It was a sign of my triumph--it was a proof that he would trouble me no more with his rivalry. I put it on, for I loved to act the scene over again, and sallied out in it. I remember