pamphlets and inclined towards me across the table his bald head with its projecting forehead.
"Yes, my good fellow," he added, "by a wonderful stroke of luck one of those phonomena described by Myers and Podmore as 'phantoms of the living' took place in all its phases before the very eyes of a man of science. I observed everything and noted everything down."
"I am listening."
"The time of the occurrence," resumed Laboullée, "was the summer of '91. My friend, Paul Buquet, of whom I have often spoken to you, was then living with his wife in a little flat in the Rue de Grenelle, opposite the fountain. You did not know Buquet?"
"I have seen him two or three times. A big fellow, bearded up to the eyes. His wife was dark, pale, large featured with long grey eyes."
"Exactly: a bilious temperament, nervous but fairly well balanced. However, when a woman lives in Paris her nerves get the upper hand and—then the deuce is in it. Did you ever see Adrienne?"
"I met her one evening in the Rue de la Paix, standing with her husband in front of a jeweller's window, her eyes fixed on some sapphires. A good-looking woman and deucedly well dressed for the wife of a poor wretch buried in the cellars of a
