spite of my alarm, I moved slightly each time
to right and left, in order to intercept his
view. I suspected that it was my opposite
neighbour, the painter; but the figure
seemed taller than his; and I could not imagine
any reason he could have for looking through
my window at that hour. Whoever it might
be, I could scarcely doubt that his suspicions
were aroused by something that had attracted
his notice. He might have been there some
minutes before I observed him: perhaps he
had seen me leaning over the body, with the
instrument in my hand. I knew that it was
difficult, from without, to distinguish anything
in a dark room; but, if he had seen nothing,
how could I account for the evident eagerness
of his scrutiny?

The figure stood still again; then, I saw
it apparently listening; lastly, I heard it tap
sharply with its nails upon the glass. With
the faint hope that I had not been seen, I
determined to remain still. The tapping was
repeated after a minute or two; but soon
after, to my great relief, I saw the figure
disappear down the steps leading to the
leads.

The idea that the man was gone to give
an alarm, and to have me arrested, struck me
with the force and the suddenness of a musket
bullet. I went to the window and looked
out, but I could see no one, nor any light at
the opposite house. Finding that the sash was
unfastened, I drove in the pin-bolt that hung
at the side, and pulled down the blind. Then
I changed my coat for another, and seizing a
stick only, I went out, fastened the door of
my room, took the key away, and crept down
stairs. Crossing the square yard, I called, in a
voice as unlike my own as I could make it,
to the porter to pull the string of the gate;
which the inhabitants of the house were
accustomed to do, sometimes at late hours.
The door opened, and, without looking behind
me, I closed it after me and hurried away.

The clocks were striking three as I hurried
along the Boulevards. A man at the Barrière
de Hal asked me where I was going. I said
I was a surgeon, and that I was called to
attend a patient outside the Barrière; and he
let me pass. I hoped to reach Valenciennes
across the frontier. I walked all night, and
rested in the morning at a little village near
Bramè. After this, I was compelled to avoid
the high-road, and to lose much time by
circuitous routes; for I knew that my flight had
increased my danger tenfold. What story
could I tell now, if I were taken; when, to
the supposed evidences of guilt which fate had
accumulated against me, were added the facts
that I had precipitately quitted my lodging
in the night, leaving all my property behind;
that I had given a false story at the Barrière;
and that I had since been hastening, on foot,
towards the frontier?  It was of no use
regretting, then, my indecision in not at once
avowing the truth, and trusting to my
innocence. I knew that I had staked all upon the
chances of escape, and that that was now my
only hope of safety.

I had lost so much time in going out of my
way, that it was not until the third day that
I crossed the frontier, and passed
Valenciennes, without going through the town. On
the fourth day, having arrived at Arras,
much wearied with my day's walk, and
tempted by curiosity to see some newspaper,
and ascertain if it contained any allusion to
my flight and its cause, I decided to abandon
my usual prudence, and to enter the town. It
was dusk, and I kept in narrow streets until I
found a small cabaret. I entered and asked
for some refreshments. A noisy party of men
in blouses were playing at dominoes as I came
in; but they ceased their game, and regarded
me with a scrutiny that made me repent of
my rashness. I took my seat in a corner
alone; and afterwards timidly asked for the
latest newspaper—glancing over at the men
in blouses to mark if my request attracted
their notice; but they were all intent upon
their game. The paper was the Gazette du
Nord, a French journal. Keeping it beside
me, for a moment, with a dread of betraying
my intense curiosity, I unfolded it at length,
and ran my eye quickly down its columns.

Glancing at the items entitled "Various
Facts," I stopped immediately at a paragraph
headed "Suicide et disparition mystérieuse,"
and tremblingly read as follows:

"On Friday last the Sieur Louis Claës,
Concierge of the house No. 6, Rue Renaix,
Faubourg Schaerbeek, Brussels, knocking at
the door of a lodger named Valentine, residing
on the first floor, was surprised to find that
he had not yet risen, although it was past
mid-day. At a later hour, he became alarmed,
and procured a false key to open the door.
On entering the room, a terrible spectacle
presented itself. Seated on a chair near
the table was the dead body of a stranger
covered with blood from a wound in the neck.
A sharp surgical instrument, spotted with
blood, was upon the table. Searching in the
pockets of the deceased, it was ascertained
that his name was Falck, and other clues
to his identity were obtained. Nothing
else remarkable was found. There were no
evidences of a struggle; but from the mysterious
absence of the lodger, suspicion fastened
upon him. The Concierge remembered the
deceased's inquiring for M. Valentine on the
previous evening, and having directed him to
his room. He also remembered letting out
some one at a late hour, whom he supposed
to be the same person, but who was now
imagined to have been the lodger. M.
Vandermere, an artist residing in the next house,
stated that he was a friend of M. Valentine;
that he had seen him at his window on the
evening in question; that he had observed a
light in his room after midnight; and that
his (M. Vandermere's) daughter happening
afterwards to complain of illness, he crossed the
leads leading to the chamber of M. Valentine