el tuum where other fellows' wives were concerned. Now, if Avis and I don't make good and live in this old rookery for a full twelve months, we forfeit our succession and the whole estate goes to this bounder. Not that he could make much use of it, but"
"How so? Is he uninterested in money?"
"Oh, he's interested enough, but he's in jail."
"Hem? In durance?"
"Quite. In a Bombay jail, doin' a life stretch for killin' an outraged husband in a brawl. Jolly lucky he was that the jury didn't bring him in guilty of wilful murder, too."
"One sees. And how long have you resided at Foxcroft?"
"Just six weeks, sir, and some dam' queer things have taken place already."
"By example"
"Our first night there the bedroom furniture caught fire. My wife and I were sound asleep, dog-tired from gettin' things in shape, and neither of us would have smelled the smoke until it was too late, but Laird, my Scottish terrier, was sleepin' by the bed, and he raised such a row he woke us up. Queer thing about it, too. There was no fire laid in the room, and neither Avis nor I'd been smokin', but the bedclothes caught fire, just the same, and we didn't have a second's spare time standin' clear. Two days later Laird died. Some stinkin' blighter poisoned him.
"The second week I was ridin' out from the village with some supplies when something whizzed past my head, almost cuttin' the tip o' my nose off. When I dismounted for a look around I found a knife-blade almost buried in a tree beside the road.
"We'd stocked the place with poultry, so that we could have fresh eggs, and every bloomin' chicken died. We can't keep a fowl in the hen-house overnight.
"Not only that; we've heard the damn'dest noises round the house—things crashing through the underbrush, hangings at the doors and windows, and the most infernal laughter from the woods at dead of night. It's got us nervy as a lot o' cats, sir.
"My wife and I both want to stick it, as much from principle as for the money, but Annie, Avis' old nurse, not to mention Appleby, my batman, are all for chuckin' the whole business. They're sure the curse is workin'."
De Grandin eyed him thoughtfully. "Your case has interest, Monsieur Pemberton," he said at last. "If it is convenient, Doctor Trowbridge and I will come to Foxcroft tomorrow afternoon."
We shook hands at the front door. "See you tomorrow afternoon," I promised as our caller turned away, "if anything"
Whir-r-r-rr! Something flashing silver-gray beneath the street lamp's light came hurtling past my head, and a dull thud sounded as the missile struck the panel of the door.
"Ha, scélérat, coquin, assassin!" cried de Grandin, rushing out into the darkened street. "I have you!"
But he was mistaken. The sound of flying footsteps pounding down the street and vanishing around the corner was the sole clue to the mystery.
Breathing hard with rage as much as from exertion, he returned and wrenched the missile from my scarred front door. It was the blade of a cheap iron knife, such as may be bought at any ten-cent store, its point and edges ground to razor sharpness, its wooden helve removed and the blade-heel weighted with ten ounces of crude lead, roughly welded on.
"Ah-ha!" the little Frenchman mur-
