words that seemed to have been hurriedly inscribed:
"The last time you was Napolen Bonopart."
He stared wonderingly at those marks made by no mortal hand. He thrilled with a vast elation; and yet instantly a suspicion formed that here was something to his discredit, something one wouldn't care to have known. He had read as little history as possible, yet there floated in his mind certain random phrases, "A Corsican upstart," "An assassin," "No gentleman!"
"I—I—suppose—you're sure there can't be any doubt about this?"
He looked pleadingly at the Countess. But the Countess was a mere psychic instrument, it seemed, and had to be told, first of the question—he produced it with a suspicion that she might doubt his honesty—and then of the astounding answer. Thus enlightened, she protested that there could be no doubt about the truth of the answer; she was ready to stake her professional reputation on its truth. She regarded Bean with an awe which she made no attempt to conceal.
"You had your day," she said significantly; "pomps and powers and—and attentions!"
Bean was excitedly piecing together what fragments of data his reading had left him.
"Emperor of France"
But some one else had rung the third bell, perhaps one of those scientists coming to be dumfounded.
"He was," the Countess replied hurriedly, "the
