The herald., 1893-08-15

ject speak OF, have studied it long
and almosr with passion, for l hold it to
be, in case of success, one of the most
useful and beautiful applications of
modern science. | know it can be done.
I have myself experimental, and in one
instance have reproduced the lineaments
of the physician who had leaned above
the bed of the dying"
The man spoke with animation, and
while speaking his voice vibrated, his
eyes burned, his whole countenance was
illuminated, irradiated with the light of
legitimate pride.
"Then SO be it. monsieur" agreed the
chef de surete. "Take your instruments
to the morgue tomorrow morning at 10
o'clock. / will see that the clerk is in
structed. Later on shall myself be
there. l have the honor, monsieur, to
wish you good morning"
In the obscure nook at the morgue
where he had inclosed himself, in ac-
cordance with the arrangements made
at the office of the surete, Frederick
Bouscal, his body bent, his face drawn,
watched anxiously the result of his last
washing. The plate was there before
him in it's bath of quicksilver, into which
he had dropped it awhile ago with such
fear and infinite precaution.
Sensitized? Vitalized? At least it
should be, and if the conditions Of the
crime were such as he supposed them,
and the victim before dying had really
seen her murderer's face, the portrait of
the assassin would be there under that
bed of gelatin en- traine to melt away.
His throat closed as by grip of iron,
the operator held himself immovable,
hearing only, with painful distinctness,
the gurgle of the water as it dripped
upon the faces of the dead in the adjoin-
ing chamber, the plunge of his blood as
it throbbed and hammered through the
arteries of his heart.
And at last the moment came-the
moment that was to reveal to him all or
nothing. He rose-that poor, trembling
photographer rose, l say, took it care
fully by,its dripping edges, that plate
upon which his fate was hanging, half
closed his eyes, held it to the single ray
Of light that filtered through the yellow
pethCy w Dta5SOl OlNh WIN ~ SlOdl VI
anguish, to let it crash into a thousand
pieces. His sonl Good heavens! The
face of the murderer, the face of the son!
Five minutes later when Frederick
Bouscal, the photographer, came from
his nook, and the chief de surete, await
ing him with impatience, hurried to
meet him, he saw Immediately by the
pallor of his face, by his somber eyes
that he had nothing good to announce to
him.
"Well." said he, "nothingr"
"No," responded Bouscal, nothing"
"Allons no matter. Try it a second
time. Do it again"
Impossible! The transparency of the
cornea is destroyed. wished to wash
it, and l burned it through mistake in
the walls. salute you, M. le Chef~
And Frederick Bouscal turned away.
The next morning the commissaire of
the quarter of Ternes, forwarding to the
prefecture his regular report, headed it
with the following item:
To-day at 10 o'clock a summons to 109
Rue Laugiere. A call from the con-
cierge, suspicious of charcoal fumes
from the room of the Bouscals, man and
wife, his locataires. The door by my Or
der was forced. Too late-they were
dead, both of them, side by side upon
the bed, brazier of lighted charcoal
plainly indicating the manner of their
death. A double suicide-poverty the
cause. ."-Tit-Bit Prize Story From the
French.