’ ‘Certainly he is not a friend,’ Melusine agreed, ‘but he has gone, after all. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit.
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