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ROUND THE FIRE STORIES

THE LEATHER FUNNEL

My friend, Lionel Dacre, lived in the Avenue de Wagras and grass plot in front ofit, on the left-hand side as you pass down fro before the avenue was constructed, forthe grey tiles were stained with lichens, and the walls were e It looked a small house froht, but it deepened into a singlelong chaularlibrary of occult literature, and the fantastic curiosities which servedas a hobby for himself, and an amusement for his friends A wealthy manof refined and eccentric tastes, he had spent ether as said to be a unique privatecollection of Talreat rarity and value His tastes leaned toward the marvellous and themonstrous, and I have heard that his experiments in the direction of theunknown have passed all the bounds of civilization and of decorulish friends he never alluded to such matters, and took the toneof the student and _virtuoso_; but a Frenchman whose tastes were of thesame nature has assured me that the worst excesses of the black e and lofty hall, which is lined withthe shelves of his books, and the cases of his museum

Dacre’s appearance was enough to show that his deep interest in thesepsychic matters was intellectual rather than spiritual There was notrace of asceticism upon his heavy face, but there was e do locks, like a snow-peak above its fringe of fir trees Hisknowledge was greater than his wisdom, and his poere far superiorto his character The sht eyes, buried deeply in his fleshyface, twinkled with intelligence and an unabated curiosity of life, butthey were the eyes of a sensualist and an egotist Enough of the man,for he is dead now, poor devil, dead at the very time that he had madesure that he had at last discovered the elixir of life It is not withhis coe andinexplicable incident which had its rise inof the year ‘82

I had known Dacre in England, for my researches in the Assyrian Room ofthe British Museu to establish ain theBabylonian tablets, and this coether Chance reing upon friendship I had promised him that on my nextvisit to Paris I would call upon him At the ti in a cottage at Fontainebleau, and as theevening trains were inconvenient, he asked ht in hishouse

“I have only that one spare couch,” said he, pointing to a broad sofa inhis large salon; “I hope that you will e to be comfortable there”

It was a singular bedrooh walls of brown volureeable furniture to a bookworm like myself,and there is no scent so pleasant to my nostrils as that faint, subtlereek which comes from an ancient book I assured hi chas

“If the fittings are neither convenient nor conventional, they are atleast costly,” said he, looking round at his shelves “I have expendednearly a quarter of a million of e here which has not its history, and it is generally one worthtelling”

He was seated as he spoke at one side of the open fireplace, and I atthe other His reading table was on his right, and the strong laht A half-rolledpalimpsest lay in the centre, and around it were e funnel, such as is used forfilling wine casks It appeared to be made of black wood, and to berimmed with discoloured brass

“That is a curious thing,” I remarked “What is the history of that?”

“Ah!” said he, “it is the very question which I have had occasion to askood deal to know Take it in your hands andexamine it”