next discovered and pulled out on the floor.  After some little difficulty the Sub-prefect succeeded in putting the machinery together, and, leaving his men to work it, descended with me to the bedroom.  The smothering canopy was then lowered, but not so noiselessly as I had seen it lowered.  When I mentioned this to the Sub-prefect, his answer, simple as it was, had a terrible significance.  “My men,” said he, “are working down the bed-top for the first time—­the men whose money you won were in better practice.”

We left the house in the sole possession of two police agents—­every one of the inmates being removed to prison on the spot.  The Sub-prefect, after taking down my "proces verbal" in his office, returned with me to my hotel to get my passport.  “Do you think,” I asked, as I gave it to him, “that any men have really been smothered in that bed, as they tried to smother me?”

“I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the Morgue,” answered the Sub-prefect, “in whose pocket-books were found letters stating that they had committed suicide in the Seine, because they had lost everything at the gaming table.  Do I know how many of those men entered the same gambling-house that you entered? won as you won? took that bed as you took it? slept in it? were smothered in it? and were privately thrown into the river, with a letter of explanation written by the murderers and placed in their pocket-books?  No man can say how many or how few have suffered the fate from which you have escaped.  The people of the gambling-house kept their bedstead machinery a secret from us—­even from the police!  The dead kept the rest of the secret for them.  Good-night, or rather good-morning, Monsieur Faulkner!  Be at my office again at nine o’clock—­in the meantime, au revoir!”

The rest of my story is soon told.  I was examined and re-examined; the gambling-house was strictly searched all through from top to bottom; the prisoners were separately interrogated; and two of the less guilty among them made a confession.  I discovered that the Old Soldier was the master of the gambling-house—­justice discovered that he had been drummed out of the army as a vagabond years ago; that he had been guilty of all sorts of villainies since; that he was in possession of stolen property, which the owners identified; and that he, the croupier, another accomplice, and the woman who had made my cup of coffee, were all in the secret of the bedstead.  There appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior persons attached to the house knew anything of the suffocating machinery; and they received the benefit of that doubt, by being treated simply as thieves and vagabonds.  As for the Old Soldier and his two head myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman who had drugged my coffee was imprisoned for I forget how many years; the regular attendants at the gambling-house were considered “suspicious” and placed under “surveillance”; and I became, for one whole week (which is a long time) the head “lion” in Parisian society.  My adventure was dramatized by three illustrious play-makers, but never saw theatrical daylight; for the censorship forbade the introduction on the stage of a correct copy of the gambling-house bedstead.