The Leather Funnel

           Myfriend,LionelDacre,livedintheAvenuedeWagram,Paris.Hishousewasthatsmallone,withtheironrailingsandgrassplotinfrontofit,ontheleft-handsideasyoupassdownfromtheArcdeTriomphe.Ifancythatithadbeentherelongbeforetheavenuewasconstructed,forthegreytileswerestainedwithlichens,andthewallsweremildewedanddiscolouredwithage.Itlookedasmallhousefromthestreet,fivewindowsinfront,ifIrememberright,butitdeepenedintoasinglelongchamberattheback.ItwasherethatDacrehadthatsingularlibraryofoccultliterature,andthefantasticcuriositieswhichservedasahobbyforhimself,andanamusementforhisfriends.Awealthymanofrefinedandeccentrictastes,hehadspentmuchofhislifeandfortuneingatheringtogetherwhatwassaidtobeauniqueprivatecollectionofTalmudic,cabalistic,andmagicalworks,manyofthemofgreatrarityandvalue.Histastesleanedtowardthemarvellousandthemonstrous,andIhaveheardthathisexperimentsinthedirectionoftheunknownhavepassedalltheboundsofcivilizationandofdecorum.TohisEnglishfriendsheneveralludedtosuchmatters,andtookthetoneofthestudentandvirtuoso;butaFrenchmanwhosetasteswereofthesamenaturehasassuredmethattheworstexcessesoftheblackmasshavebeenperpetratedinthatlargeandloftyhall,whichislinedwiththeshelvesofhisbooks,andthecasesofhismuseum.

           Dacre’sappearancewasenoughtoshowthathisdeepinterestinthesepsychicmatterswasintellectualratherthanspiritual.