 So permeated with mysticism are the writings of Pierre Loti, the great French romanticist, that it comes as no surprise to us to learn that, in the latter days of his life, his name was connected with a haunting mystery that has never been, and perhaps will never be, explained. Dear to Pierre Loti's heart was his oriental art collection. Of all the pieces which he had acquired through the years, the one that pleased him most was the one that he himself had created. It was a mask of beautiful, gleaming, dull reproduction of a Mohammedan place of worship. Though it was, of course, in miniature, it filled the greater part of the room in which it stood, and was high enough to permit a full-grown man to stand upright in it. When, after months of painstaking labor, the mask was completed, Monsieur Loti invited his friend, Monsieur Cotterline, to observe it. The magnificent piece of work. The thing has an air about it, Pierre. An air of, uh, of eastern mystery, as if it held all the secrets that we, poor occidentals, will never understand. Mmm, you are very kind, Monsieur Loti. I'm not trying to be kind. I'm simply telling you what... Wait a moment. What was that? Something like this. Don't you? Pierre, he came from inside the mask. Yes. As if... as if there was something in there, trying to get out. There it is again. Come on, let's see what it is. The two men eased themselves for the narrow entrance. They stood in the gloomy semi-darkness of the mask's interior. It was empty, of course. It must have been a mask, Pierre. It couldn't have been anything else. Could it? From that day on, Pierre Loti took great care to guard his precious structure. The door to the room was always locked, and he alone had the key. During the weeks that followed, he spent many hours with his art collection. Every now and then, certainly without warning, it would come. Always the same number of raps. Always from inside the mask. The first few times Pierre Loti investigated, and then later, he merely sat and listened, and wondered. But one night, he chanced to fall asleep in the room. He was awakened shortly before midnight by the same mysterious sound. He arose from his chair and stepped inside the mask. Oh, dear. No. It isn't possible. In an instant, Pierre was at the telephone calling his friend, Cote d'Alene. A half hour later, the two men stood inside the mask. It was brightened by the rays of a flashlight in Pierre Loti's head. There, on the floor, what do you see? Footprints. The footprints of young children. Yes, clearly visible in the dust on the floor of the mask were the impressions of children's naked feet. Yet there were no children in Pierre Loti's home, and none came to visit him. It was just the only time the prints were observed. No matter how often he wiped them away, they continued to reappear. Was it true, as Cote d'Alene had suggested, that the mask held oriental secrets which no Western mind could ever fathom? If not, then what is the explanation of this baffling riddle? A riddle, incredible but true.