So permeated with mysticism are the writings of Pierre Lotie, 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 Lotie'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 mosque, a beautiful gleaming domed 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 mosque was completed, Monsieur Lotie invited his friend Monsieur Coteline to observe it. The magnificent piece of work. The thing has an air about it, Pierre, an air of eastern mystery, as if it held all the secrets that we for Occidentals will never understand. You are very kind, mon ami. I'm not trying to be kind, I'm simply telling you what... Wait a moment. What was that? Sonny Dreyfus. Listen. Mon Dieu. Pierre, it came from inside the mosque. 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 mosque's interior. It was empty, of course. It must have been the mosque, Pierre. It couldn't have been anything else, could it? From that day on, Pielotti 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, suddenly, without warning, it would come. Always the same number of raps. Always from inside the mosque. The first few times, Pielotti investigated, and then, later, he merely sat and listened and wandered. 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 mosque. Mon Dieu. No! It isn't possible. In an instant, Pierre was at the telephone calling his friend Coteline. A half hour later, the two men stood inside the mosque. It was brightened by the rays of a flashlight in Pielotti'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 mosque were the impressions of children's naked feet. And yet, there were no children in Pielotti's home, and none came to visit him. Or was this the only time the prints were observed? No matter how often he wiped them away, they continued to reappear. Was it true, as Coteline had suggested, that the mosque 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.