May, "do you know I am convinced that what you told me about Paul Street and the Herberts is a mere episode in an extra

seen hi

ut I recognized the man, and I got him to tell me his history, or at least the

hat m

y say that she had destroyed him, b

as become o

u understand my meaning; not shrewd in the mere business sense of the word, but a man who really knows something about men and life. Well, I laid the case before him, an

w out the letter, and read it

oubt, that I am in possession of some secret information, and to a certain extent that is the case. But I only know a little; I am like a traveller who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror. What I know is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond my kno

ns; but we will talk on mor

er methodically, and r

nary letter," he said, "what

I have been to Paul Street

told it to Clarke, and Austin list

ation in that room!" he said at length. "I hardly gather that it was

deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to every nerve and bone and sinew of my body. I fe

t there is some very black story connected with this woman. Did you n

t he assured me that it was a mere pa

u belie

deal of indifference, till I showed him the portrait. It was then that he wa

be another explanation; it might have been the name, and n

rning the portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped fr

ama, and nothing strikes me as more commonplace and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commer

here a brighter taste had illuminated the dark houses with flowers, and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the doors. Villiers glanced up as Austin stopped

erful, doesn'

es of the season, so I have heard. I haven't been there myself, but I'

house

. Beau

who i

ne was telling me about it; he was there last Sunday evening. He assures me he has never tasted such a wine, and Argentine, as you know, is an expert. By the way, that reminds me, she must be an oddish sort of woman, this Mrs. Beaumont. Argentine asked her how old the wine was, and what do you think she said? 'About a thousand y

I haven't seen the curi

d bookcase and table, and every rug and jar and ornament seem

ately?" said Vill

idn't you? I thought so. I don't think I have

helf, in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an odd chest

you." Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto volu

hur Meyrick the p

use of a friend of mine. What has become of him?

s de

so! Quite you

thirty wh

id he d

en months ago he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he went off on a sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or aim about it. I believe New York was to be his first port, but I never heard from him. Three months ago I got this book, wi

written for fur

oing so. You would advise

And what abo

I got it. I don't think

y rare? Meyrick was

collector. Now, what do you

them. But aren't you going to

ar sort of thing, and I haven't shown it to any one. I w

book, and opened

inted volume,

drawings in black and white

, it was blank; the second bore a

nocturnis ignibus, chorus Aegipanum undique personatur: audiunt

vil, that the dead artist had set forth in hard black and white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrs and Aegipans danced before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, the dance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in green vineyards, by rocks

sti

what

know who

s face, alone o

is? No, of

d

is

Mrs. He

you s

Poor Meyrick! He is one mo

you think of

tin. If I were you I would burn it; it must be a

connection there could be between Meyrick and Mrs. H

ion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs. Herbert, is only the beginning. She will come back to London, Austin; depe