t, just as he
was about to hail him, Trenchard crossed the road to one of the houses
opposite, inserted a key in the door, and disappeared within, shutting
the door behind him.

Henley paused a moment opposite to the house. It was of a dull red
colour, and had a few creepers straggling helplessly about it, looking
like a torn veil that can only partially conceal a dull, heavy face.

"Andrew seems at home here," he thought, gazing up at the blind, tall
windows, which showed no ray of light. "I wonder----"

And then, still gazing at the windows, he recalled the description of
the house where Olive Beauchamp lived in their book.

"He took it from this," Henley said to himself. Yes, that was obvious.
Trenchard had described the prison-house of despair, where the two
victims of a strange, desolating habit shut themselves up to sink, with
a curious minuteness. He had even devoted a paragraph to the tall iron
gate, whose round handle he had written of as "bald, and exposed to the
wind from the river, the paint having long since been worn off it." In
the twilight Henley bent down and examined the handle of the gate. The
paint seemed to have been scraped from it.

"How curiously real that book has become to me!" he muttered. "I could
almost believe that if I knocked upon that door, and was let in, I
should find Olive Beauchamp stretched on a couch in the room that lies
beyond those gaunt, shuttered windows."

He gave a last glance at the house, and as he did so he fancied that
he heard a slight cry come from it to him. He listened attentively and
heard nothing more. Then he walked away toward home.

When he reached his room, he found upon his table the envelope which
Trenchard had directed to him. He opened it, and unwrapped the key from
the inclosed sheet of note-paper, on which were written these words:

"Dear Jack,

"I am off again. And this time I can't say when I shall be
back. In any case, I have completed my part of the book, and
leave the finishing of it in your hands. This is the key of
the drawer in which I have locked the manuscript. You have
not seen most of the last volume. Read it, and judge for
yourself whether the _denouement_ can be anything but
utterly tragic. I will not outline to you what I have
thought of for it. If you have any difficulty about the
_finale_, I shall be able to help you with it even if you do
not see me again for some time. By