he shrank coweringly backwards, out of
the room; his wavering, unquiet eyes fixed upon mine as long as we
remained within view of each other: a moment afterwards, I heard him
dart into his chamber, and bolt and double-lock the door.

It was plain that lunacy, but partially subdued, had resumed its
former mastery over the unfortunate gentleman. But what an
extraordinary delusion! I took a candle, and examined the picture with
renewed curiosity. It certainly bore a strong resemblance to Mrs
Irwin: the brown, curling hair, the pensive eyes, the pale fairness of
complexion, were the same; but it was scarcely more girlish, more
youthful, than the young matron was now, and the original, had she
lived, would have been by this time approaching to thirty years of
age! I went softly down stairs and found, as I feared, that George
Irwin was gone. My wife came weeping out of the death-chamber,
accompanied by Dr Garland, to whom I forthwith related what had just
taken place. He listened with attention and interest; and after some
sage observations upon the strange fancies which now and then take
possession of the minds of monomaniacs, agreed to see Mr Renshawe at
ten the next morning. I was not required upon duty till eleven; and if
it were in the physician's opinion desirable, I was to write at once
to the patient's uncle, Mr Oxley.

Mr Renshawe was, I heard, stirring before seven o'clock, and the
charwoman informed me, that he had taken his breakfast as usual, and
appeared to be in cheerful, almost high spirits. The physician was
punctual: I tapped at the sitting-room door, and was desired to come
in. Mr Renshawe was seated at a table with some papers before him,
evidently determined to appear cool and indifferent. He could not,
however, repress a start of surprise, almost of terror, at the sight
of the physician, and a paleness, followed by a hectic flush, passed
quickly over his countenance. I observed, too, that the portrait was
turned with its face towards the wall.

By a strong effort, Mr Renshawe regained his simulated composure, and
in reply to Dr Garland's professional inquiry, as to the state of his
health, said with a forced laugh: 'My friend, Waters, has, I suppose,
been amusing you with the absurd story that made him stare so last
night. It is exceedingly droll, I must say, although many persons,
otherwise acute enough, cannot, except upon reflection, comprehend a
jest. There was John Kemble, the tragedian, for inst