a medical man.'

Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out the
horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left the
hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. The
night-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar, and to
think quietly over what had happened.

CHAPTER XIX

Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up and
down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the
rising moon.

Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. The
strange effect produced on him by the room--following on the other
strange effects produced on the other relatives of his dead
brother--exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this
sensible man. 'Perhaps,' he reflected, 'my temperament is more
imaginative than I supposed it to be--and this is a trick played on me
by my own fancy? Or, perhaps, my friend is right; something is
physically amiss with me? I don't feel ill, certainly. But that is no
safe criterion sometimes. I am not going to sleep in that abominable
room to-night--I can well wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shall
speak to a doctor or not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn't seem
likely to supply me with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell from
an invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback.
If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of the
theatre.'

As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, he
became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observing
him with marked attention. 'Am I right in supposing you to be Mr.
Francis Westwick?' the lady asked, at the moment when he looked at her.

'That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour of
speaking?'

'We have only met once,' she answered a little evasively, 'when your
late brother introduced me to the members of his family. I wonder if
you have quite forgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion?'
She lifted her veil as she spoke, and turned so that the moonlight
rested on her face.

Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he most
cordially disliked--the widow of his dead brother, the first Lord
Montbarry. He frowned as he looked at her. His experience on the
stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals with actresses who had sorely
tried his temper, had accustomed him to speak roughly to women who were
di