lands and phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed."

Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly in
search of something on which to turn the conversation. His eyes fell
on an old chest somewhat like that in which the artist's strange legacy
lay hid beneath a Gothic scutcheon.

"Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?" he asked.

"Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death.
I don't expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month. I
thought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwoman
named Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me any
information about her. But it's very possible that Meyrick fell in
with her at New York, or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as to
the extent or direction of his travels."

"Yes, and it's very possible that the woman may have more than one
name."

"Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portrait
of her which you possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr.
Matthews."

"So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark!
what are those boys calling?"

While the two men had been talking together a confused noise of
shouting had been gradually growing louder. The noise rose from the
eastward and swelled down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a very
torrent of sound; surging up streets usually quiet, and making every
window a frame for a face, curious or excited. The cries and voices
came echoing up the silent street where Villiers lived, growing more
distinct as they advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an answer rang up
from the pavement:

"The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!"

Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out the
paragraph to Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell. The
window was open and the air seemed full of noise and terror.

"Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic of
suicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End. Mr.
Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King's Pomeroy, Devon, was
found, after a prolonged search, hanging dead from the branch of a tree
in his garden at one o'clock today. The deceased gentleman dined last
night at the Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits.
He left the club at about ten o'clock, and was seen walking leisurely
up St. James's Street a little later.