Some months ago Mr. Kennedy, the well-known
English student, disappeared suddenly from his rooms in the Corso, and
it was conjectured that his association with a recent scandal had
driven him to leave Rome. It appears now that he had in reality fallen
a victim to that fervid love of archaeology which had raised him to a
distinguished place among living scholars. His body was discovered in
the heart of the new catacomb, and it was evident from the condition of
his feet and boots that he had tramped for days through the tortuous
corridors which make these subterranean tombs so dangerous to
explorers. The deceased gentleman had, with inexplicable rashness,
made his way into this labyrinth without, as far as can be discovered,
taking with him either candles or matches, so that his sad fate was the
natural result of his own temerity. What makes the matter more painful
is that Dr. Julius Burger was an intimate friend of the deceased. His
joy at the extraordinary find which he has been so fortunate as to make
has been greatly marred by the terrible fate of his comrade and
fellow-worker." The Case of Lady Sannox

The relations between Douglas Stone and the notorious Lady Sannox were
very well known both among the fashionable circles of which she was a
brilliant member, and the scientific bodies which numbered him among
their most illustrious confreres. There was naturally, therefore, a
very widespread interest when it was announced one morning that the
lady had absolutely and for ever taken the veil, and that the world
would see her no more. When, at the very tail of this rumour, there
came the assurance that the celebrated operating surgeon, the man of
steel nerves, had been found in the morning by his valet, seated on one
side of his bed, smiling pleasantly upon the universe, with both legs
jammed into one side of his breeches and his great brain about as
valuable as a cap full of porridge, the matter was strong enough to
give quite a little thrill of interest to folk who had never hoped that
their jaded nerves were capable of such a sensation. Douglas Stone in his prime was one of the most remarkable men in
England. Indeed, he could hardly be said to have ever reached his
prime, for he was but nine-and-thirty at the time of this little
incident. Those who knew him best were aware that famous as he was as
a surgeon, he might have succeeded with even greater rapidity in any of
a dozen lines of life. He could have cut his way to fame as a soldier,
struggled to it as an explorer, bullied for it in the courts, or built
it out of stone and iron as an engineer. He was born to be great, for
he could plan what another man dare not do, and he could do what
another man dare not plan. In surgery none could follow him. His
nerve, his judgement, his intuition, were things apart. Again and
again his knife cut away death, but grazed the very springs of life in
doing it, until his assistants were as white as the patient. His
energy, his audacity, his full-blooded self-confidence--does not the
memory of them still linger to the south of Marylebone Road and the
north of Oxford Street? His vices were as magnificent as his virtues, and infinitely more
picturesque. Large as was his income, and it was the third largest of
all professional men in London, it was far beneath the luxury of his
living. Deep in his complex nature lay a rich vein of sensualism, at
the sport of which he placed all the prizes of his life. The eye, the
ear, the touch, the palate, all were his masters. The bouquet of old
vintages, the scent of rare exotics, the curves and tints of the
daintiest potteries of Europe, it was to these that the quick-running
stream of gold was transformed. And then there came his sudden mad
passion for Lady Sannox, when a single interview with two challenging
glances and a whispered word set him ablaze. She was the loveliest
woman in London and the only one to him. He was one of the handsomest
men in London, but not the only one to her. She had a liking for new
experiences, and was gracious to most men who wooed her. It may have
been cause or it may have been effect that Lord Sannox looked fifty,
though he was but six-and-thirty. He was a quiet, silent, neutral-tinted man, this lord, with thin lips
and heavy eyelids, much given to gardening, and full of home-like
habits. He had at one time been fond of acting, had even rented a
theatre in London, and on its boards had first seen Miss Marion Dawson,
to whom he had offered his hand, his title, and the third of a county. Since his marriage his early hobby had become distasteful to him. Even
in private theatricals it was no longer possible to persuade him to
exercise the talent which he had often showed that he possessed. He
was happier with a spud and a watering-can among his orchids and
chrysanthemums. It was quite an interesting problem whether he was absolutely devoid of
sense, or miserably wanting in spirit. Did he know his lady's ways and
condone them, or was he a mere blind, doting fool? It was a point to be
discussed over the teacups in snug little drawing-rooms, or with the
aid of a cigar in the bow windows of clubs. Bitter and plain were the
comments among men upon his conduct. There was but one who had a good
word to say for him, and he was the most silent member in the
smoking-room. He had seen him break in a horse at the University, and
it seemed to have left an impression upon his mind. But when Douglas Stone became the favourite all doubts as to Lord
Sannox's knowledge or ignorance were set for ever at rest. There was no
subterfuge about Stone. In his high-handed, impetuous fashion, he set
all caution and discretion at defiance. The scandal became notorious. A learned body intimated that his name had been struck from the list of
its vice-presidents. Two friends implored him to consider his
professional credit. He cursed them all three, and spent forty guineas
on a bangle to take with him to the lady. He was at her house every
evening, and she drove in his carriage in the afternoons. There was
not an attempt on either side to conceal their relations; but there
came at last a little incident to interrupt them. It was a dismal winter's night, very cold and gusty, with the wind
whooping in the chimneys and blustering against the window-panes. A
thin spatter of rain tinkled on the glass with each fresh sough of the
gale, drowning for the instant the dull gurgle and drip from the eaves. Douglas Stone had finished his dinner, and sat by his fire in the
study, a glass of rich port upon the malachite table at his elbow. As
he raised it to his lips, he held it up against the lamplight, and
watched with the eye of a connoisseur the tiny scales of beeswing which
floated in its rich ruby depths. The fire, as it spurted up, threw
fitful lights upon his bald, clear-cut face, with its widely-opened
grey eyes, its thick and yet firm lips, and the deep, square jaw, which
had something Roman in its strength and its animalism.