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. Subsequent to this his movements
cannot be traced. On the discovery of the body medical aid was at once
summoned, but life had evidently been long extinct. So far as is known,
Mr. Crashaw had no trouble or anxiety of any kind. This painful
suicide, it will be remembered, is the fifth of the kind in the last
month. The authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to suggest any
explanation of these terrible occurrences.”

Austin put down the paper in mute horror. “I shall leave London to-morrow,” he said, “it is a city of nightmares. How awful this is, Villiers!”

Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking out into the
street. He had listened to the newspaper report attentively, and the
hint of indecision was no longer on his face. “Wait a moment, Austin,” he replied, “I have made up my mind to mention
a little matter that occurred last night. It stated, I think, that
Crashaw was last seen alive in St. James’s Street shortly after ten?”

“Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are quite right.”

“Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement at all
events. Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o’clock this
morning.”

“You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?”

“Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feet
between us.”

“Where, in Heaven’s name, did you see him?”

“Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He was just leaving a
house.”

“Did you notice what house it was?”

“Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont’s.”

“Villiers! Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake. How
could Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont’s house at two o’clock in the
morning? Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers; you
were always rather fanciful.”

“No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been dreaming as you say,
what I saw would have roused me effectually.”

“What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything strange about
Crashaw? But I can’t believe it; it is impossible.”

“Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw, or if you please, what I
think I saw, and you can judge for yourself.”

“Very good, Villiers.”

The noise and clamour of the street had died away, though now and then
the sound of shouting still came from the distance, and the dull,
leaden silence seemed like the quiet after an earthquake or a storm. Villiers turned from the window and began speaking. “I was at a house near Regent’s Park last night, and when I came away
the fancy took me to walk home instead of taking a hansom. It was a
clear pleasant night enough, and after a few minutes I had the streets
pretty much to myself. It’s a curious thing, Austin, to be alone in
London at night, the gas-lamps stretching away in perspective, and the
dead silence, and then perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom on the
stones, and the fire starting up under the horse’s hoofs. I walked
along pretty briskly, for I was feeling a little tired of being out in
the night, and as the clocks were striking two I turned down Ashley
Street, which, you know, is on my way. It was quieter than ever there,
and the lamps were fewer; altogether, it looked as dark and gloomy as a
forest in winter. I had done about half the length of the street when I
heard a door closed very softly, and naturally I looked up to see who
was abroad like myself at such an hour. As it happens, there is a
street lamp close to the house in question, and I saw a man standing on
the step. He had just shut the door and his face was towards me, and I
recognized Crashaw directly. I never knew him to speak to, but I had
often seen him, and I am positive that I was not mistaken in my man. I
looked into his face for a moment, and then—I will confess the truth—I
set off at a good run, and kept it up till I was within my own door.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because it made my blood run cold to see that man’s face. I could
never have supposed that such an infernal medley of passions could have
glared out of any human eyes; I almost fainted as I looked. I knew I
had looked into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin, the man’s outward form
remained, but all hell was within it. Furious lust, and hate that was
like fire, and the loss of all hope and horror that seemed to shriek
aloud to the night, though his teeth were shut; and the utter blackness
of despair. I am sure that he did not see me; he saw nothing that you
or I can see, but what he saw I hope we never shall. I do not know when
he died; I suppose in an hour, or perhaps two, but when I passed down
Ashley Street and heard the closing door, that man no longer belonged
to this world; it was a devil’s face I looked upon.”

There was an interval of silence in the room when Villiers ceased
speaking. The light was failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago was
quite hushed. Austin had bent his head at the close of the story, and
his hand covered his eyes. “What can it mean?” he said at length. “Who knows, Austin, who knows? It’s a black business, but I think we
had better keep it to ourselves, for the present at any rate.