But there were positively no other marks of
violence about him, certainly none that would account for his death; and
when they came to the autopsy there wasn't a trace of poison of any
kind. Of course the police wanted to know all about the people at Number
20, and here again, so I have heard from private sources, one or two
other very curious points came out. It appears that the occupants of the
house were a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Herbert; he was said to be a landed
proprietor, though it struck most people that Paul Street was not
exactly the place to look for county gentry. As for Mrs. Herbert, nobody
seemed to know who or what she was, and, between ourselves, I fancy the
divers after her history found themselves in rather strange waters. Of
course they both denied knowing anything about the deceased, and in
default of any evidence against them they were discharged. But some very
odd things came out about them. Though it was between five and six in
the morning when the dead man was removed, a large crowd had collected,
and several of the neighbours ran to see what was going on. They were
pretty free with their comments, by all accounts, and from these it
appeared that Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul Street. The
detectives tried to trace down these rumours to some solid foundation of
fact, but could not get hold of anything. People shook their heads and
raised their eyebrows and thought the Herberts rather "queer," "would
rather not be seen going into their house," and so on, but there was
nothing tangible. The authorities were morally certain that the man met
his death in some way or another in the house and was thrown out by the
kitchen door, but they couldn't prove it, and the absence of any
indications of violence or poisoning left them helpless. An odd case,
wasn't it? But curiously enough, there's something more that I haven't
told you. I happened to know one of the doctors who was consulted as to
the cause of death, and some time after the inquest I met him, and asked
him about it. "Do you really mean to tell me," I said, "that you were
baffled by the case, that you actually don't know what the man died of?" "Pardon me," he replied, "I know perfectly well what caused death. Blank
died of fright, of sheer, awful terror; I never saw features so
hideously contorted in the entire course of my practice, and I have seen
the faces of a whole host of dead." The doctor was usually a cool
customer enough, and a certain vehemence in his manner struck me, but I
couldn't get anything more out of him. I suppose the Treasury didn't see
their way to prosecuting the Herberts for frightening a man to death; at
any rate, nothing was done, and the case dropped out of men's minds. Do
you happen to know anything of Herbert?' 'Well,' replied Villiers, 'he was an old college friend of mine.' 'You don't say so? Have you ever seen his wife?' 'No, I haven't. I have lost sight of Herbert for many years.' 'It's queer, isn't it, parting with a man at the college gate or at
Paddington, seeing nothing of him for years, and then finding him pop up
his head in such an odd place. But I should like to have seen Mrs.
Herbert; people said extraordinary things about her.' 'What sort of things?' 'Well, I hardly know how to tell you. Every one who saw her at the
police court said she was at once the most beautiful woman and the most
repulsive they had ever set eyes on. I have spoken to a man who saw her,
and I assure you he positively shuddered as he tried to describe the
woman, but he couldn't tell why. She seems to have been a sort of
enigma; and I expect if that one dead man could have told tales, he
would have told some uncommonly queer ones. And there you are again in
another puzzle; what could a respectable country gentleman like Mr.
Blank (we'll call him that if you don't mind) want in such a very queer
house as Number 20? It's altogether a very odd case, isn't it?' 'It is indeed, Austin; an extraordinary case. I didn't think, when I
asked you about my old friend, I should strike on such strange metal. Well, I must be off; good-day.' Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the Chinese boxes;
here was quaint workmanship indeed. IV

THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET

A few months after Villiers's meeting with Herbert, Mr. Clarke was
sitting, as usual, by his after-dinner hearth, resolutely guarding his
fancies from wandering in the direction of the bureau. For more than a
week he had succeeded in keeping away from the 'Memoirs,' and he
cherished hopes of a complete self-reformation; but, in spite of his
endeavours, he could not hush the wonder and the strange curiosity that
that last case he had written down had excited within him. He had put
the case, or rather the outline of it, conjecturally to a scientific
friend, who shook his head, and thought Clarke getting queer, and on
this particular evening Clarke was making an effort to rationalize the
story, when a sudden knock at his door roused him from his meditations. 'Mr. Villiers to see you, sir.' 'Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me up; I have not
seen you for many months; I should think nearly a year. Come in, come
in. And how are you, Villiers? Want any advice about investments?' 'No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is pretty safe. No,
Clarke, I have really come to consult you about a rather curious matter
that has been brought under my notice of late. I am afraid you will
think it all rather absurd when I tell my tale. I sometimes think so
myself, and that's just why I made up my mind to come to you, as I know
you're a practical man.' Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the 'Memoirs to prove the Existence of the
Devil.' 'Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my advice, to the best of
my ability. What is the nature of the case?' 'It's an extraordinary thing altogether. You know my ways; I always keep
my eyes open in the streets, and in my time I have chanced upon some
queer customers, and queer cases too, but this, I think, beats all. I
was coming out of a restaurant one nasty winter night about three months
ago; I had had a capital dinner and a good bottle of Chianti, and I
stood for a moment on the pavement, thinking what a mystery there is
about London streets and the companies that pass along them. A bottle of
red wine encourages these fancies, Clarke, and I dare say I should have
thought a page of small type, but I was cut short by a beggar who had
come behind me, and was making the usual appeals. Of course I looked
round, and this beggar turned out to be what was left of an old friend
of mine, a man named Herbert. I asked him how he had come to such a
wretched pass, and he told me. We walked up and down one of those long
dark Soho streets, and there I listened to his story. He said he had
married a beautiful girl, some years younger than himself, and, as he
put it, she had corrupted him body and soul.