In his left side
was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood
on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly
clean. A savage wild-cat might have inflicted the injuries. The window
of the study was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr
Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature. But
Stephen Elliott’s study of the papers I have quoted led him to a very
different conclusion. THE MEZZOTINT


Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story of
an adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name of
Dennistoun, during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum at
Cambridge. He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return to
England; but they could not fail to become known to a good many of his
friends, and among others to the gentleman who at that time presided
over an art museum at another University. It was to be expected that
the story should make a considerable impression on the mind of a man
whose vocation lay in lines similar to Dennistoun’s, and that he should
be eager to catch at any explanation of the matter which tended to make
it seem improbable that he should ever be called upon to deal with so
agitating an emergency. It was, indeed, somewhat consoling to him to
reflect that he was not expected to acquire ancient MSS. for his
institution; that was the business of the Shelburnian Library. The
authorities of that institution might, if they pleased, ransack obscure
corners of the Continent for such matters. He was glad to be obliged at
the moment to confine his attention to enlarging the already
unsurpassed collection of English topographical drawings and engravings
possessed by his museum. Yet, as it turned out, even a department so
homely and familiar as this may have its dark corners, and to one of
these Mr Williams was unexpectedly introduced. Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisition
of topographical pictures are aware that there is one London dealer
whose aid is indispensable to their researches. Mr J. W. Britnell
publishes at short intervals very admirable catalogues of a large and
constantly changing stock of engravings, plans, and old sketches of
mansions, churches, and towns in England and Wales. These catalogues
were, of course, the ABC of his subject to Mr Williams: but as his
museum already contained an enormous accumulation of topographical
pictures, he was a regular, rather than a copious, buyer; and he rather
looked to Mr Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of his
collection than to supply him with rarities. Now, in February of last year there appeared upon Mr Williams’s desk at
the museum a catalogue from Mr Britnell’s emporium, and accompanying it
was a typewritten communication from the dealer himself. This latter
ran as follows:

DEAR SIR,
    We beg to call your attention to No. 978 in our accompanying
    catalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval. Yours faithfully,
J. W. BRITNELL. To turn to No. 978 in the accompanying catalogue was with Mr. Williams
(as he observed to himself) the work of a moment, and in the place
indicated he found the following entry:

978.—_Unknown._ Interesting mezzotint: View of a manor-house, early
part of the century. 15 by 10 inches; black frame. £2 2s. It was not specially exciting, and the price seemed high. However, as
Mr Britnell, who knew his business and his customer, seemed to set
store by it, Mr Williams wrote a postcard asking for the article to be
sent on approval, along with some other engravings and sketches which
appeared in the same catalogue. And so he passed without much
excitement of anticipation to the ordinary labours of the day. A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it, and
that of Mr Britnell proved, as I believe the right phrase goes, no
exception to the rule. It was delivered at the museum by the afternoon
post of Saturday, after Mr Williams had left his work, and it was
accordingly brought round to his rooms in college by the attendant, in
order that he might not have to wait over Sunday before looking through
it and returning such of the contents as he did not propose to keep. And here he found it when he came in to tea, with a friend. The only item with which I am concerned was the rather large,
black-framed mezzotint of which I have already quoted the short
description given in Mr Britnell’s catalogue. Some more details of it
will have to be given, though I cannot hope to put before you the look
of the picture as clearly as it is present to my own eye. Very nearly
the exact duplicate of it may be seen in a good many old inn parlours,
or in the passages of undisturbed country mansions at the present
moment. It was a rather indifferent mezzotint, and an indifferent
mezzotint is, perhaps, the worst form of engraving known. It presented
a full-face view of a not very large manor-house of the last century,
with three rows of plain sashed windows with rusticated masonry about
them, a parapet with balls or vases at the angles, and a small portico
in the centre. On either side were trees, and in front a considerable
expanse of lawn. The legend _A. W. F. sculpsit_ was engraved on the
narrow margin; and there was no further inscription. The whole thing
gave the impression that it was the work of an amateur. What in the
world Mr Britnell could mean by affixing the price of £2 2s. to such an
object was more than Mr Williams could imagine. He turned it over with
a good deal of contempt; upon the back was a paper label, the left-hand
half of which had been torn off. All that remained were the ends of two
lines of writing: the first had the letters—_ngley Hall_; the
second,—_ssex_. It would, perhaps, be just worth while to identify the place
represented, which he could easily do with the help of a gazetteer, and
then he would send it back to Mr Britnell, with some remarks reflecting
upon the judgement of that gentleman. He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and supplied
the friend with whom he had been playing golf (for I believe the
authorities of the University I write of indulge in that pursuit by way
of relaxation); and tea was taken to the accompaniment of a discussion
which golfing persons can imagine for themselves, but which the
conscientious writer has no right to inflict upon any non-golfing
persons. The conclusion arrived at was that certain strokes might have been
better, and that in certain emergencies neither player had experienced
that amount of luck which a human being has a right to expect. It was
now that the friend—let us call him Professor Binks—took up the framed
engraving, and said:

“What’s this place, Williams?”

“Just what I am going to try to find out,” said Williams, going to the
shelf for a gazetteer. “Look at the back. Somethingley Hall, either in
Sussex or Essex. Half the name’s gone, you see.