You, Villiers, you may think you know life, and London,
and what goes on day and night in this dreadful city; for all I can say
you may have heard the talk of the vilest, but I tell you you can have
no conception of what I know, not in your most fantastic, hideous dreams
can you have imaged forth the faintest shadow of what I have heard--and
seen. Yes, seen. I have seen the incredible, such horrors that even I
myself sometimes stop in the middle of the street, and ask whether it is
possible for a man to behold such things and live. In a year, Villiers,
I was a ruined man, in body and soul--in body and soul.' 'But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset.' 'I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old house--everything.' 'And the money?' 'She took it all from me.' 'And then left you?' 'Yes; she disappeared one night. I don't know where she went, but I am
sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no
interest; sordid misery, that is all. You may think, Villiers, that I
have exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half. I
could tell you certain things which would convince you, but you would
never know a happy day again. You would pass the rest of your life, as I
pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell.' Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal. Herbert could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set
before him. He sat moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved
when Villiers sent him away with a small present of money. 'By the way, Herbert,' said Villiers, as they parted at the door, 'what
was your wife's name? You said Helen, I think? Helen what?' 'The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what
her real name was I can't say. I don't think she had a name. No, no, not
in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can't say any
more. Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in which
you can help me. Good-night.' The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his
fireside. There was something about Herbert which shocked him
inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks which poverty had set
upon his face, but rather an indefinite terror which hung about him
like a mist. He had acknowledged that he himself was not devoid of
blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him body and soul, and
Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an actor in
scenes evil beyond the power of words. His story needed no confirmation:
he himself was the embodied proof of it. Villiers mused curiously over
the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had heard both the first
and the last of it. 'No,' he thought, 'certainly not the last, probably
only the beginning. A case like this is like a nest of Chinese boxes;
you open one after another and find a quainter workmanship in every box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of the outside boxes; there are
stranger ones to follow.' Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and his story, which
seemed to grow wilder as the night wore on. The fire began to burn low,
and the chilly air of the morning crept into the room; Villiers got up
with a glance over his shoulder, and shivering slightly, went to bed. A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his acquaintance,
named Austin, who was famous for his intimate knowledge of London life,
both in its tenebrous and luminous phases. Villiers, still full of his
encounter in Soho and its consequences, thought Austin might possibly be
able to shed some light on Herbert's history, and so after some casual
talk he suddenly put the question:

'Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert--Charles
Herbert?' Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with some
astonishment. 'Charles Herbert? Weren't you in town three years ago? No; then you have
not heard of the Paul Street case? It caused a good deal of sensation at
the time.' 'What was the case?' 'Well, a gentleman, a man of very good position, was found dead, stark
dead, in the area of a certain house in Paul Street, off Tottenham Court
Road. Of course the police did not make the discovery; if you happen to
be sitting up all night and have a light in your window, the constable
will ring the bell, but if you happen to be lying dead in somebody's
area, you will be left alone. In this instance as in many others the
alarm was raised by some kind of vagabond; I don't mean a common tramp,
or a public-house loafer, but a gentleman, whose business or pleasure,
or both, made him a spectator of the London streets at five o'clock in
the morning. This individual was, as he said, "going home," it did not
appear whence or whither, and had occasion to pass through Paul Street
between four and five a. m. Something or other caught his eye at Number
20; he said, absurdly enough, that the house had the most unpleasant
physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any rate, he glanced down the
area, and was a good deal astonished to see a man lying on the stones,
his limbs all huddled together, and his face turned up. Our gentleman
thought his face looked peculiarly ghastly, and so set off at a run in
search of the nearest policeman. The constable was at first inclined to
treat the matter lightly, suspecting common drunkenness; however, he
came, and after looking at the man's face, changed his tone, quickly
enough. The early bird, who had picked up this fine worm, was sent off
for a doctor, and the policeman rang and knocked at the door till a
slatternly servant girl came down looking more than half asleep. The
constable pointed out the contents of the area to the maid, who screamed
loudly enough to wake up the street, but she knew nothing of the man;
had never seen him at the house, and so forth. Meanwhile the original
discoverer had come back with a medical man, and the next thing was to
get into the area. The gate was open, so the whole quartet stumped down
the steps. The doctor hardly needed a moment's examination; he said the
poor fellow had been dead for several hours, and it was then the case
began to get interesting. The dead man had not been robbed, and in one
of his pockets were papers identifying him as--well, as a man of good
family and means, a favourite in society, and nobody's enemy, so far as
could be known. I don't give his name, Villiers, because it has nothing
to do with the story, and because it's no good raking up these affairs
about the dead when there are no relations living. The next curious
point was that the medical men couldn't agree as to how he met his
death. There were some slight bruises on his shoulders, but they were so
slight that it looked as if he had been pushed roughly out of the
kitchen door, and not thrown over the railings from the street or even
dragged down the steps.