To the best of my belief it was after turning the
portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from his chair. The name,
you know, was written on the back.' 'Quite so. After all, it is impossible to come to any resolution in a
case like this. I hate melodrama, and nothing strikes me as more
commonplace and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commerce; but
really, Villiers, it looks as if there were something very queer at the
bottom of all this.' The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley Street, leading
northward from Piccadilly. It was a long street, and rather a gloomy
one, but here and there a brighter taste had illuminated the dark houses
with flowers, and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the doors. Villiers glanced up as Austin stopped speaking, and looked at one of
these houses; geraniums, red and white, drooped from every sill, and
daffodil-coloured curtains were draped back from each window. 'It looks cheerful, doesn't it?' he said. 'Yes, and the inside is still more cheery. One of the pleasantest houses
of the season, so I have heard. I haven't been there myself, but I've
met several men who have, and they tell me it's uncommonly jovial.' 'Whose house is it?' 'A Mrs. Beaumont's.' 'And who is she?' 'I couldn't tell you. I have heard she comes from South America, but,
after all, who she is is of little consequence. She is a very wealthy
woman, there's no doubt of that, and some of the best people have taken
her up. I hear she has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine,
which must have cost a fabulous sum. Lord Argentine was telling me about
it; he was there last Sunday evening. He assures me he has never tasted
such a wine, and Argentine, as you know, is an expert. By the way, that
reminds me, she must be an oddish sort of woman, this Mrs. Beaumont. Argentine asked her how old the wine was, and what do you think she
said? "About a thousand years, I believe." Lord Argentine thought she
was chaffing him, you know, but when he laughed she said she was
speaking quite seriously, and offered to show him the jar. Of course, he
couldn't say anything more after that; but it seems rather antiquated
for a beverage, doesn't it? Why, here we are at my rooms. Come in, won't
you?' 'Thanks, I think I will. I haven't seen the curiosity-shop for some
time.' It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every chair and
bookcase and table, and every rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a
thing apart, preserving each its own individuality. 'Anything fresh lately?' said Villiers after a while. 'No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs, didn't you? I thought so. I
don't think I have come across anything for the last few weeks.' Austin glanced round the room from cupboard to cupboard, from shelf to
shelf, in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an old
chest, pleasantly and quaintly carved, which stood in a dark corner of
the room. 'Ah,' he said, 'I was forgetting, I have got something to show you.' Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto volume, laid it on
the table, and resumed the cigar he had put down. 'Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?' 'A little; I met him two or three times at the house of a friend of
mine. What has become of him? I haven't heard his name mentioned for
some time.' 'He's dead.' 'You don't say so! Quite young, wasn't he?' 'Yes; only thirty when he died.' 'What did he die of?' 'I don't know. He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughly good
fellow. He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he was one of
the best talkers I have met. He could even talk about painting, and
that's more than can be said of most painters. About eighteen months ago
he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he went
off on a sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or aim
about it. I believe New York was to be his first port, but I never heard
from him. Three months ago I got this book, with a very civil letter
from an English doctor practising at Buenos Ayres, stating that he had
attended the late Mr. Meyrick during his illness, and that the deceased
had expressed an earnest wish that the enclosed packet should be sent to
me after his death. That was all.' 'And haven't you written for further particulars?' 'I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me to write to the
doctor?' 'Certainly. And what about the book?' 'It was sealed up when I got it. I don't think the doctor had seen it.' 'It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?' 'No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you think of those
Ainu jugs?' 'They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren't you going to show me
poor Meyrick's legacy?' 'Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it's rather a peculiar sort of
thing, and I haven't shown it to any one. I wouldn't say anything about
it if I were you. There it is.' Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard. 'It isn't a printed volume then?' he said. 'No. It is a collection of drawings in black and white by my poor friend
Meyrick.' Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the second bore a brief
inscription, which he read:

    _Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus est; lucet
    nocturnis ignibus, chorus Ægipanum undique personatur: audiuntur et
    cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum per oram maritimam._

On the third page was a design which made Villiers start and look up at
Austin; he was gazing abstractedly out of the window. Villiers turned
page after page, absorbed, in spite of himself, in the frightful
Walpurgis Night of evil, strange monstrous evil, that the dead artist
had set forth in hard black and white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrs
and Ægipans danced before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, the
dance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in green
vineyards, by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a world before
which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder. Villiers whirled
over the remaining pages; he had seen enough, but the picture on the
last leaf caught his eye, as he almost closed the book. 'Austin!' 'Well, what is it?' 'Do you know who that is?' It was a woman's face, alone on the white page. 'Know who it is? No, of course not.' 'I do.' 'Who is it?' 'It is Mrs. Herbert.' 'Are you sure?' 'I am perfectly certain of it. Poor Meyrick! He is one more chapter in
her history.' 'But what do you think of the designs?' 'They are frightful. Lock the book up again, Austin. If I were you I
would burn it; it must be a terrible companion even though it be in a
chest.' 'Yes, they are singular drawings. But I wonder what connection there
could be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between her and
these designs?' 'Ah, who can say? It is possible that the matter may end here, and we
shall never know, but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs.
Herbert, is only the beginning.