It
is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the name of
Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite unable to
describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The people there
know me; I have been able to do some of them a service now and again, so
they made no difficulty about giving their information; they were aware
I had no communication direct or indirect with Scotland Yard. I had to
cast out a good many lines, though, before I got what I wanted, and when
I landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose it was my fish. But I
listened to what I was told out of a constitutional liking for useless
information, and I found myself in possession of a very curious story,
though, as I imagined, not the story I was looking for. It was to this
effect. Some five or six years ago, a woman named Raymond suddenly made
her appearance in the neighbourhood to which I am referring. She was
described to me as being quite young, probably not more than seventeen
or eighteen, very handsome, and looking as if she came from the country. I should be wrong in saying that she found her level in going to this
particular quarter, or associating with these people, for from what I
was told, I should think the worst den in London far too good for her. The person from whom I got my information, as you may suppose, no great
Puritan, shuddered and grew sick in telling me of the nameless infamies
which were laid to her charge. After living there for a year, or perhaps
a little more, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, and they saw
nothing of her till about the time of the Paul Street case. At first she
came to her old haunts only occasionally, then more frequently, and
finally took up her abode there as before, and remained for six or eight
months. It's of no use my going into details as to the life that woman
led; if you want particulars you can look at Meyrick's legacy. Those
designs were not drawn from his imagination. She again disappeared, and
the people of the place saw nothing of her till a few months ago. My
informant told me that she had taken some rooms in a house which he
pointed out, and these rooms she was in the habit of visiting two or
three times a week and always at ten in the morning. I was led to expect
that one of these visits would be paid on a certain day about a week
ago, and I accordingly managed to be on the look-out in company with my
cicerone at a quarter to ten, and the hour and the lady came with equal
punctuality. My friend and I were standing under an archway, a little
way back from the street, but she saw us, and gave me a glance that I
shall be long in forgetting. That look was quite enough for me; I knew
Miss Raymond to be Mrs. Herbert; as for Mrs. Beaumont she had quite gone
out of my head. She went into the house, and I watched it till four
o'clock, when she came out, and then I followed her. It was a long
chase, and I had to be very careful to keep a long way in the
background, and yet not lose sight of the woman. She took me down to
the Strand, and then to Westminster, and then up St. James's Street, and
along Piccadilly. I felt queerish when I saw her turn up Ashley Street;
the thought that Mrs. Herbert was Mrs. Beaumont came into my mind, but
it seemed too improbable to be true. I waited at the corner, keeping my
eye on her all the time, and I took particular care to note the house at
which she stopped. It was the house with the gay curtains, the house of
flowers, the house out of which Crashaw came the night he hanged himself
in his garden. I was just going away with my discovery, when I saw an
empty carriage come round and draw up in front of the house, and I came
to the conclusion that Mrs. Herbert was going out for a drive, and I was
right. I took a hansom and followed the carriage into the Park. There,
as it happened, I met a man I know, and we stood talking together a
little distance from the carriage-way, to which I had my back. We had
not been there for ten minutes when my friend took off his hat, and I
glanced round and saw the lady I had been following all day. "Who is
that?" I said, and his answer was, "Mrs. Beaumont; lives in Ashley
Street." Of course there could be no doubt after that. I don't know
whether she saw me, but I don't think she did. I went home at once, and,
on consideration, I thought that I had a sufficiently good case with
which to go to Clarke.' 'Why to Clarke?' 'Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of facts about this
woman, facts of which I know nothing.' 'Well, what then?' Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked reflectively at Austin
for a moment before he answered:

'My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. Beaumont.' 'You would never go into such a house as that? No, no, Villiers, you
cannot do it. Besides, consider; what result ...'

'I will tell you soon. But I was going to say that my information does
not end here; it has been completed in an extraordinary manner. 'Look at this neat little packet of manuscript; it is paginated, you
see, and I have indulged in the civil coquetry of a ribbon of red tape. It has almost a legal air, hasn't it? Run your eye over it, Austin. It
is an account of the entertainment Mrs. Beaumont provided for her
choicer guests. The man who wrote this escaped with his life, but I do
not think he will live many years. The doctors tell him he must have
sustained some severe shock to the nerves.' Austin took the manuscript, but never read it. Opening the neat pages at
haphazard his eye was caught by a word and a phrase that followed it;
and, sick at heart, with white lips and a cold sweat pouring like water
from his temples, he flung the paper down. 'Take it away, Villiers, never speak of this again. Are you made of
stone, man? Why, the dread and horror of death itself, the thoughts of
the man who stands in the keen morning air on the black platform, bound,
the bell tolling in his ears, and waits for the harsh rattle of the
bolt, are as nothing compared to this. I will not read it; I should
never sleep again.' 'Very good. I can fancy what you saw. Yes; it is horrible enough; but
after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played in our day, and in
dim London streets instead of amidst the vineyards and the olive
gardens. We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great
God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of
something, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath
which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret
forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the
souls of men must wither and die and blacken, as their bodies blacken
under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot be
spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to
the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale.