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 these
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 sure 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. She will come back to London, Austin;
depend on it, she will come back, and we shall hear more about her
then. I doubt it will be very pleasant news.”




VI
THE SUICIDES


Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society. At twenty he
had been a poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family,
but forced to earn a livelihood as best he could, and the most
speculative of money-lenders would not have entrusted him with fifty
pounds on the chance of his ever changing his name for a title, and his
poverty for a great fortune. His father had been near enough to the
fountain of good things to secure one of the family livings, but the
son, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so much
as this, and moreover felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate. Thus he fronted the world with no better armour than the bachelor’s
gown and the wits of a younger son’s grandson, with which equipment he
contrived in some way to make a very tolerable fight of it. At
twenty-five Mr. Charles Aubernon saw himself still a man of struggles
and of warfare with the world, but out of the seven who stood before
him and the high places of his family three only remained. These three,
however, were “good lives,” but yet not proof against the Zulu assegais
and typhoid fever, and so one morning Aubernon woke up and found
himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had faced the difficulties
of existence, and had conquered. The situation amused him immensely,
and he resolved that riches should be as pleasant to him as poverty had
always been. Argentine, after some little consideration, came to the
conclusion that dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhaps the most
amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinners became
famous in London, and an invitation to his table a thing covetously
desired. After ten years of lordship and dinners Argentine still
declined to be jaded, still persisted in enjoying life, and by a kind
of infection had become recognized as the cause of joy in others, in
short, as the best of company. His sudden and tragical death therefore
caused a wide and deep sensation. People could scarcely believe it,
even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and the cry of
“Mysterious Death of a Nobleman” came ringing up from the street. But
there stood the brief paragraph: “Lord Argentine was found dead this
morning by his valet under distressing circumstances. It is stated that
there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide, though no
motive can be assigned for the act. The deceased nobleman was widely
known in society, and much liked for his genial manner and sumptuous
hospitality. He is succeeded by,” etc., etc. By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remained
a mystery. The chief witness at the inquest was the deceased’s valet,
who said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined with
a lady of good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaper
reports. At about eleven o’clock Lord Argentine had returned, and
informed his man that he should not require his services till the next
morning. A little later the valet had occasion to cross the hall and
was somewhat astonished to see his master quietly letting himself out
at the front door. He had taken off his evening clothes, and was
dressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low brown hat. The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him,
and though his master rarely kept late hours, thought little of the
occurrence till the next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom door
at a quarter to nine as usual. He received no answer, and, after
knocking two or three times, entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine’s
body leaning forward at an angle from the bottom of the bed.