at did not admit of so simple an
explanation. If the man's form my brother saw at Oxford were merely an
effort of disordered imagination, how was it that he had been able to
describe it exactly like that represented in this picture? He had never
in his life been to Royston, therefore he could have no image of the
picture impressed unconsciously on or hidden away in his mind. Yet his
description had never varied. It had been so close as to enable me to
produce in my fancy a vivid representation of the man he had seen; and
here I had before me the features and dress exactly reproduced. In the
presence of a coincidence so extraordinary reason stood confounded, and
I knew not what to think. I walked nearer to the picture and scrutinised
it closely.

The dress corresponded in every detail with that which my brother had
described the figure as wearing at Oxford: a long cut-away coat of green
cloth with an edge of gold embroidery, a white satin waistcoat with
sprigs of embroidered roses, gold-lace at the pocket-holes, buff silk
knee-breeches, and low down on the finely modelled neck a full cravat
of rich lace. The figure was posed negligently against a fluted stone
pedestal or short column on which the left elbow leant, and the right
foot was crossed lightly over the left. His shoes were of polished
black leather with heavy silver buckles, and the whole costume was very
old-fashioned, and such as I had only seen worn at fancy dress balls. On
the foot of the pedestal was the painter's name, "BATTONI pinxit, Romae,
1750." On the top of the pedestal, and under his left elbow, was a long
roll apparently of music, of which one end, unfolded, hung over the
edge.

For some minutes I stood still gazing at this portrait which so much
astonished me, but turned on hearing footsteps in the gallery, and saw
Constance, who had come to seek for me.

"Constance," I said, "whose portrait is this? It is a very striking
picture, is it not?"

"Yes, it is a splendid painting, though of a very bad man. His name was
Adrian Temple, and he once owned Royston. I do not know much about him,
but I believe he was very wicked and very clever. My mother would be
able to tell you more. It is a picture we none of us like, although so
finely painted; and perhaps because he was always pointed out to me from
childhood as a bad man, I have myself an aversion to it. It is singular
that when the very bright flash of lightning came last night while your
brother