phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed.'

Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly in search
of something on which to turn the conversation. His eyes fell on an old
chest somewhat like that in which the artist's strange legacy lay hid
beneath a Gothic scutcheon.

'Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?' he asked.

'Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death. I
don't expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month. I
thought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwoman
named Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me any
information about her. But it's very possible that Meyrick fell in with
her at New York, or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as to the
extent or direction of his travels.'

'Yes, and it's very possible that the woman may have more than one
name.'

'Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portrait of
her which you possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr.
Matthews.'

'So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark!
What are those boys calling?'

While the two men had been talking together a confused noise of shouting
had been gradually growing louder. The noise rose from the eastward and
swelled down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a very torrent of
sound; surging up streets usually quiet, and making every window a frame
for a face, curious or excited. The cries and voices came echoing up
the silent street where Villiers lived, growing more distinct as they
advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an answer rang up from the pavement:

'The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!'

Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out the
paragraph to Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell. The
window was open and the air seemed full of noise and terror.

'Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic of
suicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End. Mr.
Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King's Pomeroy, Devon, was
found, after a prolonged search, hanging from the branch of a tree in
his garden at one o'clock to-day. The deceased gentleman dined last
night at the Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits. He
left the Club at about ten o'clock, and was seen walking leisurely up
St. James's Street a little later. Subsequent to this his movem