r 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 Aegipanum 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 Aegipans 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