They were human figures, but not one had a human head. The heads were invariably those of birds, animals or fishes, generally of animals, some of common animals, many of creatures I had seen pictures of or had heard of, some of imaginary creatures like dragons or griffons, more than half of the heads either of animals I knew nothing of or which had been invented by the painter. Close to me when the lights blazed out was a sea picture, blurred grayish foggy weather and a heavy groundswell; a strange other-world open boat with fish heaped in the bottom of it and standing among them four human figures in shining boots like rubber boots and wet, shiny, loose coats like oilskins, only the boots and skins were red as claret, and the four figures had hyenas’ heads. One was steering and the others were hauling at a net. Caught in the net was a sort of merman, but different from the pictures of mermaids. His shape was all human except the head and hands and feet; every bit of him was covered with fish-scales all rainbowy. He had flat broad fins in place of hands and feet and his head was the head of a fat hog. He was thrashing about in the net in an agony of impotent effort. Queer as the picture was it had a compelling impression of reality, as if the scene were actually happening before our eyes. Next it was a picnic in a little meadow by a pond between woods with mountains behind it higher up. Every one of the picnickers about the white tablecloth spread on the grass had the head of a different animal, one of a sheep, one of a camel, and the rest of animals like deer, not one of them known to me. Then next to that was a fight of two compound creatures shaped like centaurs, only they had bulls’ bodies, with human torsos growing out of them, where the necks ought to be, the arms scaly snakes with open-mouthed, biting heads in place of hands; and instead of human heads roosters’ heads, bills open and pecking. Under the creatures in place of bulls’ hoofs were yellow roosters’ legs, stouter than chickens’ legs and with short thick toes, and long sharp spurs like game roosters’. Yet these fantastic chimeras appeared altogether alive and their movements looked natural, yes that’s the word, natural. Every picture was as complete a staggerer as these first three. Every one was signed in the lower left hand corner in neat smallish letters of bright gold paint: “Hengist Eversleigh” and a date. “Mr. Hengist Eversleigh is a lunatic that’s certain,” Thwaite commented, “but he unquestionably knows how to paint.” There must have been more than fifty pictures in that gallery, maybe as many as seventy-five, and every one a nightmare.