The square was empty, empty. It was a shock to me. It came so suddenly, it was utterly unexpected--the fact that Hopkins was a mere myth. There possibly was a Hopkins, that absent man, reputed to be abroad, whose name had been painted up on the right-hand set, who had, so I’d heard, been in the habit of sending regularly every quarter day the rent for his empty rooms. But Orchard’s Hopkins--the man who played the violin, who was a crank on early Italian art--simply didn’t exist. It was then I remembered that when Orchard had said casually, “There’s his violin,” I had not noticed one, that I had never heard a violin, or a strange voice, or a second pair of feet in the set immediately above my own. I remembered, too, that when Orchard had said, with annoyance, “Hopkins is an untidy chap; he leaves his things about,” the room had been in perfect order. I had never seen the collection of books on Italian art--the man was a delusion, the product of an excited brain. Orchard was in a bad way. I repeated, “Come up to No. 2 and see Harrowsmith.” He dragged his arm away, gave another keen look across the square, and said impatiently: “I shall do nothing of the sort. Don’t believe in doctors. When I’m hard up for a chronic disease I’ll consult one, not before. Hundreds of men have been killed by going to a specialist or by trying to get their lives insured. The specialist shakes his head, the insurance doctor looks grave, and you’re done. No! It’s a preliminary to going to the undertaker.” This had been one of his many eccentricities in the old extravagant days. I simply said soothingly: “But you don’t go to the undertaker. Someone else has to go--when the time comes. So the bottom’s knocked out of your argument. Come on.” He twitched himself away, quite petulantly, like a child, and said: “I’m off to the country for the day; that will do me more good than doctors’ stuff. I shall take train from Baker Street and get down to the valley of the Chess.” I was out late that night. When I came home I noticed a light in Orchard’s window. So he was back! I decided not to go up to him. I was half undressed when I heard his oak slam violently, heard heavy, hurried feet coming downstairs. They seemed to come, those feet, half a flight at a time. I knew at once that something was up. My doors were open in a moment. Orchard came toppling into my passage, shutting the oak behind him. “I’ve murdered him,” he said. “My God! Murdered him. Hopkins!” “Keep cool. It’s all a delusion. There isn’t any Hopkins. Your nerves are unstrung----”