“And haven’t you written for further particulars?” “I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me to write to the doctor?” “Certainly. And what about the book?” “It was sealed up when I got it. I don’t think the doctor had seen it.” “It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?” “No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you think of these Ainu jugs?” “They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren’t you going to show me poor Meyrick’s legacy?” “Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it’s rather 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 Ægipanum 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 Ægipans 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