'I don't know. He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughly good fellow. He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he was one of the best talkers I have met. He could even talk about painting, and that's more than can be said of most painters. About eighteen months ago he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he went off on a sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or aim about it. I believe New York was to be his first port, but I never heard from him. Three months ago I got this book, with a very civil letter from an English doctor practising at Buenos Ayres, stating that he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during his illness, and that the deceased had expressed an earnest wish that the enclosed packet should be sent to me after his death. That was all.' '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 those 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 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?'