Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly in search of something on which to turn the conversation.  His eyes fell on an old chest somewhat like that in which the artist’s strange legacy lay hid beneath a Gothic scutcheon.

“Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?” he asked.

“Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death.  I don’t expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month.  I thought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwoman named Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me any information about her.  But it’s very possible that Meyrick fell in with her at New York, or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as to the extent or direction of his travels.”

“Yes, and it’s very possible that the woman may have more than one name.”

“Exactly.  I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portrait of her which you possess.  I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr. Matthews.”

“So you might; that never occurred to me.  We might send it now.  Hark! what are those boys calling?”

While the two men had been talking together a confused noise of shouting had been gradually growing louder.  The noise rose from the eastward and swelled down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a very torrent of sound; surging up streets usually quiet, and making every window a frame for a face, curious or excited.  The cries and voices came echoing up the silent street where Villiers lived, growing more distinct as they advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an answer rang up from the pavement: 

“The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!”

Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out the paragraph to Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell.  The window was open and the air seemed full of noise and terror.

“Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic of suicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End.  Mr. Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King’s Pomeroy, Devon, was found, after a prolonged search, hanging dead from the branch of a tree in his garden at one o’clock today.  The deceased gentleman dined last night at the Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits.  He left the club at about ten o’clock, and was seen walking leisurely up St. James’s Street a little later.  Subsequent to this his movements cannot be traced.  On the discovery of the body medical aid was at once summoned, but life had evidently been long extinct.  So far as is known, Mr. Crashaw had no trouble or anxiety of any kind.  This painful suicide, it will be remembered, is the fifth of the kind in the last month.  The authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to suggest any explanation of these terrible occurrences.”

Austin put down the paper in mute horror.

“I shall leave London to-morrow,” he said, “it is a city of nightmares.  How awful this is, Villiers!”