Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking out into the street.  He had listened to the newspaper report attentively, and the hint of indecision was no longer on his face.

“Wait a moment, Austin,” he replied, “I have made up my mind to mention a little matter that occurred last night.  It stated, I think, that Crashaw was last seen alive in St. James’s Street shortly after ten?”

“Yes, I think so.  I will look again.  Yes, you are quite right.”

“Quite so.  Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement at all events.  Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o’clock this morning.”

“You saw Crashaw?  You, Villiers?”

“Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feet between us.”

“Where, in Heaven’s name, did you see him?”

“Not far from here.  I saw him in Ashley Street.  He was just leaving a house.”

“Did you notice what house it was?”

“Yes.  It was Mrs. Beaumont’s.”

“Villiers!  Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake.  How could Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont’s house at two o’clock in the morning?  Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers; you were always rather fanciful.”

“No; I was wide awake enough.  Even if I had been dreaming as you say, what I saw would have roused me effectually.”

“What you saw?  What did you see?  Was there anything strange about Crashaw?  But I can’t believe it; it is impossible.”

“Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw, or if you please, what I think I saw, and you can judge for yourself.”

“Very good, Villiers.”

The noise and clamour of the street had died away, though now and then the sound of shouting still came from the distance, and the dull, leaden silence seemed like the quiet after an earthquake or a storm.  Villiers turned from the window and began speaking.

“I was at a house near Regent’s Park last night, and when I came away the fancy took me to walk home instead of taking a hansom.  It was a clear pleasant night enough, and after a few minutes I had the streets pretty much to myself.  It’s a curious thing, Austin, to be alone in London at night, the gas-lamps stretching away in perspective, and the dead silence, and then perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom on the stones, and the fire starting up under the horse’s hoofs.  I walked along pretty briskly, for I was feeling a little tired of being out in the night, and as the clocks were striking two I turned down Ashley Street, which, you know, is on my way.  It was quieter than ever there, and the lamps were fewer; altogether, it looked as dark and gloomy as a forest in winter.  I had done about half the length of the street when I heard a door closed very softly, and naturally I looked