up to see who was abroad like myself at such an hour.  As it happens, there is a street lamp close to the house in question, and I saw a man standing on the step.  He had just shut the door and his face was towards me, and I recognized Crashaw directly.  I never knew him to speak to, but I had often seen him, and I am positive that I was not mistaken in my man.  I looked into his face for a moment, and then—­I will confess the truth—­I set off at a good run, and kept it up till I was within my own door.”

“Why?”

“Why?  Because it made my blood run cold to see that man’s face.  I could never have supposed that such an infernal medley of passions could have glared out of any human eyes; I almost fainted as I looked.  I knew I had looked into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin, the man’s outward form remained, but all hell was within it.  Furious lust, and hate that was like fire, and the loss of all hope and horror that seemed to shriek aloud to the night, though his teeth were shut; and the utter blackness of despair.  I am sure that he did not see me; he saw nothing that you or I can see, but what he saw I hope we never shall.  I do not know when he died; I suppose in an hour, or perhaps two, but when I passed down Ashley Street and heard the closing door, that man no longer belonged to this world; it was a devil’s face I looked upon.”

There was an interval of silence in the room when Villiers ceased speaking.  The light was failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago was quite hushed.  Austin had bent his head at the close of the story, and his hand covered his eyes.

“What can it mean?” he said at length.

“Who knows, Austin, who knows?  It’s a black business, but I think we had better keep it to ourselves, for the present at any rate.  I will see if I cannot learn anything about that house through private channels of information, and if I do light upon anything I will let you know.”

VII

THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO

Three weeks later Austin received a note from Villiers, asking him to call either that afternoon or the next.  He chose the nearer date, and found Villiers sitting as usual by the window, apparently lost in meditation on the drowsy traffic of the street.  There was a bamboo table by his side, a fantastic thing, enriched with gilding and queer painted scenes, and on it lay a little pile of papers arranged and docketed as neatly as anything in Mr. Clarke’s office.

“Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the last three weeks?”

“I think so; I have here one or two memoranda which struck me as singular, and there is a statement to which I shall call your attention.”

“And these documents relate to Mrs. Beaumont?  It was really Crashaw whom you saw that night standing on the doorstep of the house in Ashley Street?”

“As to that matter my belief remains unchanged, but neither my inquiries nor their results have any special relation to Crashaw.  But my investigations have had a strange issue.  I have found out who Mrs. Beaumont is!”