the story I was looking for.  It was to this effect.  Some five or six years ago, a woman named Raymond suddenly made her appearance in the neighbourhood to which I am referring.  She was described to me as being quite young, probably not more than seventeen or eighteen, very handsome, and looking as if she came from the country.  I should be wrong in saying that she found her level in going to this particular quarter, or associating with these people, for from what I was told, I should think the worst den in London far too good for her.  The person from whom I got my information, as you may suppose, no great Puritan, shuddered and grew sick in telling me of the nameless infamies which were laid to her charge.  After living there for a year, or perhaps a little more, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, and they saw nothing of her till about the time of the Paul Street case.  At first she came to her old haunts only occasionally, then more frequently, and finally took up her abode there as before, and remained for six or eight months.  It’s of no use my going into details as to the life that woman led; if you want particulars you can look at Meyrick’s legacy.  Those designs were not drawn from his imagination.  She again disappeared, and the people of the place saw nothing of her till a few months ago.  My informant told me that she had taken some rooms in a house which he pointed out, and these rooms she was in the habit of visiting two or three times a week and always at ten in the morning.  I was led to expect that one of these visits would be paid on a certain day about a week ago, and I accordingly managed to be on the look-out in company with my cicerone at a quarter to ten, and the hour and the lady came with equal punctuality.  My friend and I were standing under an archway, a little way back from the street, but she saw us, and gave me a glance that I shall be long in forgetting.  That look was quite enough for me; I knew Miss Raymond to be Mrs. Herbert; as for Mrs. Beaumont she had quite gone out of my head.  She went into the house, and I watched it till four o’clock, when she came out, and then I followed her.  It was a long chase, and I had to be very careful to keep a long way in the background, and yet not lose sight of the woman.  She took me down to the Strand, and then to Westminster, and then up St. James’s Street, and along Piccadilly.  I felt queerish when I saw her turn up Ashley Street; the thought that Mrs. Herbert was Mrs. Beaumont came into my mind, but it seemed too impossible to be true.  I waited at the corner, keeping my eye on her all the time, and I took particular care to note the house at which she stopped.  It was the house with the gay curtains, the home of flowers, the house out of which Crashaw came the night he hanged himself in his garden.  I was just going away with my discovery, when I saw an empty carriage come round and draw up in front of the house, and I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Herbert was going out for a drive, and I