was right.  There, as it happened, I met a man I know, and we stood talking together a little distance from the carriage-way, to which I had my back.  We had not been there for ten minutes when my friend took off his hat, and I glanced round and saw the lady I had been following all day.  ‘Who is that?’ I said, and his answer was ’Mrs. Beaumont; lives in Ashley Street.’  Of course there could be no doubt after that.  I don’t know whether she saw me, but I don’t think she did.  I went home at once, and, on consideration, I thought that I had a sufficiently good case with which to go to Clarke.”

“Why to Clarke?”

“Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of facts about this woman, facts of which I know nothing.”

“Well, what then?”

Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked reflectively at Austin for a moment before he answered: 

“My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. Beaumont.”

“You would never go into such a house as that?  No, no, Villiers, you cannot do it.  Besides, consider; what result...”

“I will tell you soon.  But I was going to say that my information does not end here; it has been completed in an extraordinary manner.

“Look at this neat little packet of manuscript; it is paginated, you see, and I have indulged in the civil coquetry of a ribbon of red tape.  It has almost a legal air, hasn’t it?  Run your eye over it, Austin.  It is an account of the entertainment Mrs. Beaumont provided for her choicer guests.  The man who wrote this escaped with his life, but I do not think he will live many years.  The doctors tell him he must have sustained some severe shock to the nerves.”

Austin took the manuscript, but never read it.  Opening the neat pages at haphazard his eye was caught by a word and a phrase that followed it; and, sick at heart, with white lips and a cold sweat pouring like water from his temples, he flung the paper down.

“Take it away, Villiers, never speak of this again.  Are you made of stone, man?  Why, the dread and horror of death itself, the thoughts of the man who stands in the keen morning air on the black platform, bound, the bell tolling in his ears, and waits for the harsh rattle of the bolt, are as nothing compared to this.  I will not read it; I should never sleep again.”

“Very good.  I can fancy what you saw.  Yes; it is horrible enough; but after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played in our day, and in dim London streets instead of amidst the vineyards and the olive gardens.  We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of something, not of nothing.  It was, indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the souls of men must wither and die and blacken,