initial commit of ebook 389HEADmain

11 files changed, 11397 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6833f05
--- /dev/null
+++ b/.gitattributes
@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+* text=auto
+*.txt text
+*.md text
diff --git a/389-0.txt b/389-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..bb08876
--- /dev/null
+++ b/389-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,2631 @@
+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Great God Pan
+
+Author: Arthur Machen
+
+Release Date: January, 1996 [eBook #389]
+[Most recently updated: November 10, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Brandi Weed. HTML version by Al Haines.
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***
+
+
+
+
+The Great God Pan
+
+by Arthur Machen
+
+
+Contents
+
+ CHAPTER I. THE EXPERIMENT
+ CHAPTER II. MR. CLARKE’S MEMOIRS
+ CHAPTER III. THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
+ CHAPTER IV. THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET
+ CHAPTER V. THE LETTER OF ADVICE
+ CHAPTER VI. THE SUICIDES
+ CHAPTER VII. THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO
+ CHAPTER VIII. THE FRAGMENTS
+
+
+
+
+I
+THE EXPERIMENT
+
+
+“I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed. I was not sure you could
+spare the time.”
+
+“I was able to make arrangements for a few days; things are not very
+lively just now. But have you no misgivings, Raymond? Is it absolutely
+safe?”
+
+The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond’s
+house. The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it shone
+with a dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet; a
+sweet breath came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with
+it, at intervals, the soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in
+the long lovely valley, the river wound in and out between the lonely
+hills, and, as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a faint
+mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills. Dr. Raymond turned
+sharply to his friend.
+
+“Safe? Of course it is. In itself the operation is a perfectly simple
+one; any surgeon could do it.”
+
+“And there is no danger at any other stage?”
+
+“None; absolutely no physical danger whatsoever, I give you my word.
+You are always timid, Clarke, always; but you know my history. I have
+devoted myself to transcendental medicine for the last twenty years. I
+have heard myself called quack and charlatan and impostor, but all the
+while I knew I was on the right path. Five years ago I reached the
+goal, and since then every day has been a preparation for what we shall
+do tonight.”
+
+“I should like to believe it is all true.” Clarke knit his brows, and
+looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond. “Are you perfectly sure, Raymond,
+that your theory is not a phantasmagoria—a splendid vision, certainly,
+but a mere vision after all?”
+
+Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and turned sharply. He was a
+middle-aged man, gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow complexion, but as he
+answered Clarke and faced him, there was a flush on his cheek.
+
+“Look about you, Clarke. You see the mountain, and hill following after
+hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods and orchard, the fields of
+ripe corn, and the meadows reaching to the reed-beds by the river. You
+see me standing here beside you, and hear my voice; but I tell you that
+all these things—yes, from that star that has just shone out in the sky
+to the solid ground beneath our feet—I say that all these are but
+dreams and shadows; the shadows that hide the real world from our eyes.
+There _is_ a real world, but it is beyond this glamour and this vision,
+beyond these ‘chases in Arras, dreams in a career,’ beyond them all as
+beyond a veil. I do not know whether any human being has ever lifted
+that veil; but I do know, Clarke, that you and I shall see it lifted
+this very night from before another’s eyes. You may think this all
+strange nonsense; it may be strange, but it is true, and the ancients
+knew what lifting the veil means. They called it seeing the god Pan.”
+
+Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering over the river was chilly.
+
+“It is wonderful indeed,” he said. “We are standing on the brink of a
+strange world, Raymond, if what you say is true. I suppose the knife is
+absolutely necessary?”
+
+“Yes; a slight lesion in the grey matter, that is all; a trifling
+rearrangement of certain cells, a microscopical alteration that would
+escape the attention of ninety-nine brain specialists out of a hundred.
+I don’t want to bother you with ‘shop,’ Clarke; I might give you a mass
+of technical detail which would sound very imposing, and would leave
+you as enlightened as you are now. But I suppose you have read,
+casually, in out-of-the-way corners of your paper, that immense strides
+have been made recently in the physiology of the brain. I saw a
+paragraph the other day about Digby’s theory, and Browne Faber’s
+discoveries. Theories and discoveries! Where they are standing now, I
+stood fifteen years ago, and I need not tell you that I have not been
+standing still for the last fifteen years. It will be enough if I say
+that five years ago I made the discovery that I alluded to when I said
+that ten years ago I reached the goal. After years of labour, after
+years of toiling and groping in the dark, after days and nights of
+disappointments and sometimes of despair, in which I used now and then
+to tremble and grow cold with the thought that perhaps there were
+others seeking for what I sought, at last, after so long, a pang of
+sudden joy thrilled my soul, and I knew the long journey was at an end.
+By what seemed then and still seems a chance, the suggestion of a
+moment’s idle thought followed up upon familiar lines and paths that I
+had tracked a hundred times already, the great truth burst upon me, and
+I saw, mapped out in lines of sight, a whole world, a sphere unknown;
+continents and islands, and great oceans in which no ship has sailed
+(to my belief) since a Man first lifted up his eyes and beheld the sun,
+and the stars of heaven, and the quiet earth beneath. You will think
+this all high-flown language, Clarke, but it is hard to be literal. And
+yet; I do not know whether what I am hinting at cannot be set forth in
+plain and lonely terms. For instance, this world of ours is pretty well
+girded now with the telegraph wires and cables; thought, with something
+less than the speed of thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset, from
+north to south, across the floods and the desert places. Suppose that
+an electrician of today were suddenly to perceive that he and his
+friends have merely been playing with pebbles and mistaking them for
+the foundations of the world; suppose that such a man saw uttermost
+space lie open before the current, and words of men flash forth to the
+sun and beyond the sun into the systems beyond, and the voice of
+articulate-speaking men echo in the waste void that bounds our thought.
+As analogies go, that is a pretty good analogy of what I have done; you
+can understand now a little of what I felt as I stood here one evening;
+it was a summer evening, and the valley looked much as it does now; I
+stood here, and saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf
+that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of matter and the
+world of spirit; I saw the great empty deep stretch dim before me, and
+in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth to the unknown
+shore, and the abyss was spanned. You may look in Browne Faber’s book,
+if you like, and you will find that to the present day men of science
+are unable to account for the presence, or to specify the functions of
+a certain group of nerve-cells in the brain. That group is, as it were,
+land to let, a mere waste place for fanciful theories. I am not in the
+position of Browne Faber and the specialists, I am perfectly instructed
+as to the possible functions of those nerve-centers in the scheme of
+things. With a touch I can bring them into play, with a touch, I say, I
+can set free the current, with a touch I can complete the communication
+between this world of sense and—we shall be able to finish the sentence
+later on. Yes, the knife is necessary; but think what that knife will
+effect. It will level utterly the solid wall of sense, and probably,
+for the first time since man was made, a spirit will gaze on a
+spirit-world. Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!”
+
+“But you remember what you wrote to me? I thought it would be requisite
+that she—”
+
+He whispered the rest into the doctor’s ear.
+
+“Not at all, not at all. That is nonsense. I assure you. Indeed, it is
+better as it is; I am quite certain of that.”
+
+“Consider the matter well, Raymond. It’s a great responsibility.
+Something might go wrong; you would be a miserable man for the rest of
+your days.”
+
+“No, I think not, even if the worst happened. As you know, I rescued
+Mary from the gutter, and from almost certain starvation, when she was
+a child; I think her life is mine, to use as I see fit. Come, it’s
+getting late; we had better go in.”
+
+Dr. Raymond led the way into the house, through the hall, and down a
+long dark passage. He took a key from his pocket and opened a heavy
+door, and motioned Clarke into his laboratory. It had once been a
+billiard-room, and was lighted by a glass dome in the centre of the
+ceiling, whence there still shone a sad grey light on the figure of the
+doctor as he lit a lamp with a heavy shade and placed it on a table in
+the middle of the room.
+
+Clarke looked about him. Scarcely a foot of wall remained bare; there
+were shelves all around laden with bottles and phials of all shapes and
+colours, and at one end stood a little Chippendale book-case. Raymond
+pointed to this.
+
+“You see that parchment Oswald Crollius? He was one of the first to
+show me the way, though I don’t think he ever found it himself. That is
+a strange saying of his: ‘In every grain of wheat there lies hidden the
+soul of a star.’”
+
+There was not much furniture in the laboratory. The table in the
+centre, a stone slab with a drain in one corner, the two armchairs on
+which Raymond and Clarke were sitting; that was all, except an
+odd-looking chair at the furthest end of the room. Clarke looked at it,
+and raised his eyebrows.
+
+“Yes, that is the chair,” said Raymond. “We may as well place it in
+position.” He got up and wheeled the chair to the light, and began
+raising and lowering it, letting down the seat, setting the back at
+various angles, and adjusting the foot-rest. It looked comfortable
+enough, and Clarke passed his hand over the soft green velvet, as the
+doctor manipulated the levers.
+
+“Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfortable. I have a couple hours’
+work before me; I was obliged to leave certain matters to the last.”
+
+Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him drearily as he
+bent over a row of phials and lit the flame under the crucible. The
+doctor had a small hand-lamp, shaded as the larger one, on a ledge
+above his apparatus, and Clarke, who sat in the shadows, looked down at
+the great shadowy room, wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant
+light and undefined darkness contrasting with one another. Soon he
+became conscious of an odd odour, at first the merest suggestion of
+odour, in the room, and as it grew more decided he felt surprised that
+he was not reminded of the chemist’s shop or the surgery. Clarke found
+himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and half conscious,
+he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that he had spent
+roaming through the woods and meadows near his own home. It was a
+burning day at the beginning of August, the heat had dimmed the
+outlines of all things and all distances with a faint mist, and people
+who observed the thermometer spoke of an abnormal register, of a
+temperature that was almost tropical. Strangely that wonderful hot day
+of the fifties rose up again in Clarke’s imagination; the sense of
+dazzling all-pervading sunlight seemed to blot out the shadows and the
+lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in
+gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and heard
+the myriad murmur of the summer.
+
+“I hope the smell doesn’t annoy you, Clarke; there’s nothing
+unwholesome about it. It may make you a bit sleepy, that’s all.”
+
+Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was
+speaking to him, but for the life of him he could not rouse himself
+from his lethargy. He could only think of the lonely walk he had taken
+fifteen years ago; it was his last look at the fields and woods he had
+known since he was a child, and now it all stood out in brilliant
+light, as a picture, before him. Above all there came to his nostrils
+the scent of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the odour of the
+woods, of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by
+the sun’s heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were with
+arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. His fancies
+made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the
+wood, tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of
+beech-trees; and the trickle of water dropping from the limestone rock
+sounded as a clear melody in the dream. Thoughts began to go astray and
+to mingle with other thoughts; the beech alley was transformed to a
+path between ilex-trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bough
+to bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with purple grapes,
+and the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree stood out against
+the dark shadows of the ilex. Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was
+conscious that the path from his father’s house had led him into an
+undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it
+all, when suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an
+infinite silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed,
+and for a moment in time he stood face to face there with a presence,
+that was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but
+all things mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all form. And
+in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a
+voice seemed to cry “Let us go hence,” and then the darkness of
+darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting.
+
+When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of
+some oily fluid into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly.
+
+“You have been dozing,” he said; “the journey must have tired you out.
+It is done now. I am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten
+minutes.”
+
+Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered. It seemed as if he had but
+passed from one dream into another. He half expected to see the walls
+of the laboratory melt and disappear, and to awake in London,
+shuddering at his own sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened,
+and the doctor returned, and behind him came a girl of about seventeen,
+dressed all in white. She was so beautiful that Clarke did not wonder
+at what the doctor had written to him. She was blushing now over face
+and neck and arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved.
+
+“Mary,” he said, “the time has come. You are quite free. Are you
+willing to trust yourself to me entirely?”
+
+“Yes, dear.”
+
+“Do you hear that, Clarke? You are my witness. Here is the chair, Mary.
+It is quite easy. Just sit in it and lean back. Are you ready?”
+
+“Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you begin.”
+
+The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough. “Now shut your
+eyes,” he said. The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired, and
+longed for sleep, and Raymond placed the green phial to her nostrils.
+Her face grew white, whiter than her dress; she struggled faintly, and
+then with the feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms
+upon her breast as a little child about to say her prayers. The bright
+light of the lamp fell full upon her, and Clarke watched changes
+fleeting over her face as the changes of the hills when the summer
+clouds float across the sun. And then she lay all white and still, and
+the doctor turned up one of her eyelids. She was quite unconscious.
+Raymond pressed hard on one of the levers and the chair instantly sank
+back. Clarke saw him cutting away a circle, like a tonsure, from her
+hair, and the lamp was moved nearer. Raymond took a small glittering
+instrument from a little case, and Clarke turned away shudderingly.
+When he looked again the doctor was binding up the wound he had made.
+
+“She will awake in five minutes.” Raymond was still perfectly cool.
+“There is nothing more to be done; we can only wait.”
+
+The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow, heavy, ticking.
+There was an old clock in the passage. Clarke felt sick and faint; his
+knees shook beneath him, he could hardly stand.
+
+Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn sigh, and suddenly
+did the colour that had vanished return to the girl’s cheeks, and
+suddenly her eyes opened. Clarke quailed before them. They shone with
+an awful light, looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon her
+face, and her hands stretched out as if to touch what was invisible;
+but in an instant the wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful
+terror. The muscles of her face were hideously convulsed, she shook
+from head to foot; the soul seemed struggling and shuddering within the
+house of flesh. It was a horrible sight, and Clarke rushed forward, as
+she fell shrieking to the floor.
+
+Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary’s bedside. She was lying
+wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side, and grinning vacantly.
+
+“Yes,” said the doctor, still quite cool, “it is a great pity; she is a
+hopeless idiot. However, it could not be helped; and, after all, she
+has seen the Great God Pan.”
+
+
+
+
+II
+MR. CLARKE’S MEMOIRS
+
+
+Mr. Clarke, the gentleman chosen by Dr. Raymond to witness the strange
+experiment of the god Pan, was a person in whose character caution and
+curiosity were oddly mingled; in his sober moments he thought of the
+unusual and eccentric with undisguised aversion, and yet, deep in his
+heart, there was a wide-eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the
+more recondite and esoteric elements in the nature of men. The latter
+tendency had prevailed when he accepted Raymond’s invitation, for
+though his considered judgment had always repudiated the doctor’s
+theories as the wildest nonsense, yet he secretly hugged a belief in
+fantasy, and would have rejoiced to see that belief confirmed. The
+horrors that he witnessed in the dreary laboratory were to a certain
+extent salutary; he was conscious of being involved in an affair not
+altogether reputable, and for many years afterwards he clung bravely to
+the commonplace, and rejected all occasions of occult investigation.
+Indeed, on some homeopathic principle, he for some time attended the
+seances of distinguished mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of
+these gentlemen would make him altogether disgusted with mysticism of
+every kind, but the remedy, though caustic, was not efficacious. Clarke
+knew that he still pined for the unseen, and little by little, the old
+passion began to reassert itself, as the face of Mary, shuddering and
+convulsed with an unknown terror, faded slowly from his memory.
+Occupied all day in pursuits both serious and lucrative, the temptation
+to relax in the evening was too great, especially in the winter months,
+when the fire cast a warm glow over his snug bachelor apartment, and a
+bottle of some choice claret stood ready by his elbow. His dinner
+digested, he would make a brief pretence of reading the evening paper,
+but the mere catalogue of news soon palled upon him, and Clarke would
+find himself casting glances of warm desire in the direction of an old
+Japanese bureau, which stood at a pleasant distance from the hearth.
+Like a boy before a jam-closet, for a few minutes he would hover
+indecisive, but lust always prevailed, and Clarke ended by drawing up
+his chair, lighting a candle, and sitting down before the bureau. Its
+pigeon-holes and drawers teemed with documents on the most morbid
+subjects, and in the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in which
+he had painfully entered the gems of his collection. Clarke had a fine
+contempt for published literature; the most ghostly story ceased to
+interest him if it happened to be printed; his sole pleasure was in the
+reading, compiling, and rearranging what he called his “Memoirs to
+prove the Existence of the Devil,” and engaged in this pursuit the
+evening seemed to fly and the night appeared too short.
+
+On one particular evening, an ugly December night, black with fog, and
+raw with frost, Clarke hurried over his dinner, and scarcely deigned to
+observe his customary ritual of taking up the paper and laying it down
+again. He paced two or three times up and down the room, and opened the
+bureau, stood still a moment, and sat down. He leant back, absorbed in
+one of those dreams to which he was subject, and at length drew out his
+book, and opened it at the last entry. There were three or four pages
+densely covered with Clarke’s round, set penmanship, and at the
+beginning he had written in a somewhat larger hand:
+
+Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr. Phillips. He assures me
+that all the facts related therein are strictly and wholly True, but
+refuses to give either the Surnames of the Persons Concerned, or the
+Place where these Extraordinary Events occurred.
+
+
+Mr. Clarke began to read over the account for the tenth time, glancing
+now and then at the pencil notes he had made when it was told him by
+his friend. It was one of his humours to pride himself on a certain
+literary ability; he thought well of his style, and took pains in
+arranging the circumstances in dramatic order. He read the following
+story:—
+
+The persons concerned in this statement are Helen V., who, if she is
+still alive, must now be a woman of twenty-three, Rachel M., since
+deceased, who was a year younger than the above, and Trevor W., an
+imbecile, aged eighteen. These persons were at the period of the story
+inhabitants of a village on the borders of Wales, a place of some
+importance in the time of the Roman occupation, but now a scattered
+hamlet, of not more than five hundred souls. It is situated on rising
+ground, about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered by a large and
+picturesque forest.
+
+Some eleven years ago, Helen V. came to the village under rather
+peculiar circumstances. It is understood that she, being an orphan, was
+adopted in her infancy by a distant relative, who brought her up in his
+own house until she was twelve years old. Thinking, however, that it
+would be better for the child to have playmates of her own age, he
+advertised in several local papers for a good home in a comfortable
+farmhouse for a girl of twelve, and this advertisement was answered by
+Mr. R., a well-to-do farmer in the above-mentioned village. His
+references proving satisfactory, the gentleman sent his adopted
+daughter to Mr. R., with a letter, in which he stipulated that the girl
+should have a room to herself, and stated that her guardians need be at
+no trouble in the matter of education, as she was already sufficiently
+educated for the position in life which she would occupy. In fact, Mr.
+R. was given to understand that the girl be allowed to find her own
+occupations and to spend her time almost as she liked. Mr. R. duly met
+her at the nearest station, a town seven miles away from his house, and
+seems to have remarked nothing extraordinary about the child except
+that she was reticent as to her former life and her adopted father. She
+was, however, of a very different type from the inhabitants of the
+village; her skin was a pale, clear olive, and her features were
+strongly marked, and of a somewhat foreign character. She appears to
+have settled down easily enough into farmhouse life, and became a
+favourite with the children, who sometimes went with her on her rambles
+in the forest, for this was her amusement. Mr. R. states that he has
+known her to go out by herself directly after their early breakfast,
+and not return till after dusk, and that, feeling uneasy at a young
+girl being out alone for so many hours, he communicated with her
+adopted father, who replied in a brief note that Helen must do as she
+chose. In the winter, when the forest paths are impassable, she spent
+most of her time in her bedroom, where she slept alone, according to
+the instructions of her relative. It was on one of these expeditions to
+the forest that the first of the singular incidents with which this
+girl is connected occurred, the date being about a year after her
+arrival at the village. The preceding winter had been remarkably
+severe, the snow drifting to a great depth, and the frost continuing
+for an unexampled period, and the summer following was as noteworthy
+for its extreme heat. On one of the very hottest days in this summer,
+Helen V. left the farmhouse for one of her long rambles in the forest,
+taking with her, as usual, some bread and meat for lunch. She was seen
+by some men in the fields making for the old Roman Road, a green
+causeway which traverses the highest part of the wood, and they were
+astonished to observe that the girl had taken off her hat, though the
+heat of the sun was already tropical. As it happened, a labourer,
+Joseph W. by name, was working in the forest near the Roman Road, and
+at twelve o’clock his little son, Trevor, brought the man his dinner of
+bread and cheese. After the meal, the boy, who was about seven years
+old at the time, left his father at work, and, as he said, went to look
+for flowers in the wood, and the man, who could hear him shouting with
+delight at his discoveries, felt no uneasiness. Suddenly, however, he
+was horrified at hearing the most dreadful screams, evidently the
+result of great terror, proceeding from the direction in which his son
+had gone, and he hastily threw down his tools and ran to see what had
+happened. Tracing his path by the sound, he met the little boy, who was
+running headlong, and was evidently terribly frightened, and on
+questioning him the man elicited that after picking a posy of flowers
+he felt tired, and lay down on the grass and fell asleep. He was
+suddenly awakened, as he stated, by a peculiar noise, a sort of singing
+he called it, and on peeping through the branches he saw Helen V.
+playing on the grass with a “strange naked man,” who he seemed unable
+to describe more fully. He said he felt dreadfully frightened and ran
+away crying for his father. Joseph W. proceeded in the direction
+indicated by his son, and found Helen V. sitting on the grass in the
+middle of a glade or open space left by charcoal burners. He angrily
+charged her with frightening his little boy, but she entirely denied
+the accusation and laughed at the child’s story of a “strange man,” to
+which he himself did not attach much credence. Joseph W. came to the
+conclusion that the boy had woke up with a sudden fright, as children
+sometimes do, but Trevor persisted in his story, and continued in such
+evident distress that at last his father took him home, hoping that his
+mother would be able to soothe him. For many weeks, however, the boy
+gave his parents much anxiety; he became nervous and strange in his
+manner, refusing to leave the cottage by himself, and constantly
+alarming the household by waking in the night with cries of “The man in
+the wood! father! father!”
+
+In course of time, however, the impression seemed to have worn off, and
+about three months later he accompanied his father to the home of a
+gentleman in the neighborhood, for whom Joseph W. occasionally did
+work. The man was shown into the study, and the little boy was left
+sitting in the hall, and a few minutes later, while the gentleman was
+giving W. his instructions, they were both horrified by a piercing
+shriek and the sound of a fall, and rushing out they found the child
+lying senseless on the floor, his face contorted with terror. The
+doctor was immediately summoned, and after some examination he
+pronounced the child to be suffering form a kind of fit, apparently
+produced by a sudden shock. The boy was taken to one of the bedrooms,
+and after some time recovered consciousness, but only to pass into a
+condition described by the medical man as one of violent hysteria. The
+doctor exhibited a strong sedative, and in the course of two hours
+pronounced him fit to walk home, but in passing through the hall the
+paroxysms of fright returned and with additional violence. The father
+perceived that the child was pointing at some object, and heard the old
+cry, “The man in the wood,” and looking in the direction indicated saw
+a stone head of grotesque appearance, which had been built into the
+wall above one of the doors. It seems the owner of the house had
+recently made alterations in his premises, and on digging the
+foundations for some offices, the men had found a curious head,
+evidently of the Roman period, which had been placed in the manner
+described. The head is pronounced by the most experienced
+archaeologists of the district to be that of a faun or satyr.[*]
+
+[* Dr. Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in question, and
+assures me that he has never received such a vivid presentment of
+intense evil.]
+
+
+From whatever cause arising, this second shock seemed too severe for
+the boy Trevor, and at the present date he suffers from a weakness of
+intellect, which gives but little promise of amending. The matter
+caused a good deal of sensation at the time, and the girl Helen was
+closely questioned by Mr. R., but to no purpose, she steadfastly
+denying that she had frightened or in any way molested Trevor.
+
+The second event with which this girl’s name is connected took place
+about six years ago, and is of a still more extraordinary character.
+
+At the beginning of the summer of 1882, Helen contracted a friendship
+of a peculiarly intimate character with Rachel M., the daughter of a
+prosperous farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl, who was a year
+younger than Helen, was considered by most people to be the prettier of
+the two, though Helen’s features had to a great extent softened as she
+became older. The two girls, who were together on every available
+opportunity, presented a singular contrast, the one with her clear,
+olive skin and almost Italian appearance, and the other of the
+proverbial red and white of our rural districts. It must be stated that
+the payments made to Mr. R. for the maintenance of Helen were known in
+the village for their excessive liberality, and the impression was
+general that she would one day inherit a large sum of money from her
+relative. The parents of Rachel were therefore not averse from their
+daughter’s friendship with the girl, and even encouraged the intimacy,
+though they now bitterly regret having done so. Helen still retained
+her extraordinary fondness for the forest, and on several occasions
+Rachel accompanied her, the two friends setting out early in the
+morning, and remaining in the wood until dusk. Once or twice after
+these excursions Mrs. M. thought her daughter’s manner rather peculiar;
+she seemed languid and dreamy, and as it has been expressed, “different
+from herself,” but these peculiarities seem to have been thought too
+trifling for remark. One evening, however, after Rachel had come home,
+her mother heard a noise which sounded like suppressed weeping in the
+girl’s room, and on going in found her lying, half undressed, upon the
+bed, evidently in the greatest distress. As soon as she saw her mother,
+she exclaimed, “Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the forest
+with Helen?” Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and
+proceeded to make inquiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said—
+
+Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the
+fire. When his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his
+story, Clarke had interrupted him at a point a little subsequent to
+this, had cut short his words in a paroxysm of horror. “My God!” he had
+exclaimed, “think, think what you are saying. It is too incredible, too
+monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet world, where men and
+women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall
+down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange fortunes for many a
+year; but not this, Phillips, not such things as this. There must be
+some explanation, some way out of the terror. Why, man, if such a case
+were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.”
+
+But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:
+
+“Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad
+sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she
+was not there.”
+
+Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and
+again his mind shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of
+such awful, unspeakable elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant
+in human flesh. Before him stretched the long dim vista of the green
+causeway in the forest, as his friend had described it; he saw the
+swaying leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
+sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long distance, the
+two figures moved toward him. One was Rachel, but the other?
+
+Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the
+account, as he had written it in his book, he had placed the
+inscription:
+
+Et Diabolus incarnatus est. Et homo factus est.
+
+
+
+
+III
+THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
+
+
+“Herbert! Good God! Is it possible?”
+
+“Yes, my name’s Herbert. I think I know your face, too, but I don’t
+remember your name. My memory is very queer.”
+
+“Don’t you recollect Villiers of Wadham?”
+
+“So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn’t think I was
+begging of an old college friend. Good-night.”
+
+“My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but
+we won’t go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a
+little way? But how in heaven’s name have you come to this pass,
+Herbert?”
+
+“It’s a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can hear
+it if you like.”
+
+“Come on, then. Take my arm, you don’t seem very strong.”
+
+The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty,
+evil-looking rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a
+man about town, trim, glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had
+emerged from his restaurant after an excellent dinner of many courses,
+assisted by an ingratiating little flask of Chianti, and, in that frame
+of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the
+door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those
+mysterious incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem
+in every quarter and every hour. Villiers prided himself as a practised
+explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of London life, and in this
+unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity which was worthy of more
+serious employment. Thus he stood by the lamp-post surveying the
+passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known only
+to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula:
+“London has been called the city of encounters; it is more than that,
+it is the city of Resurrections,” when these reflections were suddenly
+interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a deplorable appeal
+for alms. He looked around in some irritation, and with a sudden shock
+found himself confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat
+stilted fancies. There, close beside him, his face altered and
+disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his body barely covered by greasy
+ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who had
+matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been merry
+and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying
+interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since
+Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man
+with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain inquisitiveness as to
+what dreary chain of circumstances had dragged him down to such a
+doleful pass. Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of
+the amateur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely
+speculations outside the restaurant.
+
+They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by
+stared in astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed
+man with an unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing
+this, Villiers led the way to an obscure street in Soho. Here he
+repeated his question.
+
+“How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would
+succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father
+disinherit you? Surely not?”
+
+“No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father’s death;
+he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me,
+and I mourned his death sincerely enough. But you know what young men
+are; a few months later I came up to town and went a good deal into
+society. Of course I had excellent introductions, and I managed to
+enjoy myself very much in a harmless sort of way. I played a little,
+certainly, but never for heavy stakes, and the few bets I made on races
+brought me in money—only a few pounds, you know, but enough to pay for
+cigars and such petty pleasures. It was in my second season that the
+tide turned. Of course you have heard of my marriage?”
+
+“No, I never heard anything about it.”
+
+“Yes, I married, Villiers. I met a girl, a girl of the most wonderful
+and most strange beauty, at the house of some people whom I knew. I
+cannot tell you her age; I never knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I
+should think she must have been about nineteen when I made her
+acquaintance. My friends had come to know her at Florence; she told
+them she was an orphan, the child of an English father and an Italian
+mother, and she charmed them as she charmed me. The first time I saw
+her was at an evening party. I was standing by the door talking to a
+friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I heard
+a voice which seemed to thrill to my heart. She was singing an Italian
+song. I was introduced to her that evening, and in three months I
+married Helen. Villiers, that woman, if I can call her woman, corrupted
+my soul. The night of the wedding I found myself sitting in her bedroom
+in the hotel, listening to her talk. She was sitting up in bed, and I
+listened to her as she spoke in her beautiful voice, spoke of things
+which even now I would not dare whisper in the blackest night, though I
+stood in the midst of a wilderness. You, Villiers, you may think you
+know life, and London, and what goes on day and night in this dreadful
+city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of the vilest, but
+I tell you you can have no conception of what I know, not in your most
+fantastic, hideous dreams can you have imaged forth the faintest shadow
+of what I have heard—and seen. Yes, seen. I have seen the incredible,
+such horrors that even I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the
+street and ask whether it is possible for a man to behold such things
+and live. In a year, Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul—in
+body and soul.”
+
+“But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset.”
+
+“I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old house—everything.”
+
+“And the money?”
+
+“She took it all from me.”
+
+“And then left you?”
+
+“Yes; she disappeared one night. I don’t know where she went, but I am
+sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no
+interest; sordid misery, that is all. You may think, Villiers, that I
+have exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half. I
+could tell you certain things which would convince you, but you would
+never know a happy day again. You would pass the rest of your life, as
+I pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell.”
+
+Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal.
+Herbert could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set
+before him. He sat moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved
+when Villiers sent him away with a small present of money.
+
+“By the way, Herbert,” said Villiers, as they parted at the door, “what
+was your wife’s name? You said Helen, I think? Helen what?”
+
+“The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what
+her real name was I can’t say. I don’t think she had a name. No, no,
+not in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can’t say
+anymore. Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in
+which you can help me. Good-night.”
+
+The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his
+fireside. There was something about Herbert which shocked him
+inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks which poverty had set
+upon his face, but rather an indefinite terror which hung about him
+like a mist. He had acknowledged that he himself was not devoid of
+blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him body and soul, and
+Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an actor in
+scenes evil beyond the power of words. His story needed no
+confirmation: he himself was the embodied proof of it. Villiers mused
+curiously over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had
+heard both the first and the last of it. “No,” he thought, “certainly
+not the last, probably only the beginning. A case like this is like a
+nest of Chinese boxes; you open one after the other and find a quainter
+workmanship in every box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of the
+outside boxes; there are stranger ones to follow.”
+
+Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and his story, which
+seemed to grow wilder as the night wore on. The fire seemed to burn
+low, and the chilly air of the morning crept into the room; Villiers
+got up with a glance over his shoulder, and, shivering slightly, went
+to bed.
+
+A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his acquaintance,
+named Austin, who was famous for his intimate knowledge of London life,
+both in its tenebrous and luminous phases. Villiers, still full of his
+encounter in Soho and its consequences, thought Austin might possibly
+be able to shed some light on Herbert’s history, and so after some
+casual talk he suddenly put the question:
+
+“Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert—Charles
+Herbert?”
+
+Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with some
+astonishment.
+
+“Charles Herbert? Weren’t you in town three years ago? No; then you
+have not heard of the Paul Street case? It caused a good deal of
+sensation at the time.”
+
+“What was the case?”
+
+“Well, a gentleman, a man of very good position, was found dead, stark
+dead, in the area of a certain house in Paul Street, off Tottenham
+Court Road. Of course the police did not make the discovery; if you
+happen to be sitting up all night and have a light in your window, the
+constable will ring the bell, but if you happen to be lying dead in
+somebody’s area, you will be left alone. In this instance, as in many
+others, the alarm was raised by some kind of vagabond; I don’t mean a
+common tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a gentleman, whose business
+or pleasure, or both, made him a spectator of the London streets at
+five o’clock in the morning. This individual was, as he said, ‘going
+home,’ it did not appear whence or whither, and had occasion to pass
+through Paul Street between four and five a.m. Something or other
+caught his eye at Number 20; he said, absurdly enough, that the house
+had the most unpleasant physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any
+rate, he glanced down the area and was a good deal astonished to see a
+man lying on the stones, his limbs all huddled together, and his face
+turned up. Our gentleman thought his face looked peculiarly ghastly,
+and so set off at a run in search of the nearest policeman. The
+constable was at first inclined to treat the matter lightly, suspecting
+common drunkenness; however, he came, and after looking at the man’s
+face, changed his tone, quickly enough. The early bird, who had picked
+up this fine worm, was sent off for a doctor, and the policeman rang
+and knocked at the door till a slatternly servant girl came down
+looking more than half asleep. The constable pointed out the contents
+of the area to the maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake up the
+street, but she knew nothing of the man; had never seen him at the
+house, and so forth. Meanwhile, the original discoverer had come back
+with a medical man, and the next thing was to get into the area. The
+gate was open, so the whole quartet stumped down the steps. The doctor
+hardly needed a moment’s examination; he said the poor fellow had been
+dead for several hours, and it was then the case began to get
+interesting. The dead man had not been robbed, and in one of his
+pockets were papers identifying him as—well, as a man of good family
+and means, a favourite in society, and nobody’s enemy, as far as could
+be known. I don’t give his name, Villiers, because it has nothing to do
+with the story, and because it’s no good raking up these affairs about
+the dead when there are no relations living. The next curious point was
+that the medical men couldn’t agree as to how he met his death. There
+were some slight bruises on his shoulders, but they were so slight that
+it looked as if he had been pushed roughly out of the kitchen door, and
+not thrown over the railings from the street or even dragged down the
+steps. But there were positively no other marks of violence about him,
+certainly none that would account for his death; and when they came to
+the autopsy there wasn’t a trace of poison of any kind. Of course the
+police wanted to know all about the people at Number 20, and here
+again, so I have heard from private sources, one or two other very
+curious points came out. It appears that the occupants of the house
+were a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Herbert; he was said to be a landed
+proprietor, though it struck most people that Paul Street was not
+exactly the place to look for country gentry. As for Mrs. Herbert,
+nobody seemed to know who or what she was, and, between ourselves, I
+fancy the divers after her history found themselves in rather strange
+waters. Of course they both denied knowing anything about the deceased,
+and in default of any evidence against them they were discharged. But
+some very odd things came out about them. Though it was between five
+and six in the morning when the dead man was removed, a large crowd had
+collected, and several of the neighbours ran to see what was going on.
+They were pretty free with their comments, by all accounts, and from
+these it appeared that Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul Street.
+The detectives tried to trace down these rumours to some solid
+foundation of fact, but could not get hold of anything. People shook
+their heads and raised their eyebrows and thought the Herberts rather
+‘queer,’ ‘would rather not be seen going into their house,’ and so on,
+but there was nothing tangible. The authorities were morally certain
+the man met his death in some way or another in the house and was
+thrown out by the kitchen door, but they couldn’t prove it, and the
+absence of any indications of violence or poisoning left them helpless.
+An odd case, wasn’t it? But curiously enough, there’s something more
+that I haven’t told you. I happened to know one of the doctors who was
+consulted as to the cause of death, and some time after the inquest I
+met him, and asked him about it. ‘Do you really mean to tell me,’ I
+said, ‘that you were baffled by the case, that you actually don’t know
+what the man died of?’ ‘Pardon me,’ he replied, ‘I know perfectly well
+what caused death. Blank died of fright, of sheer, awful terror; I
+never saw features so hideously contorted in the entire course of my
+practice, and I have seen the faces of a whole host of dead.’ The
+doctor was usually a cool customer enough, and a certain vehemence in
+his manner struck me, but I couldn’t get anything more out of him. I
+suppose the Treasury didn’t see their way to prosecuting the Herberts
+for frightening a man to death; at any rate, nothing was done, and the
+case dropped out of men’s minds. Do you happen to know anything of
+Herbert?”
+
+“Well,” replied Villiers, “he was an old college friend of mine.”
+
+“You don’t say so? Have you ever seen his wife?”
+
+“No, I haven’t. I have lost sight of Herbert for many years.”
+
+“It’s queer, isn’t it, parting with a man at the college gate or at
+Paddington, seeing nothing of him for years, and then finding him pop
+up his head in such an odd place. But I should like to have seen Mrs.
+Herbert; people said extraordinary things about her.”
+
+“What sort of things?”
+
+“Well, I hardly know how to tell you. Everyone who saw her at the
+police court said she was at once the most beautiful woman and the most
+repulsive they had ever set eyes on. I have spoken to a man who saw
+her, and I assure you he positively shuddered as he tried to describe
+the woman, but he couldn’t tell why. She seems to have been a sort of
+enigma; and I expect if that one dead man could have told tales, he
+would have told some uncommonly queer ones. And there you are again in
+another puzzle; what could a respectable country gentleman like Mr.
+Blank (we’ll call him that if you don’t mind) want in such a very queer
+house as Number 20? It’s altogether a very odd case, isn’t it?”
+
+“It is indeed, Austin; an extraordinary case. I didn’t think, when I
+asked you about my old friend, I should strike on such strange metal.
+Well, I must be off; good-day.”
+
+Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the Chinese boxes;
+here was quaint workmanship indeed.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET
+
+
+A few months after Villiers’ meeting with Herbert, Mr. Clarke was
+sitting, as usual, by his after-dinner hearth, resolutely guarding his
+fancies from wandering in the direction of the bureau. For more than a
+week he had succeeded in keeping away from the “Memoirs,” and he
+cherished hopes of a complete self-reformation; but, in spite of his
+endeavours, he could not hush the wonder and the strange curiosity that
+the last case he had written down had excited within him. He had put
+the case, or rather the outline of it, conjecturally to a scientific
+friend, who shook his head, and thought Clarke getting queer, and on
+this particular evening Clarke was making an effort to rationalize the
+story, when a sudden knock at the door roused him from his meditations.
+
+“Mr. Villiers to see you sir.”
+
+“Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me up; I have not
+seen you for many months; I should think nearly a year. Come in, come
+in. And how are you, Villiers? Want any advice about investments?”
+
+“No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is pretty safe. No,
+Clarke, I have really come to consult you about a rather curious matter
+that has been brought under my notice of late. I am afraid you will
+think it all rather absurd when I tell my tale. I sometimes think so
+myself, and that’s just why I made up my mind to come to you, as I know
+you’re a practical man.”
+
+Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the “Memoirs to prove the Existence of the
+Devil.”
+
+“Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my advice, to the best of
+my ability. What is the nature of the case?”
+
+“It’s an extraordinary thing altogether. You know my ways; I always
+keep my eyes open in the streets, and in my time I have chanced upon
+some queer customers, and queer cases too, but this, I think, beats
+all. I was coming out of a restaurant one nasty winter night about
+three months ago; I had had a capital dinner and a good bottle of
+Chianti, and I stood for a moment on the pavement, thinking what a
+mystery there is about London streets and the companies that pass along
+them. A bottle of red wine encourages these fancies, Clarke, and I dare
+say I should have thought a page of small type, but I was cut short by
+a beggar who had come behind me, and was making the usual appeals. Of
+course I looked round, and this beggar turned out to be what was left
+of an old friend of mine, a man named Herbert. I asked him how he had
+come to such a wretched pass, and he told me. We walked up and down one
+of those long and dark Soho streets, and there I listened to his story.
+He said he had married a beautiful girl, some years younger than
+himself, and, as he put it, she had corrupted him body and soul. He
+wouldn’t go into details; he said he dare not, that what he had seen
+and heard haunted him by night and day, and when I looked in his face I
+knew he was speaking the truth. There was something about the man that
+made me shiver. I don’t know why, but it was there. I gave him a little
+money and sent him away, and I assure you that when he was gone I
+gasped for breath. His presence seemed to chill one’s blood.”
+
+“Isn’t this all just a little fanciful, Villiers? I suppose the poor
+fellow had made an imprudent marriage, and, in plain English, gone to
+the bad.”
+
+“Well, listen to this.” Villiers told Clarke the story he had heard
+from Austin.
+
+“You see,” he concluded, “there can be but little doubt that this Mr.
+Blank, whoever he was, died of sheer terror; he saw something so awful,
+so terrible, that it cut short his life. And what he saw, he most
+certainly saw in that house, which, somehow or other, had got a bad
+name in the neighbourhood. I had the curiosity to go and look at the
+place for myself. It’s a saddening kind of street; the houses are old
+enough to be mean and dreary, but not old enough to be quaint. As far
+as I could see most of them are let in lodgings, furnished and
+unfurnished, and almost every door has three bells to it. Here and
+there the ground floors have been made into shops of the commonest
+kind; it’s a dismal street in every way. I found Number 20 was to let,
+and I went to the agent’s and got the key. Of course I should have
+heard nothing of the Herberts in that quarter, but I asked the man,
+fair and square, how long they had left the house and whether there had
+been other tenants in the meanwhile. He looked at me queerly for a
+minute, and told me the Herberts had left immediately after the
+unpleasantness, as he called it, and since then the house had been
+empty.”
+
+Mr. Villiers paused for a moment.
+
+“I have always been rather fond of going over empty houses; there’s a
+sort of fascination about the desolate empty rooms, with the nails
+sticking in the walls, and the dust thick upon the window-sills. But I
+didn’t enjoy going over Number 20, Paul Street. I had hardly put my
+foot inside the passage when I noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the
+air of the house. Of course all empty houses are stuffy, and so forth,
+but this was something quite different; I can’t describe it to you, but
+it seemed to stop the breath. I went into the front room and the back
+room, and the kitchens downstairs; they were all dirty and dusty
+enough, as you would expect, but there was something strange about them
+all. I couldn’t define it to you, I only know I felt queer. It was one
+of the rooms on the first floor, though, that was the worst. It was a
+largish room, and once on a time the paper must have been cheerful
+enough, but when I saw it, paint, paper, and everything were most
+doleful. But the room was full of horror; I felt my teeth grinding as I
+put my hand on the door, and when I went in, I thought I should have
+fallen fainting to the floor. However, I pulled myself together, and
+stood against the end wall, wondering what on earth there could be
+about the room to make my limbs tremble, and my heart beat as if I were
+at the hour of death. In one corner there was a pile of newspapers
+littered on the floor, and I began looking at them; they were papers of
+three or four years ago, some of them half torn, and some crumpled as
+if they had been used for packing. I turned the whole pile over, and
+amongst them I found a curious drawing; I will show it to you
+presently. But I couldn’t stay in the room; I felt it was overpowering
+me. I was thankful to come out, safe and sound, into the open air.
+People stared at me as I walked along the street, and one man said I
+was drunk. I was staggering about from one side of the pavement to the
+other, and it was as much as I could do to take the key back to the
+agent and get home. I was in bed for a week, suffering from what my
+doctor called nervous shock and exhaustion. One of those days I was
+reading the evening paper, and happened to notice a paragraph headed:
+‘Starved to Death.’ It was the usual style of thing; a model
+lodging-house in Marylebone, a door locked for several days, and a dead
+man in his chair when they broke in. ‘The deceased,’ said the
+paragraph, ‘was known as Charles Herbert, and is believed to have been
+once a prosperous country gentleman. His name was familiar to the
+public three years ago in connection with the mysterious death in Paul
+Street, Tottenham Court Road, the deceased being the tenant of the
+house Number 20, in the area of which a gentleman of good position was
+found dead under circumstances not devoid of suspicion.’ A tragic
+ending, wasn’t it? But after all, if what he told me were true, which I
+am sure it was, the man’s life was all a tragedy, and a tragedy of a
+stranger sort than they put on the boards.”
+
+“And that is the story, is it?” said Clarke musingly.
+
+“Yes, that is the story.”
+
+“Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what to say about it. There
+are, no doubt, circumstances in the case which seem peculiar, the
+finding of the dead man in the area of Herbert’s house, for instance,
+and the extraordinary opinion of the physician as to the cause of
+death; but, after all, it is conceivable that the facts may be
+explained in a straightforward manner. As to your own sensations, when
+you went to see the house, I would suggest that they were due to a
+vivid imagination; you must have been brooding, in a semi-conscious
+way, over what you had heard. I don’t exactly see what more can be said
+or done in the matter; you evidently think there is a mystery of some
+kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you propose to look?”
+
+“I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he married. _She_ is
+the mystery.”
+
+The two men sat silent by the fireside; Clarke secretly congratulating
+himself on having successfully kept up the character of advocate of the
+commonplace, and Villiers wrapped in his gloomy fancies.
+
+“I think I will have a cigarette,” he said at last, and put his hand in
+his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case.
+
+“Ah!” he said, starting slightly, “I forgot I had something to show
+you. You remember my saying that I had found a rather curious sketch
+amongst the pile of old newspapers at the house in Paul Street? Here it
+is.”
+
+Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his pocket. It was covered
+with brown paper, and secured with string, and the knots were
+troublesome. In spite of himself Clarke felt inquisitive; he bent
+forward on his chair as Villiers painfully undid the string, and
+unfolded the outer covering. Inside was a second wrapping of tissue,
+and Villiers took it off and handed the small piece of paper to Clarke
+without a word.
+
+There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or more; the two
+men sat so still that they could hear the ticking of the tall
+old-fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall, and in the mind of
+one of them the slow monotony of sound woke up a far, far memory. He
+was looking intently at the small pen-and-ink sketch of the woman’s
+head; it had evidently been drawn with great care, and by a true
+artist, for the woman’s soul looked out of the eyes, and the lips were
+parted with a strange smile. Clarke gazed still at the face; it brought
+to his memory one summer evening, long ago; he saw again the long
+lovely valley, the river winding between the hills, the meadows and the
+cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white mist rising from the
+water. He heard a voice speaking to him across the waves of many years,
+and saying “Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!” and then he was
+standing in the grim room beside the doctor, listening to the heavy
+ticking of the clock, waiting and watching, watching the figure lying
+on the green chair beneath the lamplight. Mary rose up, and he looked
+into her eyes, and his heart grew cold within him.
+
+“Who is this woman?” he said at last. His voice was dry and hoarse.
+
+“That is the woman who Herbert married.”
+
+Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary after all. There
+certainly was Mary’s face, but there was something else, something he
+had not seen on Mary’s features when the white-clad girl entered the
+laboratory with the doctor, nor at her terrible awakening, nor when she
+lay grinning on the bed. Whatever it was, the glance that came from
+those eyes, the smile on the full lips, or the expression of the whole
+face, Clarke shuddered before it at his inmost soul, and thought,
+unconsciously, of Dr. Phillip’s words, “the most vivid presentment of
+evil I have ever seen.” He turned the paper over mechanically in his
+hand and glanced at the back.
+
+“Good God! Clarke, what is the matter? You are as white as death.”
+
+Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke fell back with a
+groan, and let the paper drop from his hands.
+
+“I don’t feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to these attacks. Pour
+me out a little wine; thanks, that will do. I shall feel better in a
+few minutes.”
+
+Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over as Clarke had
+done.
+
+“You saw that?” he said. “That’s how I identified it as being a
+portrait of Herbert’s wife, or I should say his widow. How do you feel
+now?”
+
+“Better, thanks, it was only a passing faintness. I don’t think I quite
+catch your meaning. What did you say enabled you to identify the
+picture?”
+
+“This word—‘Helen’—was written on the back. Didn’t I tell you her name
+was Helen? Yes; Helen Vaughan.”
+
+Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow of doubt.
+
+“Now, don’t you agree with me,” said Villiers, “that in the story I
+have told you to-night, and in the part this woman plays in it, there
+are some very strange points?”
+
+“Yes, Villiers,” Clarke muttered, “it is a strange story indeed; a
+strange story indeed. You must give me time to think it over; I may be
+able to help you or I may not. Must you be going now? Well, good-night,
+Villiers, good-night. Come and see me in the course of a week.”
+
+
+
+
+V
+THE LETTER OF ADVICE
+
+
+“Do you know, Austin,” said Villiers, as the two friends were pacing
+sedately along Piccadilly one pleasant morning in May, “do you know I
+am convinced that what you told me about Paul Street and the Herberts
+is a mere episode in an extraordinary history? I may as well confess to
+you that when I asked you about Herbert a few months ago I had just
+seen him.”
+
+“You had seen him? Where?”
+
+“He begged of me in the street one night. He was in the most pitiable
+plight, but I recognized the man, and I got him to tell me his history,
+or at least the outline of it. In brief, it amounted to this—he had
+been ruined by his wife.”
+
+“In what manner?”
+
+“He would not tell me; he would only say that she had destroyed him,
+body and soul. The man is dead now.”
+
+“And what has become of his wife?”
+
+“Ah, that’s what I should like to know, and I mean to find her sooner
+or later. I know a man named Clarke, a dry fellow, in fact a man of
+business, but shrewd enough. You understand my meaning; not shrewd in
+the mere business sense of the word, but a man who really knows
+something about men and life. Well, I laid the case before him, and he
+was evidently impressed. He said it needed consideration, and asked me
+to come again in the course of a week. A few days later I received this
+extraordinary letter.”
+
+Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter, and read it curiously.
+It ran as follows:—
+
+“MY DEAR VILLIERS,—I have thought over the matter on which you
+consulted me the other night, and my advice to you is this. Throw the
+portrait into the fire, blot out the story from your mind. Never give
+it another thought, Villiers, or you will be sorry. You will think, no
+doubt, that I am in possession of some secret information, and to a
+certain extent that is the case. But I only know a little; I am like a
+traveller who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror.
+What I know is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond my
+knowledge there are depths and horrors more frightful still, more
+incredible than any tale told of winter nights about the fire. I have
+resolved, and nothing shall shake that resolve, to explore no whit
+farther, and if you value your happiness you will make the same
+determination.
+    “Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more cheerful
+    topics than this.”
+
+
+Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it to Villiers.
+
+“It is certainly an extraordinary letter,” he said, “what does he mean
+by the portrait?”
+
+“Ah! I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street and have made a
+discovery.”
+
+Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke, and Austin
+listened in silence. He seemed puzzled.
+
+“How very curious that you should experience such an unpleasant
+sensation in that room!” he said at length. “I hardly gather that it
+was a mere matter of the imagination; a feeling of repulsion, in
+short.”
+
+“No, it was more physical than mental. It was as if I were inhaling at
+every breath some deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to every nerve
+and bone and sinew of my body. I felt racked from head to foot, my eyes
+began to grow dim; it was like the entrance of death.”
+
+“Yes, yes, very strange certainly. You see, your friend confesses that
+there is some very black story connected with this woman. Did you
+notice any particular emotion in him when you were telling your tale?”
+
+“Yes, I did. He became very faint, but he assured me that it was a mere
+passing attack to which he was subject.”
+
+“Did you believe him?”
+
+“I did at the time, but I don’t now. He heard what I had to say with a
+good deal of indifference, till I showed him the portrait. It was then
+that he was seized with the attack of which I spoke. He looked ghastly,
+I assure you.”
+
+“Then he must have seen the woman before. But there might be another
+explanation; it might have been the name, and not the face, which was
+familiar to him. What do you think?”
+
+“I couldn’t say. To the best of my belief it was after turning the
+portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from the chair. The name,
+you know, was written on the back.”
+
+“Quite so. After all, it is impossible to come to any resolution in a
+case like this. I hate melodrama, and nothing strikes me as more
+commonplace and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commerce; but
+really, Villiers, it looks as if there were something very queer at the
+bottom of all this.”
+
+The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley Street, leading
+northward from Piccadilly. It was a long street, and rather a gloomy
+one, but here and there a brighter taste had illuminated the dark
+houses with flowers, and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the
+doors. Villiers glanced up as Austin stopped speaking, and looked at
+one of these houses; geraniums, red and white, drooped from every sill,
+and daffodil-coloured curtains were draped back from each window.
+
+“It looks cheerful, doesn’t it?” he said.
+
+“Yes, and the inside is still more cheery. One of the pleasantest
+houses of the season, so I have heard. I haven’t been there myself, but
+I’ve met several men who have, and they tell me it’s uncommonly
+jovial.”
+
+“Whose house is it?”
+
+“A Mrs. Beaumont’s.”
+
+“And who is she?”
+
+“I couldn’t tell you. I have heard she comes from South America, but
+after all, who she is is of little consequence. She is a very wealthy
+woman, there’s no doubt of that, and some of the best people have taken
+her up. I hear she has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine,
+which must have cost a fabulous sum. Lord Argentine was telling me
+about it; he was there last Sunday evening. He assures me he has never
+tasted such a wine, and Argentine, as you know, is an expert. By the
+way, that reminds me, she must be an oddish sort of woman, this Mrs.
+Beaumont. Argentine asked her how old the wine was, and what do you
+think she said? ‘About a thousand years, I believe.’ Lord Argentine
+thought she was chaffing him, you know, but when he laughed she said
+she was speaking quite seriously and offered to show him the jar. Of
+course, he couldn’t say anything more after that; but it seems rather
+antiquated for a beverage, doesn’t it? Why, here we are at my rooms.
+Come in, won’t you?”
+
+“Thanks, I think I will. I haven’t seen the curiosity-shop for a
+while.”
+
+It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every jar and bookcase
+and table, and every rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a thing
+apart, preserving each its own individuality.
+
+“Anything fresh lately?” said Villiers after a while.
+
+“No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs, didn’t you? I thought so. I
+don’t think I have come across anything for the last few weeks.”
+
+Austin glanced around the room from cupboard to cupboard, from shelf to
+shelf, in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an odd
+chest, pleasantly and quaintly carved, which stood in a dark corner of
+the room.
+
+“Ah,” he said, “I was forgetting, I have got something to show you.”
+Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto volume, laid it on
+the table, and resumed the cigar he had put down.
+
+“Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?”
+
+“A little; I met him two or three times at the house of a friend of
+mine. What has become of him? I haven’t heard his name mentioned for
+some time.”
+
+“He’s dead.”
+
+“You don’t say so! Quite young, wasn’t he?”
+
+“Yes; only thirty when he died.”
+
+“What did he die of?”
+
+“I don’t know. He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughly good
+fellow. He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he was one
+of the best talkers I have met. He could even talk about painting, and
+that’s more than can be said of most painters. About eighteen months
+ago he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he
+went off on a sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or
+aim about it. I believe New York was to be his first port, but I never
+heard from him. Three months ago I got this book, with a very civil
+letter from an English doctor practising at Buenos Ayres, stating that
+he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during his illness, and that the
+deceased had expressed an earnest wish that the enclosed packet should
+be sent to me after his death. That was all.”
+
+“And haven’t you written for further particulars?”
+
+“I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me to write to the
+doctor?”
+
+“Certainly. And what about the book?”
+
+“It was sealed up when I got it. I don’t think the doctor had seen it.”
+
+“It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?”
+
+“No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you think of these
+Ainu jugs?”
+
+“They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren’t you going to show me
+poor Meyrick’s legacy?”
+
+“Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it’s rather a peculiar sort of
+thing, and I haven’t shown it to any one. I wouldn’t say anything about
+it if I were you. There it is.”
+
+Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard.
+
+“It isn’t a printed volume, then?” he said.
+
+“No. It is a collection of drawings in black and white by my poor
+friend Meyrick.”
+
+Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the second bore a
+brief inscription, which he read:
+
+Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus est; lucet
+nocturnis ignibus, chorus Ægipanum undique personatur: audiuntur et
+cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum per oram maritimam.
+
+
+On the third page was a design which made Villiers start and look up at
+Austin; he was gazing abstractedly out of the window. Villiers turned
+page after page, absorbed, in spite of himself, in the frightful
+Walpurgis Night of evil, strange monstrous evil, that the dead artist
+had set forth in hard black and white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrs
+and Ægipans danced before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, the
+dance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in green
+vineyards, by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a world
+before which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder. Villiers
+whirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough, but the picture
+on the last leaf caught his eye, as he almost closed the book.
+
+“Austin!”
+
+“Well, what is it?”
+
+“Do you know who that is?”
+
+It was a woman’s face, alone on the white page.
+
+“Know who it is? No, of course not.”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“Who is it?”
+
+“It is Mrs. Herbert.”
+
+“Are you sure?”
+
+“I am perfectly sure of it. Poor Meyrick! He is one more chapter in her
+history.”
+
+“But what do you think of the designs?”
+
+“They are frightful. Lock the book up again, Austin. If I were you I
+would burn it; it must be a terrible companion even though it be in a
+chest.”
+
+“Yes, they are singular drawings. But I wonder what connection there
+could be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between her and
+these designs?”
+
+“Ah, who can say? It is possible that the matter may end here, and we
+shall never know, but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs.
+Herbert, is only the beginning. She will come back to London, Austin;
+depend on it, she will come back, and we shall hear more about her
+then. I doubt it will be very pleasant news.”
+
+
+
+
+VI
+THE SUICIDES
+
+
+Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society. At twenty he
+had been a poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family,
+but forced to earn a livelihood as best he could, and the most
+speculative of money-lenders would not have entrusted him with fifty
+pounds on the chance of his ever changing his name for a title, and his
+poverty for a great fortune. His father had been near enough to the
+fountain of good things to secure one of the family livings, but the
+son, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so much
+as this, and moreover felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate.
+Thus he fronted the world with no better armour than the bachelor’s
+gown and the wits of a younger son’s grandson, with which equipment he
+contrived in some way to make a very tolerable fight of it. At
+twenty-five Mr. Charles Aubernon saw himself still a man of struggles
+and of warfare with the world, but out of the seven who stood before
+him and the high places of his family three only remained. These three,
+however, were “good lives,” but yet not proof against the Zulu assegais
+and typhoid fever, and so one morning Aubernon woke up and found
+himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had faced the difficulties
+of existence, and had conquered. The situation amused him immensely,
+and he resolved that riches should be as pleasant to him as poverty had
+always been. Argentine, after some little consideration, came to the
+conclusion that dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhaps the most
+amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinners became
+famous in London, and an invitation to his table a thing covetously
+desired. After ten years of lordship and dinners Argentine still
+declined to be jaded, still persisted in enjoying life, and by a kind
+of infection had become recognized as the cause of joy in others, in
+short, as the best of company. His sudden and tragical death therefore
+caused a wide and deep sensation. People could scarcely believe it,
+even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and the cry of
+“Mysterious Death of a Nobleman” came ringing up from the street. But
+there stood the brief paragraph: “Lord Argentine was found dead this
+morning by his valet under distressing circumstances. It is stated that
+there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide, though no
+motive can be assigned for the act. The deceased nobleman was widely
+known in society, and much liked for his genial manner and sumptuous
+hospitality. He is succeeded by,” etc., etc.
+
+By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remained
+a mystery. The chief witness at the inquest was the deceased’s valet,
+who said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined with
+a lady of good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaper
+reports. At about eleven o’clock Lord Argentine had returned, and
+informed his man that he should not require his services till the next
+morning. A little later the valet had occasion to cross the hall and
+was somewhat astonished to see his master quietly letting himself out
+at the front door. He had taken off his evening clothes, and was
+dressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low brown hat.
+The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him,
+and though his master rarely kept late hours, thought little of the
+occurrence till the next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom door
+at a quarter to nine as usual. He received no answer, and, after
+knocking two or three times, entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine’s
+body leaning forward at an angle from the bottom of the bed. He found
+that his master had tied a cord securely to one of the short bed-posts,
+and, after making a running noose and slipping it round his neck, the
+unfortunate man must have resolutely fallen forward, to die by slow
+strangulation. He was dressed in the light suit in which the valet had
+seen him go out, and the doctor who was summoned pronounced that life
+had been extinct for more than four hours. All papers, letters, and so
+forth seemed in perfect order, and nothing was discovered which pointed
+in the most remote way to any scandal either great or small. Here the
+evidence ended; nothing more could be discovered. Several persons had
+been present at the dinner-party at which Lord Argentine had assisted,
+and to all these he seemed in his usual genial spirits. The valet,
+indeed, said he thought his master appeared a little excited when he
+came home, but confessed that the alteration in his manner was very
+slight, hardly noticeable, indeed. It seemed hopeless to seek for any
+clue, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine had been suddenly attacked
+by acute suicidal mania was generally accepted.
+
+It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks, three more
+gentlemen, one of them a nobleman, and the two others men of good
+position and ample means, perished miserably in the almost precisely
+the same manner. Lord Swanleigh was found one morning in his
+dressing-room, hanging from a peg affixed to the wall, and Mr.
+Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries had chosen to die as Lord Argentine.
+There was no explanation in either case; a few bald facts; a living man
+in the evening, and a body with a black swollen face in the morning.
+The police had been forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest or
+to explain the sordid murders of Whitechapel; but before the horrible
+suicides of Piccadilly and Mayfair they were dumbfoundered, for not
+even the mere ferocity which did duty as an explanation of the crimes
+of the East End, could be of service in the West. Each of these men who
+had resolved to die a tortured shameful death was rich, prosperous, and
+to all appearances in love with the world, and not the acutest research
+should ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in either case. There
+was a horror in the air, and men looked at one another’s faces when
+they met, each wondering whether the other was to be the victim of the
+fifth nameless tragedy. Journalists sought in vain for their scrapbooks
+for materials whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morning
+paper was unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knew
+when or where the next blow would light.
+
+A short while after the last of these terrible events, Austin came to
+see Mr. Villiers. He was curious to know whether Villiers had succeeded
+in discovering any fresh traces of Mrs. Herbert, either through Clarke
+or by other sources, and he asked the question soon after he had sat
+down.
+
+“No,” said Villiers, “I wrote to Clarke, but he remains obdurate, and I
+have tried other channels, but without any result. I can’t find out
+what became of Helen Vaughan after she left Paul Street, but I think
+she must have gone abroad. But to tell the truth, Austin, I haven’t
+paid much attention to the matter for the last few weeks; I knew poor
+Herries intimately, and his terrible death has been a great shock to
+me, a great shock.”
+
+“I can well believe it,” answered Austin gravely, “you know Argentine
+was a friend of mine. If I remember rightly, we were speaking of him
+that day you came to my rooms.”
+
+“Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley Street, Mrs.
+Beaumont’s house. You said something about Argentine’s dining there.”
+
+“Quite so. Of course you know it was there Argentine dined the night
+before—before his death.”
+
+“No, I had not heard that.”
+
+“Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont.
+Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was in a
+terrible state for sometime after.”
+
+A curious look came over Villiers’ face; he seemed undecided whether to
+speak or not. Austin began again.
+
+“I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I read the
+account of Argentine’s death. I didn’t understand it at the time, and I
+don’t now. I knew him well, and it completely passes my understanding
+for what possible cause he—or any of the others for the matter of
+that—could have resolved in cold blood to die in such an awful manner.
+You know how men babble away each other’s characters in London, you may
+be sure any buried scandal or hidden skeleton would have been brought
+to light in such a case as this; but nothing of the sort has taken
+place. As for the theory of mania, that is very well, of course, for
+the coroner’s jury, but everybody knows that it’s all nonsense.
+Suicidal mania is not small-pox.”
+
+Austin relapsed into gloomy silence. Villiers sat silent, also,
+watching his friend. The expression of indecision still fleeted across
+his face; he seemed as if weighing his thoughts in the balance, and the
+considerations he was resolving left him still silent. Austin tried to
+shake off the remembrance of tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as the
+labyrinth of Daedalus, and began to talk in an indifferent voice of the
+more pleasant incidents and adventures of the season.
+
+“That Mrs. Beaumont,” he said, “of whom we were speaking, is a great
+success; she has taken London almost by storm. I met her the other
+night at Fulham’s; she is really a remarkable woman.”
+
+“You have met Mrs. Beaumont?”
+
+“Yes; she had quite a court around her. She would be called very
+handsome, I suppose, and yet there is something about her face which I
+didn’t like. The features are exquisite, but the expression is strange.
+And all the time I was looking at her, and afterwards, when I was going
+home, I had a curious feeling that very expression was in some way or
+another familiar to me.”
+
+“You must have seen her in the Row.”
+
+“No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it is that which
+makes it puzzling. And to the best of my belief I have never seen
+anyone like her; what I felt was a kind of dim far-off memory, vague
+but persistent. The only sensation I can compare it to, is that odd
+feeling one sometimes has in a dream, when fantastic cities and
+wondrous lands and phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed.”
+
+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!”
+
+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 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!”
+
+“Who is she? In what way do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that you and I know her better under another name.”
+
+“What name is that?”
+
+“Herbert.”
+
+“Herbert!” Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment.
+
+“Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures
+unknown to me. You had reason to recognize the expression of her face;
+when you go home look at the face in Meyrick’s book of horrors, and you
+will know the sources of your recollection.”
+
+“And you have proof of this?”
+
+“Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say
+Mrs. Herbert?”
+
+“Where did you see her?”
+
+“Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in
+Ashley Street, Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one of the
+meanest and most disreputable streets in Soho. In fact, I had made an
+appointment, though not with her, and she was precise to both time and
+place.”
+
+“All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible. You
+must remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary
+adventure of London society, talking and laughing, and sipping her
+coffee in a commonplace drawing-room with commonplace people. But you
+know what you are saying.”
+
+“I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises or fancies. It
+was with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs.
+Beaumont in the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been
+the issue.”
+
+“You must have been in strange places, Villiers.”
+
+“Yes, I have been in very strange places. It would have been useless,
+you know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a
+short sketch of her previous history. No; assuming, as I had to assume,
+that her record was not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain
+that at some previous time she must have moved in circles not quite so
+refined as her present ones. If you see mud at the top of a stream, you
+may be sure that it was once at the bottom. I went to the bottom. I
+have always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my amusement, and
+I found my knowledge of that locality and its inhabitants very useful.
+It is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the
+name of Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite
+unable to describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The
+people there know me; I have been able to do some of them a service now
+and again, so they made no difficulty about giving their information;
+they were aware I had no communication direct or indirect with Scotland
+Yard. I had to cast out a good many lines, though, before I got what I
+wanted, and when I landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose it
+was my fish. But I listened to what I was told out of a constitutional
+liking for useless information, and I found myself in possession of a
+very curious story, though, as I imagined, not 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 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, as their bodies
+blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot
+be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a
+symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a
+foolish tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the
+terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under
+human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form. Oh,
+Austin, how can it be? How is it that the very sunlight does not turn
+to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath
+such a burden?”
+
+Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads of sweat stood
+out on his forehead. Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers saw
+him make a sign upon his breast.
+
+“I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter such a house as
+that? You would never pass out alive.”
+
+“Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive—I, and Clarke with me.”
+
+“What do you mean? You cannot, you would not dare...”
+
+“Wait a moment. The air was very pleasant and fresh this morning; there
+was a breeze blowing, even through this dull street, and I thought I
+would take a walk. Piccadilly stretched before me a clear, bright
+vista, and the sun flashed on the carriages and on the quivering leaves
+in the park. It was a joyous morning, and men and women looked at the
+sky and smiled as they went about their work or their pleasure, and the
+wind blew as blithely as upon the meadows and the scented gorse. But
+somehow or other I got out of the bustle and the gaiety, and found
+myself walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where there seemed to
+be no sunshine and no air, and where the few foot-passengers loitered
+as they walked, and hung indecisively about corners and archways. I
+walked along, hardly knowing where I was going or what I did there, but
+feeling impelled, as one sometimes is, to explore still further, with a
+vague idea of reaching some unknown goal. Thus I forged up the street,
+noting the small traffic of the milk-shop, and wondering at the
+incongruous medley of penny pipes, black tobacco, sweets, newspapers,
+and comic songs which here and there jostled one another in the short
+compass of a single window. I think it was a cold shudder that suddenly
+passed through me that first told me that I had found what I wanted. I
+looked up from the pavement and stopped before a dusty shop, above
+which the lettering had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred
+years ago had grimed to black; where the windows had gathered to
+themselves the dust of winters innumerable. I saw what I required; but
+I think it was five minutes before I had steadied myself and could walk
+in and ask for it in a cool voice and with a calm face. I think there
+must even then have been a tremor in my words, for the old man who came
+out of the back parlour, and fumbled slowly amongst his goods, looked
+oddly at me as he tied the parcel. I paid what he asked, and stood
+leaning by the counter, with a strange reluctance to take up my goods
+and go. I asked about the business, and learnt that trade was bad and
+the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was not what it was
+before traffic had been diverted, but that was done forty years ago,
+‘just before my father died,’ he said. I got away at last, and walked
+along sharply; it was a dismal street indeed, and I was glad to return
+to the bustle and the noise. Would you like to see my purchase?”
+
+Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he still looked
+white and sick. Villiers pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and
+showed Austin a long coil of cord, hard and new; and at one end was a
+running noose.
+
+“It is the best hempen cord,” said Villiers, “just as it used to be
+made for the old trade, the man told me. Not an inch of jute from end
+to end.”
+
+Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, growing whiter as he
+looked.
+
+“You would not do it,” he murmured at last. “You would not have blood
+on your hands. My God!” he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence, “you
+cannot mean this, Villiers, that you will make yourself a hangman?”
+
+“No. I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan alone with this
+cord in a locked room for fifteen minutes. If when we go in it is not
+done, I shall call the nearest policeman. That is all.”
+
+“I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this.
+Good-night.”
+
+“Good-night, Austin.”
+
+The door shut, but in a moment it was open again, and Austin stood,
+white and ghastly, in the entrance.
+
+“I was forgetting,” he said, “that I too have something to tell. I have
+received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres. He says that he
+attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death.”
+
+“And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life? It was not
+fever?”
+
+“No, it was not fever. According to the doctor, it was an utter
+collapse of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock. But
+he states that the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was
+consequently at some disadvantage in treating the case.”
+
+“Is there anything more?”
+
+“Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: ‘I think this is all the
+information I can give you about your poor friend. He had not been long
+in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of a
+person who did not bear the best of characters, and has since left—a
+Mrs. Vaughan.’”
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+THE FRAGMENTS
+
+
+[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr. Robert Matheson,
+of Ashley Street, Piccadilly, who died suddenly, of apoplectic seizure,
+at the beginning of 1892, a leaf of manuscript paper was found, covered
+with pencil jottings. These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated, and
+had evidently been made in great haste. The MS. was only deciphered
+with difficulty, and some words have up to the present time evaded all
+the efforts of the expert employed. The date, “XXV Jul. 1888,” is
+written on the right-hand corner of the MS. The following is a
+translation of Dr. Matheson’s manuscript.]
+
+
+“Whether science would benefit by these brief notes if they could be
+published, I do not know, but rather doubt. But certainly I shall never
+take the responsibility of publishing or divulging one word of what is
+here written, not only on account of my oath given freely to those two
+persons who were present, but also because the details are too
+abominable. It is probably that, upon mature consideration, and after
+weighting the good and evil, I shall one day destroy this paper, or at
+least leave it under seal to my friend D., trusting in his discretion,
+to use it or to burn it, as he may think fit.
+
+“As was befitting, I did all that my knowledge suggested to make sure
+that I was suffering under no delusion. At first astounded, I could
+hardly think, but in a minute’s time I was sure that my pulse was
+steady and regular, and that I was in my real and true senses. I then
+fixed my eyes quietly on what was before me.
+
+“Though horror and revolting nausea rose up within me, and an odour of
+corruption choked my breath, I remained firm. I was then privileged or
+accursed, I dare not say which, to see that which was on the bed, lying
+there black like ink, transformed before my eyes. The skin, and the
+flesh, and the muscles, and the bones, and the firm structure of the
+human body that I had thought to be unchangeable, and permanent as
+adamant, began to melt and dissolve.
+
+“I know that the body may be separated into its elements by external
+agencies, but I should have refused to believe what I saw. For here
+there was some internal force, of which I knew nothing, that caused
+dissolution and change.
+
+“Here too was all the work by which man had been made repeated before
+my eyes. I saw the form waver from sex to sex, dividing itself from
+itself, and then again reunited. Then I saw the body descend to the
+beasts whence it ascended, and that which was on the heights go down to
+the depths, even to the abyss of all being. The principle of life,
+which makes organism, always remained, while the outward form changed.
+
+“The light within the room had turned to blackness, not the darkness of
+night, in which objects are seen dimly, for I could see clearly and
+without difficulty. But it was the negation of light; objects were
+presented to my eyes, if I may say so, without any medium, in such a
+manner that if there had been a prism in the room I should have seen no
+colours represented in it.
+
+“I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance as jelly. Then
+the ladder was ascended again... [_here the_ MS. _is illegible_] ...for
+one instance I saw a Form, shaped in dimness before me, which I will
+not farther describe. But the symbol of this form may be seen in
+ancient sculptures, and in paintings which survived beneath the lava,
+too foul to be spoken of... as a horrible and unspeakable shape,
+neither man nor beast, was changed into human form, there came finally
+death.
+
+“I who saw all this, not without great horror and loathing of soul,
+here write my name, declaring all that I have set on this paper to be
+true.
+
+“ROBERT MATHESON, Med. Dr.”
+
+
+...Such, Raymond, is the story of what I know and what I have seen. The
+burden of it was too heavy for me to bear alone, and yet I could tell
+it to none but you. Villiers, who was with me at the last, knows
+nothing of that awful secret of the wood, of how what we both saw die,
+lay upon the smooth, sweet turf amidst the summer flowers, half in sun
+and half in shadow, and holding the girl Rachel’s hand, called and
+summoned those companions, and shaped in solid form, upon the earth we
+tread upon, the horror which we can but hint at, which we can only name
+under a figure. I would not tell Villiers of this, nor of that
+resemblance, which struck me as with a blow upon my heart, when I saw
+the portrait, which filled the cup of terror at the end. What this can
+mean I dare not guess. I know that what I saw perish was not Mary, and
+yet in the last agony Mary’s eyes looked into mine. Whether there can
+be any one who can show the last link in this chain of awful mystery, I
+do not know, but if there be any one who can do this, you, Raymond, are
+the man. And if you know the secret, it rests with you to tell it or
+not, as you please.
+
+I am writing this letter to you immediately on my getting back to town.
+I have been in the country for the last few days; perhaps you may be
+able to guess in which part. While the horror and wonder of London was
+at its height—for “Mrs. Beaumont,” as I have told you, was well known
+in society—I wrote to my friend Dr. Phillips, giving some brief
+outline, or rather hint, of what happened, and asking him to tell me
+the name of the village where the events he had related to me occurred.
+He gave me the name, as he said with the less hesitation, because
+Rachel’s father and mother were dead, and the rest of the family had
+gone to a relative in the State of Washington six months before. The
+parents, he said, had undoubtedly died of grief and horror caused by
+the terrible death of their daughter, and by what had gone before that
+death. On the evening of the day which I received Phillips’ letter I
+was at Caermaen, and standing beneath the mouldering Roman walls, white
+with the winters of seventeen hundred years, I looked over the meadow
+where once had stood the older temple of the “God of the Deeps,” and
+saw a house gleaming in the sunlight. It was the house where Helen had
+lived. I stayed at Caermaen for several days. The people of the place,
+I found, knew little and had guessed less. Those whom I spoke to on the
+matter seemed surprised that an antiquarian (as I professed myself to
+be) should trouble about a village tragedy, of which they gave a very
+commonplace version, and, as you may imagine, I told nothing of what I
+knew. Most of my time was spent in the great wood that rises just above
+the village and climbs the hillside, and goes down to the river in the
+valley; such another long lovely valley, Raymond, as that on which we
+looked one summer night, walking to and fro before your house. For many
+an hour I strayed through the maze of the forest, turning now to right
+and now to left, pacing slowly down long alleys of undergrowth, shadowy
+and chill, even under the midday sun, and halting beneath great oaks;
+lying on the short turf of a clearing where the faint sweet scent of
+wild roses came to me on the wind and mixed with the heavy perfume of
+the elder, whose mingled odour is like the odour of the room of the
+dead, a vapour of incense and corruption. I stood at the edges of the
+wood, gazing at all the pomp and procession of the foxgloves towering
+amidst the bracken and shining red in the broad sunshine, and beyond
+them into deep thickets of close undergrowth where springs boil up from
+the rock and nourish the water-weeds, dank and evil. But in all my
+wanderings I avoided one part of the wood; it was not till yesterday
+that I climbed to the summit of the hill, and stood upon the ancient
+Roman road that threads the highest ridge of the wood. Here they had
+walked, Helen and Rachel, along this quiet causeway, upon the pavement
+of green turf, shut in on either side by high banks of red earth, and
+tall hedges of shining beech, and here I followed in their steps,
+looking out, now and again, through partings in the boughs, and seeing
+on one side the sweep of the wood stretching far to right and left, and
+sinking into the broad level, and beyond, the yellow sea, and the land
+over the sea. On the other side was the valley and the river and hill
+following hill as wave on wave, and wood and meadow, and cornfield, and
+white houses gleaming, and a great wall of mountain, and far blue peaks
+in the north. And so at last I came to the place. The track went up a
+gentle slope, and widened out into an open space with a wall of thick
+undergrowth around it, and then, narrowing again, passed on into the
+distance and the faint blue mist of summer heat. And into this pleasant
+summer glade Rachel passed a girl, and left it, who shall say what? I
+did not stay long there.
+
+
+In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum, containing for the
+most part Roman remains which have been found in the neighbourhood at
+various times. On the day after my arrival in Caermaen I walked over to
+the town in question, and took the opportunity of inspecting the
+museum. After I had seen most of the sculptured stones, the coffins,
+rings, coins, and fragments of tessellated pavement which the place
+contains, I was shown a small square pillar of white stone, which had
+been recently discovered in the wood of which I have been speaking,
+and, as I found on inquiry, in that open space where the Roman road
+broadens out. On one side of the pillar was an inscription, of which I
+took a note. Some of the letters have been defaced, but I do not think
+there can be any doubt as to those which I supply. The inscription is
+as follows:
+
+DEVOMNODENT_i_
+FLA_v_IVSSENILISPOSSV_it_
+PROPTERNVP_tias_
+_qua_SVIDITSVBVMB_ra_
+
+
+“To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or Abyss) Flavius
+Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the marriage which he saw
+beneath the shade.”
+
+The custodian of the museum informed me that local antiquaries were
+much puzzled, not by the inscription, or by any difficulty in
+translating it, but as to the circumstance or rite to which allusion is
+made.
+
+
+...And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me about Helen Vaughan,
+whom you say you saw die under circumstances of the utmost and almost
+incredible horror. I was interested in your account, but a good deal,
+nay all, of what you told me I knew already. I can understand the
+strange likeness you remarked in both the portrait and in the actual
+face; you have seen Helen’s mother. You remember that still summer
+night so many years ago, when I talked to you of the world beyond the
+shadows, and of the god Pan. You remember Mary. She was the mother of
+Helen Vaughan, who was born nine months after that night.
+
+Mary never recovered her reason. She lay, as you saw her, all the while
+upon her bed, and a few days after the child was born she died. I fancy
+that just at the last she knew me; I was standing by the bed, and the
+old look came into her eyes for a second, and then she shuddered and
+groaned and died. It was an ill work I did that night when you were
+present; I broke open the door of the house of life, without knowing or
+caring what might pass forth or enter in. I recollect your telling me
+at the time, sharply enough, and rightly too, in one sense, that I had
+ruined the reason of a human being by a foolish experiment, based on an
+absurd theory. You did well to blame me, but my theory was not all
+absurdity. What I said Mary would see she saw, but I forgot that no
+human eyes can look on such a sight with impunity. And I forgot, as I
+have just said, that when the house of life is thus thrown open, there
+may enter in that for which we have no name, and human flesh may become
+the veil of a horror one dare not express. I played with energies which
+I did not understand, you have seen the ending of it. Helen Vaughan did
+well to bind the cord about her neck and die, though the death was
+horrible. The blackened face, the hideous form upon the bed, changing
+and melting before your eyes from woman to man, from man to beast, and
+from beast to worse than beast, all the strange horror that you
+witness, surprises me but little. What you say the doctor whom you sent
+for saw and shuddered at I noticed long ago; I knew what I had done the
+moment the child was born, and when it was scarcely five years old I
+surprised it, not once or twice but several times with a playmate, you
+may guess of what kind. It was for me a constant, an incarnate horror,
+and after a few years I felt I could bear it no more, and I sent Helen
+Vaughan away. You know now what frightened the boy in the wood. The
+rest of the strange story, and all else that you tell me, as discovered
+by your friend, I have contrived to learn from time to time, almost to
+the last chapter. And now Helen is with her companions...
+
+THE END.
+
+
+NOTE.—Helen Vaughan was born on August 5th, 1865, at the Red House,
+Breconshire, and died on July 25th, 1888, in her house in a street off
+Piccadilly, called Ashley Street in the story.
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
+be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
+law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
+so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the
+United States without permission and without paying copyright
+royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
+of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
+concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
+and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
+the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
+of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+
+START: FULL LICENSE
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
+person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
+1.E.8.
+
+1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
+Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
+on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+
+  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+  most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
+  restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
+  under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
+  eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
+  United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
+  you are located before using this eBook.
+
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
+other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
+Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+provided that:
+
+* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
+  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+  Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
+  works.
+
+* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+  receipt of the work.
+
+* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
+www.gutenberg.org
+
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without
+widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
+state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: www.gutenberg.org
+
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+
+
diff --git a/389-0.zip b/389-0.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f907770
--- /dev/null
+++ b/389-0.zip
diff --git a/389-h.zip b/389-h.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4858f14
--- /dev/null
+++ b/389-h.zip
diff --git a/389-h/389-h.htm b/389-h/389-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..66c5da1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/389-h/389-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,3346 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen</title>
+
+<style type="text/css">
+
+body { margin-left: 20%;
+       margin-right: 20%;
+       text-align: justify; }
+
+h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight:
+normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;}
+
+h1 {font-size: 300%;
+    margin-top: 0.6em;
+    margin-bottom: 0.6em;
+    letter-spacing: 0.12em;
+    word-spacing: 0.2em;
+    text-indent: 0em;}
+h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;}
+h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;}
+h4 {font-size: 120%;}
+h5 {font-size: 110%;}
+
+.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */
+
+div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;}
+
+hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}
+
+p {text-indent: 1em;
+   margin-top: 0.25em;
+   margin-bottom: 0.25em; }
+
+.p2 {margin-top: 2em;}
+
+p.poem {text-indent: 0%;
+        margin-left: 10%;
+        font-size: 90%;
+        margin-top: 1em;
+        margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+p.letter {text-indent: 0%;
+          margin-left: 10%;
+          margin-right: 10%;
+          margin-top: 1em;
+          margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+p.center  {text-align: center;
+           text-indent: 0em;
+           margin-top: 1em;
+           margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+p.right {text-align: right;
+         margin-right: 10%;
+         margin-top: 1em;
+         margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+p.footnote {font-size: 90%;
+           text-indent: 0%;
+           margin-left: 10%;
+           margin-right: 10%;
+           margin-top: 1em;
+           margin-bottom: 1em; }
+
+a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
+a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
+a:hover {color:red}
+
+</style>
+
+</head>
+
+<body>
+
+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Great God Pan</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Arthur Machen</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January, 1996 [eBook #389]<br />
+[Most recently updated: November 10, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Brandi Weed. HTML version by Al Haines.</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***</div>
+
+<h1>The Great God Pan</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">by Arthur Machen</h2>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>Contents</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. THE EXPERIMENT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. MR. CLARKE&rsquo;S MEMOIRS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. THE LETTER OF ADVICE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. THE SUICIDES</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THE FRAGMENTS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I<br />
+THE EXPERIMENT</h2>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed. I was not sure you could
+spare the time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I was able to make arrangements for a few days; things are not very
+lively just now. But have you no misgivings, Raymond? Is it absolutely
+safe?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond&rsquo;s
+house. The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it shone with a
+dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet breath
+came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals, the
+soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in the long lovely valley, the
+river wound in and out between the lonely hills, and, as the sun hovered and
+vanished into the west, a faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills.
+Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Safe? Of course it is. In itself the operation is a perfectly simple
+one; any surgeon could do it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And there is no danger at any other stage?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;None; absolutely no physical danger whatsoever, I give you my word. You
+are always timid, Clarke, always; but you know my history. I have devoted
+myself to transcendental medicine for the last twenty years. I have heard
+myself called quack and charlatan and impostor, but all the while I knew I was
+on the right path. Five years ago I reached the goal, and since then every day
+has been a preparation for what we shall do tonight.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should like to believe it is all true.&rdquo; Clarke knit his brows,
+and looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond. &ldquo;Are you perfectly sure, Raymond,
+that your theory is not a phantasmagoria&mdash;a splendid vision, certainly,
+but a mere vision after all?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and turned sharply. He was a middle-aged man,
+gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow complexion, but as he answered Clarke and
+faced him, there was a flush on his cheek.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Look about you, Clarke. You see the mountain, and hill following after
+hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods and orchard, the fields of ripe corn,
+and the meadows reaching to the reed-beds by the river. You see me standing
+here beside you, and hear my voice; but I tell you that all these
+things&mdash;yes, from that star that has just shone out in the sky to the
+solid ground beneath our feet&mdash;I say that all these are but dreams and
+shadows; the shadows that hide the real world from our eyes. There <i>is</i> a
+real world, but it is beyond this glamour and this vision, beyond these
+&lsquo;chases in Arras, dreams in a career,&rsquo; beyond them all as beyond a
+veil. I do not know whether any human being has ever lifted that veil; but I do
+know, Clarke, that you and I shall see it lifted this very night from before
+another&rsquo;s eyes. You may think this all strange nonsense; it may be
+strange, but it is true, and the ancients knew what lifting the veil means.
+They called it seeing the god Pan.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering over the river was chilly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is wonderful indeed,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;We are standing on the
+brink of a strange world, Raymond, if what you say is true. I suppose the knife
+is absolutely necessary?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes; a slight lesion in the grey matter, that is all; a trifling
+rearrangement of certain cells, a microscopical alteration that would escape
+the attention of ninety-nine brain specialists out of a hundred. I don&rsquo;t
+want to bother you with &lsquo;shop,&rsquo; Clarke; I might give you a mass of
+technical detail which would sound very imposing, and would leave you as
+enlightened as you are now. But I suppose you have read, casually, in
+out-of-the-way corners of your paper, that immense strides have been made
+recently in the physiology of the brain. I saw a paragraph the other day about
+Digby&rsquo;s theory, and Browne Faber&rsquo;s discoveries. Theories and
+discoveries! Where they are standing now, I stood fifteen years ago, and I need
+not tell you that I have not been standing still for the last fifteen years. It
+will be enough if I say that five years ago I made the discovery that I alluded
+to when I said that ten years ago I reached the goal. After years of labour,
+after years of toiling and groping in the dark, after days and nights of
+disappointments and sometimes of despair, in which I used now and then to
+tremble and grow cold with the thought that perhaps there were others seeking
+for what I sought, at last, after so long, a pang of sudden joy thrilled my
+soul, and I knew the long journey was at an end. By what seemed then and still
+seems a chance, the suggestion of a moment&rsquo;s idle thought followed up
+upon familiar lines and paths that I had tracked a hundred times already, the
+great truth burst upon me, and I saw, mapped out in lines of sight, a whole
+world, a sphere unknown; continents and islands, and great oceans in which no
+ship has sailed (to my belief) since a Man first lifted up his eyes and beheld
+the sun, and the stars of heaven, and the quiet earth beneath. You will think
+this all high-flown language, Clarke, but it is hard to be literal. And yet; I
+do not know whether what I am hinting at cannot be set forth in plain and
+lonely terms. For instance, this world of ours is pretty well girded now with
+the telegraph wires and cables; thought, with something less than the speed of
+thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset, from north to south, across the floods
+and the desert places. Suppose that an electrician of today were suddenly to
+perceive that he and his friends have merely been playing with pebbles and
+mistaking them for the foundations of the world; suppose that such a man saw
+uttermost space lie open before the current, and words of men flash forth to
+the sun and beyond the sun into the systems beyond, and the voice of
+articulate-speaking men echo in the waste void that bounds our thought. As
+analogies go, that is a pretty good analogy of what I have done; you can
+understand now a little of what I felt as I stood here one evening; it was a
+summer evening, and the valley looked much as it does now; I stood here, and
+saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between
+two worlds, the world of matter and the world of spirit; I saw the great empty
+deep stretch dim before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from
+the earth to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned. You may look in
+Browne Faber&rsquo;s book, if you like, and you will find that to the present
+day men of science are unable to account for the presence, or to specify the
+functions of a certain group of nerve-cells in the brain. That group is, as it
+were, land to let, a mere waste place for fanciful theories. I am not in the
+position of Browne Faber and the specialists, I am perfectly instructed as to
+the possible functions of those nerve-centers in the scheme of things. With a
+touch I can bring them into play, with a touch, I say, I can set free the
+current, with a touch I can complete the communication between this world of
+sense and&mdash;we shall be able to finish the sentence later on. Yes, the
+knife is necessary; but think what that knife will effect. It will level
+utterly the solid wall of sense, and probably, for the first time since man was
+made, a spirit will gaze on a spirit-world. Clarke, Mary will see the god
+Pan!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you remember what you wrote to me? I thought it would be requisite
+that she&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He whispered the rest into the doctor&rsquo;s ear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not at all, not at all. That is nonsense. I assure you. Indeed, it is
+better as it is; I am quite certain of that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Consider the matter well, Raymond. It&rsquo;s a great responsibility.
+Something might go wrong; you would be a miserable man for the rest of your
+days.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I think not, even if the worst happened. As you know, I rescued Mary
+from the gutter, and from almost certain starvation, when she was a child; I
+think her life is mine, to use as I see fit. Come, it&rsquo;s getting late; we
+had better go in.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dr. Raymond led the way into the house, through the hall, and down a long dark
+passage. He took a key from his pocket and opened a heavy door, and motioned
+Clarke into his laboratory. It had once been a billiard-room, and was lighted
+by a glass dome in the centre of the ceiling, whence there still shone a sad
+grey light on the figure of the doctor as he lit a lamp with a heavy shade and
+placed it on a table in the middle of the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke looked about him. Scarcely a foot of wall remained bare; there were
+shelves all around laden with bottles and phials of all shapes and colours, and
+at one end stood a little Chippendale book-case. Raymond pointed to this.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You see that parchment Oswald Crollius? He was one of the first to show
+me the way, though I don&rsquo;t think he ever found it himself. That is a
+strange saying of his: &lsquo;In every grain of wheat there lies hidden the
+soul of a star.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was not much furniture in the laboratory. The table in the centre, a
+stone slab with a drain in one corner, the two armchairs on which Raymond and
+Clarke were sitting; that was all, except an odd-looking chair at the furthest
+end of the room. Clarke looked at it, and raised his eyebrows.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, that is the chair,&rdquo; said Raymond. &ldquo;We may as well place
+it in position.&rdquo; He got up and wheeled the chair to the light, and began
+raising and lowering it, letting down the seat, setting the back at various
+angles, and adjusting the foot-rest. It looked comfortable enough, and Clarke
+passed his hand over the soft green velvet, as the doctor manipulated the
+levers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfortable. I have a couple
+hours&rsquo; work before me; I was obliged to leave certain matters to the
+last.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him drearily as he bent over
+a row of phials and lit the flame under the crucible. The doctor had a small
+hand-lamp, shaded as the larger one, on a ledge above his apparatus, and
+Clarke, who sat in the shadows, looked down at the great shadowy room,
+wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and undefined darkness
+contrasting with one another. Soon he became conscious of an odd odour, at
+first the merest suggestion of odour, in the room, and as it grew more decided
+he felt surprised that he was not reminded of the chemist&rsquo;s shop or the
+surgery. Clarke found himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and
+half conscious, he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that he had
+spent roaming through the woods and meadows near his own home. It was a burning
+day at the beginning of August, the heat had dimmed the outlines of all things
+and all distances with a faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer
+spoke of an abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost tropical.
+Strangely that wonderful hot day of the fifties rose up again in Clarke&rsquo;s
+imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading sunlight seemed to blot out
+the shadows and the lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air
+beating in gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and
+heard the myriad murmur of the summer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope the smell doesn&rsquo;t annoy you, Clarke; there&rsquo;s nothing
+unwholesome about it. It may make you a bit sleepy, that&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was speaking to
+him, but for the life of him he could not rouse himself from his lethargy. He
+could only think of the lonely walk he had taken fifteen years ago; it was his
+last look at the fields and woods he had known since he was a child, and now it
+all stood out in brilliant light, as a picture, before him. Above all there
+came to his nostrils the scent of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the
+odour of the woods, of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn
+forth by the sun&rsquo;s heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it
+were with arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. His fancies
+made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the wood,
+tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of beech-trees; and the
+trickle of water dropping from the limestone rock sounded as a clear melody in
+the dream. Thoughts began to go astray and to mingle with other thoughts; the
+beech alley was transformed to a path between ilex-trees, and here and there a
+vine climbed from bough to bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with
+purple grapes, and the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree stood out
+against the dark shadows of the ilex. Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was
+conscious that the path from his father&rsquo;s house had led him into an
+undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it all, when
+suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite silence
+seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed, and for a moment in time
+he stood face to face there with a presence, that was neither man nor beast,
+neither the living nor the dead, but all things mingled, the form of all things
+but devoid of all form. And in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was
+dissolved, and a voice seemed to cry &ldquo;Let us go hence,&rdquo; and then
+the darkness of darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of some
+oily fluid into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have been dozing,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;the journey must have tired
+you out. It is done now. I am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten
+minutes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered. It seemed as if he had but passed
+from one dream into another. He half expected to see the walls of the
+laboratory melt and disappear, and to awake in London, shuddering at his own
+sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened, and the doctor returned, and
+behind him came a girl of about seventeen, dressed all in white. She was so
+beautiful that Clarke did not wonder at what the doctor had written to him. She
+was blushing now over face and neck and arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the time has come. You are quite free. Are
+you willing to trust yourself to me entirely?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, dear.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you hear that, Clarke? You are my witness. Here is the chair, Mary.
+It is quite easy. Just sit in it and lean back. Are you ready?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you begin.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough. &ldquo;Now shut your
+eyes,&rdquo; he said. The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired, and
+longed for sleep, and Raymond placed the green phial to her nostrils. Her face
+grew white, whiter than her dress; she struggled faintly, and then with the
+feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms upon her breast as a
+little child about to say her prayers. The bright light of the lamp fell full
+upon her, and Clarke watched changes fleeting over her face as the changes of
+the hills when the summer clouds float across the sun. And then she lay all
+white and still, and the doctor turned up one of her eyelids. She was quite
+unconscious. Raymond pressed hard on one of the levers and the chair instantly
+sank back. Clarke saw him cutting away a circle, like a tonsure, from her hair,
+and the lamp was moved nearer. Raymond took a small glittering instrument from
+a little case, and Clarke turned away shudderingly. When he looked again the
+doctor was binding up the wound he had made.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She will awake in five minutes.&rdquo; Raymond was still perfectly cool.
+&ldquo;There is nothing more to be done; we can only wait.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow, heavy, ticking. There was an
+old clock in the passage. Clarke felt sick and faint; his knees shook beneath
+him, he could hardly stand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn sigh, and suddenly did the
+colour that had vanished return to the girl&rsquo;s cheeks, and suddenly her
+eyes opened. Clarke quailed before them. They shone with an awful light,
+looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon her face, and her hands
+stretched out as if to touch what was invisible; but in an instant the wonder
+faded, and gave place to the most awful terror. The muscles of her face were
+hideously convulsed, she shook from head to foot; the soul seemed struggling
+and shuddering within the house of flesh. It was a horrible sight, and Clarke
+rushed forward, as she fell shrieking to the floor.
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary&rsquo;s bedside. She was lying
+wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side, and grinning vacantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the doctor, still quite cool, &ldquo;it is a great
+pity; she is a hopeless idiot. However, it could not be helped; and, after all,
+she has seen the Great God Pan.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II<br />
+MR. CLARKE&rsquo;S MEMOIRS</h2>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Clarke, the gentleman chosen by Dr. Raymond to witness the strange
+experiment of the god Pan, was a person in whose character caution and
+curiosity were oddly mingled; in his sober moments he thought of the unusual
+and eccentric with undisguised aversion, and yet, deep in his heart, there was
+a wide-eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the more recondite and esoteric
+elements in the nature of men. The latter tendency had prevailed when he
+accepted Raymond&rsquo;s invitation, for though his considered judgment had
+always repudiated the doctor&rsquo;s theories as the wildest nonsense, yet he
+secretly hugged a belief in fantasy, and would have rejoiced to see that belief
+confirmed. The horrors that he witnessed in the dreary laboratory were to a
+certain extent salutary; he was conscious of being involved in an affair not
+altogether reputable, and for many years afterwards he clung bravely to the
+commonplace, and rejected all occasions of occult investigation. Indeed, on
+some homeopathic principle, he for some time attended the seances of
+distinguished mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of these gentlemen would
+make him altogether disgusted with mysticism of every kind, but the remedy,
+though caustic, was not efficacious. Clarke knew that he still pined for the
+unseen, and little by little, the old passion began to reassert itself, as the
+face of Mary, shuddering and convulsed with an unknown terror, faded slowly
+from his memory. Occupied all day in pursuits both serious and lucrative, the
+temptation to relax in the evening was too great, especially in the winter
+months, when the fire cast a warm glow over his snug bachelor apartment, and a
+bottle of some choice claret stood ready by his elbow. His dinner digested, he
+would make a brief pretence of reading the evening paper, but the mere
+catalogue of news soon palled upon him, and Clarke would find himself casting
+glances of warm desire in the direction of an old Japanese bureau, which stood
+at a pleasant distance from the hearth. Like a boy before a jam-closet, for a
+few minutes he would hover indecisive, but lust always prevailed, and Clarke
+ended by drawing up his chair, lighting a candle, and sitting down before the
+bureau. Its pigeon-holes and drawers teemed with documents on the most morbid
+subjects, and in the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in which he had
+painfully entered the gems of his collection. Clarke had a fine contempt for
+published literature; the most ghostly story ceased to interest him if it
+happened to be printed; his sole pleasure was in the reading, compiling, and
+rearranging what he called his &ldquo;Memoirs to prove the Existence of the
+Devil,&rdquo; and engaged in this pursuit the evening seemed to fly and the
+night appeared too short.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On one particular evening, an ugly December night, black with fog, and raw with
+frost, Clarke hurried over his dinner, and scarcely deigned to observe his
+customary ritual of taking up the paper and laying it down again. He paced two
+or three times up and down the room, and opened the bureau, stood still a
+moment, and sat down. He leant back, absorbed in one of those dreams to which
+he was subject, and at length drew out his book, and opened it at the last
+entry. There were three or four pages densely covered with Clarke&rsquo;s
+round, set penmanship, and at the beginning he had written in a somewhat larger
+hand:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr. Phillips. He assures me that all
+the facts related therein are strictly and wholly True, but refuses to give
+either the Surnames of the Persons Concerned, or the Place where these
+Extraordinary Events occurred.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Clarke began to read over the account for the tenth time, glancing now and
+then at the pencil notes he had made when it was told him by his friend. It was
+one of his humours to pride himself on a certain literary ability; he thought
+well of his style, and took pains in arranging the circumstances in dramatic
+order. He read the following story:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+The persons concerned in this statement are Helen V., who, if she is still
+alive, must now be a woman of twenty-three, Rachel M., since deceased, who was
+a year younger than the above, and Trevor W., an imbecile, aged eighteen. These
+persons were at the period of the story inhabitants of a village on the borders
+of Wales, a place of some importance in the time of the Roman occupation, but
+now a scattered hamlet, of not more than five hundred souls. It is situated on
+rising ground, about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered by a large and
+picturesque forest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some eleven years ago, Helen V. came to the village under rather peculiar
+circumstances. It is understood that she, being an orphan, was adopted in her
+infancy by a distant relative, who brought her up in his own house until she
+was twelve years old. Thinking, however, that it would be better for the child
+to have playmates of her own age, he advertised in several local papers for a
+good home in a comfortable farmhouse for a girl of twelve, and this
+advertisement was answered by Mr. R., a well-to-do farmer in the
+above-mentioned village. His references proving satisfactory, the gentleman
+sent his adopted daughter to Mr. R., with a letter, in which he stipulated that
+the girl should have a room to herself, and stated that her guardians need be
+at no trouble in the matter of education, as she was already sufficiently
+educated for the position in life which she would occupy. In fact, Mr. R. was
+given to understand that the girl be allowed to find her own occupations and to
+spend her time almost as she liked. Mr. R. duly met her at the nearest station,
+a town seven miles away from his house, and seems to have remarked nothing
+extraordinary about the child except that she was reticent as to her former
+life and her adopted father. She was, however, of a very different type from
+the inhabitants of the village; her skin was a pale, clear olive, and her
+features were strongly marked, and of a somewhat foreign character. She appears
+to have settled down easily enough into farmhouse life, and became a favourite
+with the children, who sometimes went with her on her rambles in the forest,
+for this was her amusement. Mr. R. states that he has known her to go out by
+herself directly after their early breakfast, and not return till after dusk,
+and that, feeling uneasy at a young girl being out alone for so many hours, he
+communicated with her adopted father, who replied in a brief note that Helen
+must do as she chose. In the winter, when the forest paths are impassable, she
+spent most of her time in her bedroom, where she slept alone, according to the
+instructions of her relative. It was on one of these expeditions to the forest
+that the first of the singular incidents with which this girl is connected
+occurred, the date being about a year after her arrival at the village. The
+preceding winter had been remarkably severe, the snow drifting to a great
+depth, and the frost continuing for an unexampled period, and the summer
+following was as noteworthy for its extreme heat. On one of the very hottest
+days in this summer, Helen V. left the farmhouse for one of her long rambles in
+the forest, taking with her, as usual, some bread and meat for lunch. She was
+seen by some men in the fields making for the old Roman Road, a green causeway
+which traverses the highest part of the wood, and they were astonished to
+observe that the girl had taken off her hat, though the heat of the sun was
+already tropical. As it happened, a labourer, Joseph W. by name, was working in
+the forest near the Roman Road, and at twelve o&rsquo;clock his little son,
+Trevor, brought the man his dinner of bread and cheese. After the meal, the
+boy, who was about seven years old at the time, left his father at work, and,
+as he said, went to look for flowers in the wood, and the man, who could hear
+him shouting with delight at his discoveries, felt no uneasiness. Suddenly,
+however, he was horrified at hearing the most dreadful screams, evidently the
+result of great terror, proceeding from the direction in which his son had
+gone, and he hastily threw down his tools and ran to see what had happened.
+Tracing his path by the sound, he met the little boy, who was running headlong,
+and was evidently terribly frightened, and on questioning him the man elicited
+that after picking a posy of flowers he felt tired, and lay down on the grass
+and fell asleep. He was suddenly awakened, as he stated, by a peculiar noise, a
+sort of singing he called it, and on peeping through the branches he saw Helen
+V. playing on the grass with a &ldquo;strange naked man,&rdquo; who he seemed
+unable to describe more fully. He said he felt dreadfully frightened and ran
+away crying for his father. Joseph W. proceeded in the direction indicated by
+his son, and found Helen V. sitting on the grass in the middle of a glade or
+open space left by charcoal burners. He angrily charged her with frightening
+his little boy, but she entirely denied the accusation and laughed at the
+child&rsquo;s story of a &ldquo;strange man,&rdquo; to which he himself did not
+attach much credence. Joseph W. came to the conclusion that the boy had woke up
+with a sudden fright, as children sometimes do, but Trevor persisted in his
+story, and continued in such evident distress that at last his father took him
+home, hoping that his mother would be able to soothe him. For many weeks,
+however, the boy gave his parents much anxiety; he became nervous and strange
+in his manner, refusing to leave the cottage by himself, and constantly
+alarming the household by waking in the night with cries of &ldquo;The man in
+the wood! father! father!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In course of time, however, the impression seemed to have worn off, and about
+three months later he accompanied his father to the home of a gentleman in the
+neighborhood, for whom Joseph W. occasionally did work. The man was shown into
+the study, and the little boy was left sitting in the hall, and a few minutes
+later, while the gentleman was giving W. his instructions, they were both
+horrified by a piercing shriek and the sound of a fall, and rushing out they
+found the child lying senseless on the floor, his face contorted with terror.
+The doctor was immediately summoned, and after some examination he pronounced
+the child to be suffering form a kind of fit, apparently produced by a sudden
+shock. The boy was taken to one of the bedrooms, and after some time recovered
+consciousness, but only to pass into a condition described by the medical man
+as one of violent hysteria. The doctor exhibited a strong sedative, and in the
+course of two hours pronounced him fit to walk home, but in passing through the
+hall the paroxysms of fright returned and with additional violence. The father
+perceived that the child was pointing at some object, and heard the old cry,
+&ldquo;The man in the wood,&rdquo; and looking in the direction indicated saw a
+stone head of grotesque appearance, which had been built into the wall above
+one of the doors. It seems the owner of the house had recently made alterations
+in his premises, and on digging the foundations for some offices, the men had
+found a curious head, evidently of the Roman period, which had been placed in
+the manner described. The head is pronounced by the most experienced
+archaeologists of the district to be that of a faun or satyr.[*]
+</p>
+
+<p class="footnote">
+[* Dr. Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in question, and assures me
+that he has never received such a vivid presentment of intense evil.]
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From whatever cause arising, this second shock seemed too severe for the boy
+Trevor, and at the present date he suffers from a weakness of intellect, which
+gives but little promise of amending. The matter caused a good deal of
+sensation at the time, and the girl Helen was closely questioned by Mr. R., but
+to no purpose, she steadfastly denying that she had frightened or in any way
+molested Trevor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The second event with which this girl&rsquo;s name is connected took place
+about six years ago, and is of a still more extraordinary character.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the beginning of the summer of 1882, Helen contracted a friendship of a
+peculiarly intimate character with Rachel M., the daughter of a prosperous
+farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl, who was a year younger than Helen, was
+considered by most people to be the prettier of the two, though Helen&rsquo;s
+features had to a great extent softened as she became older. The two girls, who
+were together on every available opportunity, presented a singular contrast,
+the one with her clear, olive skin and almost Italian appearance, and the other
+of the proverbial red and white of our rural districts. It must be stated that
+the payments made to Mr. R. for the maintenance of Helen were known in the
+village for their excessive liberality, and the impression was general that she
+would one day inherit a large sum of money from her relative. The parents of
+Rachel were therefore not averse from their daughter&rsquo;s friendship with
+the girl, and even encouraged the intimacy, though they now bitterly regret
+having done so. Helen still retained her extraordinary fondness for the forest,
+and on several occasions Rachel accompanied her, the two friends setting out
+early in the morning, and remaining in the wood until dusk. Once or twice after
+these excursions Mrs. M. thought her daughter&rsquo;s manner rather peculiar;
+she seemed languid and dreamy, and as it has been expressed, &ldquo;different
+from herself,&rdquo; but these peculiarities seem to have been thought too
+trifling for remark. One evening, however, after Rachel had come home, her
+mother heard a noise which sounded like suppressed weeping in the girl&rsquo;s
+room, and on going in found her lying, half undressed, upon the bed, evidently
+in the greatest distress. As soon as she saw her mother, she exclaimed,
+&ldquo;Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the forest with
+Helen?&rdquo; Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and proceeded to
+make inquiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the fire. When
+his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his story, Clarke had
+interrupted him at a point a little subsequent to this, had cut short his words
+in a paroxysm of horror. &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he had exclaimed, &ldquo;think,
+think what you are saying. It is too incredible, too monstrous; such things can
+never be in this quiet world, where men and women live and die, and struggle,
+and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer
+strange fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips, not such things as
+this. There must be some explanation, some way out of the terror. Why, man, if
+such a case were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad
+sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she was not
+there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and again his
+mind shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of such awful,
+unspeakable elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh.
+Before him stretched the long dim vista of the green causeway in the forest, as
+his friend had described it; he saw the swaying leaves and the quivering
+shadows on the grass, he saw the sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in
+the long distance, the two figures moved toward him. One was Rachel, but the
+other?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the account,
+as he had written it in his book, he had placed the inscription:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+Et Diabolus incarnatus est. Et homo factus est.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III<br />
+THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS</h2>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Herbert! Good God! Is it possible?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, my name&rsquo;s Herbert. I think I know your face, too, but I
+don&rsquo;t remember your name. My memory is very queer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you recollect Villiers of Wadham?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn&rsquo;t think I
+was begging of an old college friend. Good-night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but we
+won&rsquo;t go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a little
+way? But how in heaven&rsquo;s name have you come to this pass, Herbert?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can
+hear it if you like.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come on, then. Take my arm, you don&rsquo;t seem very strong.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty,
+evil-looking rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a man
+about town, trim, glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had emerged from
+his restaurant after an excellent dinner of many courses, assisted by an
+ingratiating little flask of Chianti, and, in that frame of mind which was with
+him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the door, peering round in the
+dimly-lighted street in search of those mysterious incidents and persons with
+which the streets of London teem in every quarter and every hour. Villiers
+prided himself as a practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of
+London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity which
+was worthy of more serious employment. Thus he stood by the lamp-post surveying
+the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known only to
+the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula:
+&ldquo;London has been called the city of encounters; it is more than that, it
+is the city of Resurrections,&rdquo; when these reflections were suddenly
+interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a deplorable appeal for alms.
+He looked around in some irritation, and with a sudden shock found himself
+confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat stilted fancies. There,
+close beside him, his face altered and disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his
+body barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles
+Herbert, who had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been
+merry and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying
+interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since Villiers
+had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man with grief and
+dismay, mingled with a certain inquisitiveness as to what dreary chain of
+circumstances had dragged him down to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt
+together with compassion all the relish of the amateur in mysteries, and
+congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations outside the restaurant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by stared in
+astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed man with an
+unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing this, Villiers led
+the way to an obscure street in Soho. Here he repeated his question.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would
+succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father disinherit
+you? Surely not?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father&rsquo;s
+death; he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me, and
+I mourned his death sincerely enough. But you know what young men are; a few
+months later I came up to town and went a good deal into society. Of course I
+had excellent introductions, and I managed to enjoy myself very much in a
+harmless sort of way. I played a little, certainly, but never for heavy stakes,
+and the few bets I made on races brought me in money&mdash;only a few pounds,
+you know, but enough to pay for cigars and such petty pleasures. It was in my
+second season that the tide turned. Of course you have heard of my
+marriage?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I never heard anything about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I married, Villiers. I met a girl, a girl of the most wonderful and
+most strange beauty, at the house of some people whom I knew. I cannot tell you
+her age; I never knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I should think she must
+have been about nineteen when I made her acquaintance. My friends had come to
+know her at Florence; she told them she was an orphan, the child of an English
+father and an Italian mother, and she charmed them as she charmed me. The first
+time I saw her was at an evening party. I was standing by the door talking to a
+friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I heard a voice
+which seemed to thrill to my heart. She was singing an Italian song. I was
+introduced to her that evening, and in three months I married Helen. Villiers,
+that woman, if I can call her woman, corrupted my soul. The night of the
+wedding I found myself sitting in her bedroom in the hotel, listening to her
+talk. She was sitting up in bed, and I listened to her as she spoke in her
+beautiful voice, spoke of things which even now I would not dare whisper in the
+blackest night, though I stood in the midst of a wilderness. You, Villiers, you
+may think you know life, and London, and what goes on day and night in this
+dreadful city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of the vilest, but
+I tell you you can have no conception of what I know, not in your most
+fantastic, hideous dreams can you have imaged forth the faintest shadow of what
+I have heard&mdash;and seen. Yes, seen. I have seen the incredible, such
+horrors that even I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the street and ask
+whether it is possible for a man to behold such things and live. In a year,
+Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul&mdash;in body and soul.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old
+house&mdash;everything.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And the money?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She took it all from me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And then left you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes; she disappeared one night. I don&rsquo;t know where she went, but I
+am sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no
+interest; sordid misery, that is all. You may think, Villiers, that I have
+exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half. I could tell
+you certain things which would convince you, but you would never know a happy
+day again. You would pass the rest of your life, as I pass mine, a haunted man,
+a man who has seen hell.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal. Herbert
+could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set before him. He sat
+moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved when Villiers sent him away
+with a small present of money.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;By the way, Herbert,&rdquo; said Villiers, as they parted at the door,
+&ldquo;what was your wife&rsquo;s name? You said Helen, I think? Helen
+what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what her
+real name was I can&rsquo;t say. I don&rsquo;t think she had a name. No, no,
+not in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can&rsquo;t say
+anymore. Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in which you
+can help me. Good-night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his fireside.
+There was something about Herbert which shocked him inexpressibly; not his poor
+rags nor the marks which poverty had set upon his face, but rather an
+indefinite terror which hung about him like a mist. He had acknowledged that he
+himself was not devoid of blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him
+body and soul, and Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an
+actor in scenes evil beyond the power of words. His story needed no
+confirmation: he himself was the embodied proof of it. Villiers mused curiously
+over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had heard both the first
+and the last of it. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;certainly not the
+last, probably only the beginning. A case like this is like a nest of Chinese
+boxes; you open one after the other and find a quainter workmanship in every
+box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of the outside boxes; there are
+stranger ones to follow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and his story, which seemed
+to grow wilder as the night wore on. The fire seemed to burn low, and the
+chilly air of the morning crept into the room; Villiers got up with a glance
+over his shoulder, and, shivering slightly, went to bed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his acquaintance, named
+Austin, who was famous for his intimate knowledge of London life, both in its
+tenebrous and luminous phases. Villiers, still full of his encounter in Soho
+and its consequences, thought Austin might possibly be able to shed some light
+on Herbert&rsquo;s history, and so after some casual talk he suddenly put the
+question:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert&mdash;Charles
+Herbert?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with some astonishment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Charles Herbert? Weren&rsquo;t you in town three years ago? No; then you
+have not heard of the Paul Street case? It caused a good deal of sensation at
+the time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What was the case?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, a gentleman, a man of very good position, was found dead, stark
+dead, in the area of a certain house in Paul Street, off Tottenham Court Road.
+Of course the police did not make the discovery; if you happen to be sitting up
+all night and have a light in your window, the constable will ring the bell,
+but if you happen to be lying dead in somebody&rsquo;s area, you will be left
+alone. In this instance, as in many others, the alarm was raised by some kind
+of vagabond; I don&rsquo;t mean a common tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a
+gentleman, whose business or pleasure, or both, made him a spectator of the
+London streets at five o&rsquo;clock in the morning. This individual was, as he
+said, &lsquo;going home,&rsquo; it did not appear whence or whither, and had
+occasion to pass through Paul Street between four and five a.m. Something or
+other caught his eye at Number 20; he said, absurdly enough, that the house had
+the most unpleasant physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any rate, he
+glanced down the area and was a good deal astonished to see a man lying on the
+stones, his limbs all huddled together, and his face turned up. Our gentleman
+thought his face looked peculiarly ghastly, and so set off at a run in search
+of the nearest policeman. The constable was at first inclined to treat the
+matter lightly, suspecting common drunkenness; however, he came, and after
+looking at the man&rsquo;s face, changed his tone, quickly enough. The early
+bird, who had picked up this fine worm, was sent off for a doctor, and the
+policeman rang and knocked at the door till a slatternly servant girl came down
+looking more than half asleep. The constable pointed out the contents of the
+area to the maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake up the street, but she
+knew nothing of the man; had never seen him at the house, and so forth.
+Meanwhile, the original discoverer had come back with a medical man, and the
+next thing was to get into the area. The gate was open, so the whole quartet
+stumped down the steps. The doctor hardly needed a moment&rsquo;s examination;
+he said the poor fellow had been dead for several hours, and it was then the
+case began to get interesting. The dead man had not been robbed, and in one of
+his pockets were papers identifying him as&mdash;well, as a man of good family
+and means, a favourite in society, and nobody&rsquo;s enemy, as far as could be
+known. I don&rsquo;t give his name, Villiers, because it has nothing to do with
+the story, and because it&rsquo;s no good raking up these affairs about the
+dead when there are no relations living. The next curious point was that the
+medical men couldn&rsquo;t agree as to how he met his death. There were some
+slight bruises on his shoulders, but they were so slight that it looked as if
+he had been pushed roughly out of the kitchen door, and not thrown over the
+railings from the street or even dragged down the steps. But there were
+positively no other marks of violence about him, certainly none that would
+account for his death; and when they came to the autopsy there wasn&rsquo;t a
+trace of poison of any kind. Of course the police wanted to know all about the
+people at Number 20, and here again, so I have heard from private sources, one
+or two other very curious points came out. It appears that the occupants of the
+house were a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Herbert; he was said to be a landed
+proprietor, though it struck most people that Paul Street was not exactly the
+place to look for country gentry. As for Mrs. Herbert, nobody seemed to know
+who or what she was, and, between ourselves, I fancy the divers after her
+history found themselves in rather strange waters. Of course they both denied
+knowing anything about the deceased, and in default of any evidence against
+them they were discharged. But some very odd things came out about them. Though
+it was between five and six in the morning when the dead man was removed, a
+large crowd had collected, and several of the neighbours ran to see what was
+going on. They were pretty free with their comments, by all accounts, and from
+these it appeared that Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul Street. The
+detectives tried to trace down these rumours to some solid foundation of fact,
+but could not get hold of anything. People shook their heads and raised their
+eyebrows and thought the Herberts rather &lsquo;queer,&rsquo; &lsquo;would
+rather not be seen going into their house,&rsquo; and so on, but there was
+nothing tangible. The authorities were morally certain the man met his death in
+some way or another in the house and was thrown out by the kitchen door, but
+they couldn&rsquo;t prove it, and the absence of any indications of violence or
+poisoning left them helpless. An odd case, wasn&rsquo;t it? But curiously
+enough, there&rsquo;s something more that I haven&rsquo;t told you. I happened
+to know one of the doctors who was consulted as to the cause of death, and some
+time after the inquest I met him, and asked him about it. &lsquo;Do you really
+mean to tell me,&rsquo; I said, &lsquo;that you were baffled by the case, that
+you actually don&rsquo;t know what the man died of?&rsquo; &lsquo;Pardon
+me,&rsquo; he replied, &lsquo;I know perfectly well what caused death. Blank
+died of fright, of sheer, awful terror; I never saw features so hideously
+contorted in the entire course of my practice, and I have seen the faces of a
+whole host of dead.&rsquo; The doctor was usually a cool customer enough, and a
+certain vehemence in his manner struck me, but I couldn&rsquo;t get anything
+more out of him. I suppose the Treasury didn&rsquo;t see their way to
+prosecuting the Herberts for frightening a man to death; at any rate, nothing
+was done, and the case dropped out of men&rsquo;s minds. Do you happen to know
+anything of Herbert?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; replied Villiers, &ldquo;he was an old college friend of
+mine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so? Have you ever seen his wife?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I haven&rsquo;t. I have lost sight of Herbert for many years.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s queer, isn&rsquo;t it, parting with a man at the college gate
+or at Paddington, seeing nothing of him for years, and then finding him pop up
+his head in such an odd place. But I should like to have seen Mrs. Herbert;
+people said extraordinary things about her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What sort of things?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, I hardly know how to tell you. Everyone who saw her at the police
+court said she was at once the most beautiful woman and the most repulsive they
+had ever set eyes on. I have spoken to a man who saw her, and I assure you he
+positively shuddered as he tried to describe the woman, but he couldn&rsquo;t
+tell why. She seems to have been a sort of enigma; and I expect if that one
+dead man could have told tales, he would have told some uncommonly queer ones.
+And there you are again in another puzzle; what could a respectable country
+gentleman like Mr. Blank (we&rsquo;ll call him that if you don&rsquo;t mind)
+want in such a very queer house as Number 20? It&rsquo;s altogether a very odd
+case, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is indeed, Austin; an extraordinary case. I didn&rsquo;t think, when
+I asked you about my old friend, I should strike on such strange metal. Well, I
+must be off; good-day.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the Chinese boxes; here was
+quaint workmanship indeed.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV<br />
+THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET</h2>
+
+<p>
+A few months after Villiers&rsquo; meeting with Herbert, Mr. Clarke was
+sitting, as usual, by his after-dinner hearth, resolutely guarding his fancies
+from wandering in the direction of the bureau. For more than a week he had
+succeeded in keeping away from the &ldquo;Memoirs,&rdquo; and he cherished
+hopes of a complete self-reformation; but, in spite of his endeavours, he could
+not hush the wonder and the strange curiosity that the last case he had written
+down had excited within him. He had put the case, or rather the outline of it,
+conjecturally to a scientific friend, who shook his head, and thought Clarke
+getting queer, and on this particular evening Clarke was making an effort to
+rationalize the story, when a sudden knock at the door roused him from his
+meditations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Villiers to see you sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me up; I have not seen
+you for many months; I should think nearly a year. Come in, come in. And how
+are you, Villiers? Want any advice about investments?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is pretty safe. No,
+Clarke, I have really come to consult you about a rather curious matter that
+has been brought under my notice of late. I am afraid you will think it all
+rather absurd when I tell my tale. I sometimes think so myself, and
+that&rsquo;s just why I made up my mind to come to you, as I know you&rsquo;re
+a practical man.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the &ldquo;Memoirs to prove the Existence of the
+Devil.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my advice, to the best of
+my ability. What is the nature of the case?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s an extraordinary thing altogether. You know my ways; I always
+keep my eyes open in the streets, and in my time I have chanced upon some queer
+customers, and queer cases too, but this, I think, beats all. I was coming out
+of a restaurant one nasty winter night about three months ago; I had had a
+capital dinner and a good bottle of Chianti, and I stood for a moment on the
+pavement, thinking what a mystery there is about London streets and the
+companies that pass along them. A bottle of red wine encourages these fancies,
+Clarke, and I dare say I should have thought a page of small type, but I was
+cut short by a beggar who had come behind me, and was making the usual appeals.
+Of course I looked round, and this beggar turned out to be what was left of an
+old friend of mine, a man named Herbert. I asked him how he had come to such a
+wretched pass, and he told me. We walked up and down one of those long and dark
+Soho streets, and there I listened to his story. He said he had married a
+beautiful girl, some years younger than himself, and, as he put it, she had
+corrupted him body and soul. He wouldn&rsquo;t go into details; he said he dare
+not, that what he had seen and heard haunted him by night and day, and when I
+looked in his face I knew he was speaking the truth. There was something about
+the man that made me shiver. I don&rsquo;t know why, but it was there. I gave
+him a little money and sent him away, and I assure you that when he was gone I
+gasped for breath. His presence seemed to chill one&rsquo;s blood.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t this all just a little fanciful, Villiers? I suppose the
+poor fellow had made an imprudent marriage, and, in plain English, gone to the
+bad.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, listen to this.&rdquo; Villiers told Clarke the story he had heard
+from Austin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he concluded, &ldquo;there can be but little doubt that
+this Mr. Blank, whoever he was, died of sheer terror; he saw something so
+awful, so terrible, that it cut short his life. And what he saw, he most
+certainly saw in that house, which, somehow or other, had got a bad name in the
+neighbourhood. I had the curiosity to go and look at the place for myself.
+It&rsquo;s a saddening kind of street; the houses are old enough to be mean and
+dreary, but not old enough to be quaint. As far as I could see most of them are
+let in lodgings, furnished and unfurnished, and almost every door has three
+bells to it. Here and there the ground floors have been made into shops of the
+commonest kind; it&rsquo;s a dismal street in every way. I found Number 20 was
+to let, and I went to the agent&rsquo;s and got the key. Of course I should
+have heard nothing of the Herberts in that quarter, but I asked the man, fair
+and square, how long they had left the house and whether there had been other
+tenants in the meanwhile. He looked at me queerly for a minute, and told me the
+Herberts had left immediately after the unpleasantness, as he called it, and
+since then the house had been empty.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Villiers paused for a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have always been rather fond of going over empty houses; there&rsquo;s
+a sort of fascination about the desolate empty rooms, with the nails sticking
+in the walls, and the dust thick upon the window-sills. But I didn&rsquo;t
+enjoy going over Number 20, Paul Street. I had hardly put my foot inside the
+passage when I noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the air of the house. Of
+course all empty houses are stuffy, and so forth, but this was something quite
+different; I can&rsquo;t describe it to you, but it seemed to stop the breath.
+I went into the front room and the back room, and the kitchens downstairs; they
+were all dirty and dusty enough, as you would expect, but there was something
+strange about them all. I couldn&rsquo;t define it to you, I only know I felt
+queer. It was one of the rooms on the first floor, though, that was the worst.
+It was a largish room, and once on a time the paper must have been cheerful
+enough, but when I saw it, paint, paper, and everything were most doleful. But
+the room was full of horror; I felt my teeth grinding as I put my hand on the
+door, and when I went in, I thought I should have fallen fainting to the floor.
+However, I pulled myself together, and stood against the end wall, wondering
+what on earth there could be about the room to make my limbs tremble, and my
+heart beat as if I were at the hour of death. In one corner there was a pile of
+newspapers littered on the floor, and I began looking at them; they were papers
+of three or four years ago, some of them half torn, and some crumpled as if
+they had been used for packing. I turned the whole pile over, and amongst them
+I found a curious drawing; I will show it to you presently. But I
+couldn&rsquo;t stay in the room; I felt it was overpowering me. I was thankful
+to come out, safe and sound, into the open air. People stared at me as I walked
+along the street, and one man said I was drunk. I was staggering about from one
+side of the pavement to the other, and it was as much as I could do to take the
+key back to the agent and get home. I was in bed for a week, suffering from
+what my doctor called nervous shock and exhaustion. One of those days I was
+reading the evening paper, and happened to notice a paragraph headed:
+&lsquo;Starved to Death.&rsquo; It was the usual style of thing; a model
+lodging-house in Marylebone, a door locked for several days, and a dead man in
+his chair when they broke in. &lsquo;The deceased,&rsquo; said the paragraph,
+&lsquo;was known as Charles Herbert, and is believed to have been once a
+prosperous country gentleman. His name was familiar to the public three years
+ago in connection with the mysterious death in Paul Street, Tottenham Court
+Road, the deceased being the tenant of the house Number 20, in the area of
+which a gentleman of good position was found dead under circumstances not
+devoid of suspicion.&rsquo; A tragic ending, wasn&rsquo;t it? But after all, if
+what he told me were true, which I am sure it was, the man&rsquo;s life was all
+a tragedy, and a tragedy of a stranger sort than they put on the boards.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And that is the story, is it?&rdquo; said Clarke musingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, that is the story.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what to say about it. There are,
+no doubt, circumstances in the case which seem peculiar, the finding of the
+dead man in the area of Herbert&rsquo;s house, for instance, and the
+extraordinary opinion of the physician as to the cause of death; but, after
+all, it is conceivable that the facts may be explained in a straightforward
+manner. As to your own sensations, when you went to see the house, I would
+suggest that they were due to a vivid imagination; you must have been brooding,
+in a semi-conscious way, over what you had heard. I don&rsquo;t exactly see
+what more can be said or done in the matter; you evidently think there is a
+mystery of some kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you propose to
+look?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he married. <i>She</i>
+is the mystery.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men sat silent by the fireside; Clarke secretly congratulating himself
+on having successfully kept up the character of advocate of the commonplace,
+and Villiers wrapped in his gloomy fancies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think I will have a cigarette,&rdquo; he said at last, and put his
+hand in his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he said, starting slightly, &ldquo;I forgot I had something
+to show you. You remember my saying that I had found a rather curious sketch
+amongst the pile of old newspapers at the house in Paul Street? Here it
+is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his pocket. It was covered with
+brown paper, and secured with string, and the knots were troublesome. In spite
+of himself Clarke felt inquisitive; he bent forward on his chair as Villiers
+painfully undid the string, and unfolded the outer covering. Inside was a
+second wrapping of tissue, and Villiers took it off and handed the small piece
+of paper to Clarke without a word.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or more; the two men sat so
+still that they could hear the ticking of the tall old-fashioned clock that
+stood outside in the hall, and in the mind of one of them the slow monotony of
+sound woke up a far, far memory. He was looking intently at the small
+pen-and-ink sketch of the woman&rsquo;s head; it had evidently been drawn with
+great care, and by a true artist, for the woman&rsquo;s soul looked out of the
+eyes, and the lips were parted with a strange smile. Clarke gazed still at the
+face; it brought to his memory one summer evening, long ago; he saw again the
+long lovely valley, the river winding between the hills, the meadows and the
+cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white mist rising from the water. He
+heard a voice speaking to him across the waves of many years, and saying
+&ldquo;Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!&rdquo; and then he was standing in
+the grim room beside the doctor, listening to the heavy ticking of the clock,
+waiting and watching, watching the figure lying on the green chair beneath the
+lamplight. Mary rose up, and he looked into her eyes, and his heart grew cold
+within him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who is this woman?&rdquo; he said at last. His voice was dry and hoarse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is the woman who Herbert married.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary after all. There certainly
+was Mary&rsquo;s face, but there was something else, something he had not seen
+on Mary&rsquo;s features when the white-clad girl entered the laboratory with
+the doctor, nor at her terrible awakening, nor when she lay grinning on the
+bed. Whatever it was, the glance that came from those eyes, the smile on the
+full lips, or the expression of the whole face, Clarke shuddered before it at
+his inmost soul, and thought, unconsciously, of Dr. Phillip&rsquo;s words,
+&ldquo;the most vivid presentment of evil I have ever seen.&rdquo; He turned
+the paper over mechanically in his hand and glanced at the back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good God! Clarke, what is the matter? You are as white as death.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke fell back with a groan,
+and let the paper drop from his hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to these attacks.
+Pour me out a little wine; thanks, that will do. I shall feel better in a few
+minutes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over as Clarke had done.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You saw that?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how I identified it as
+being a portrait of Herbert&rsquo;s wife, or I should say his widow. How do you
+feel now?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Better, thanks, it was only a passing faintness. I don&rsquo;t think I
+quite catch your meaning. What did you say enabled you to identify the
+picture?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This word&mdash;&lsquo;Helen&rsquo;&mdash;was written on the back.
+Didn&rsquo;t I tell you her name was Helen? Yes; Helen Vaughan.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow of doubt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now, don&rsquo;t you agree with me,&rdquo; said Villiers, &ldquo;that in
+the story I have told you to-night, and in the part this woman plays in it,
+there are some very strange points?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, Villiers,&rdquo; Clarke muttered, &ldquo;it is a strange story
+indeed; a strange story indeed. You must give me time to think it over; I may
+be able to help you or I may not. Must you be going now? Well, good-night,
+Villiers, good-night. Come and see me in the course of a week.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V<br />
+THE LETTER OF ADVICE</h2>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you know, Austin,&rdquo; said Villiers, as the two friends were
+pacing sedately along Piccadilly one pleasant morning in May, &ldquo;do you
+know I am convinced that what you told me about Paul Street and the Herberts is
+a mere episode in an extraordinary history? I may as well confess to you that
+when I asked you about Herbert a few months ago I had just seen him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had seen him? Where?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He begged of me in the street one night. He was in the most pitiable
+plight, but I recognized the man, and I got him to tell me his history, or at
+least the outline of it. In brief, it amounted to this&mdash;he had been ruined
+by his wife.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In what manner?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He would not tell me; he would only say that she had destroyed him, body
+and soul. The man is dead now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And what has become of his wife?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s what I should like to know, and I mean to find her
+sooner or later. I know a man named Clarke, a dry fellow, in fact a man of
+business, but shrewd enough. You understand my meaning; not shrewd in the mere
+business sense of the word, but a man who really knows something about men and
+life. Well, I laid the case before him, and he was evidently impressed. He said
+it needed consideration, and asked me to come again in the course of a week. A
+few days later I received this extraordinary letter.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter, and read it curiously. It ran as
+follows:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+&ldquo;M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> V<small>ILLIERS</small>,&mdash;I
+have thought over the matter on which you consulted me the other night, and my
+advice to you is this. Throw the portrait into the fire, blot out the story
+from your mind. Never give it another thought, Villiers, or you will be sorry.
+You will think, no doubt, that I am in possession of some secret information,
+and to a certain extent that is the case. But I only know a little; I am like a
+traveller who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror. What I
+know is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond my knowledge there are
+depths and horrors more frightful still, more incredible than any tale told of
+winter nights about the fire. I have resolved, and nothing shall shake that
+resolve, to explore no whit farther, and if you value your happiness you will
+make the same determination.<br />
+    &ldquo;Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more cheerful
+topics than this.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it to Villiers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is certainly an extraordinary letter,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what
+does he mean by the portrait?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah! I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street and have made a
+discovery.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke, and Austin listened in
+silence. He seemed puzzled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How very curious that you should experience such an unpleasant sensation
+in that room!&rdquo; he said at length. &ldquo;I hardly gather that it was a
+mere matter of the imagination; a feeling of repulsion, in short.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, it was more physical than mental. It was as if I were inhaling at
+every breath some deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to every nerve and
+bone and sinew of my body. I felt racked from head to foot, my eyes began to
+grow dim; it was like the entrance of death.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, yes, very strange certainly. You see, your friend confesses that
+there is some very black story connected with this woman. Did you notice any
+particular emotion in him when you were telling your tale?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I did. He became very faint, but he assured me that it was a mere
+passing attack to which he was subject.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did you believe him?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I did at the time, but I don&rsquo;t now. He heard what I had to say
+with a good deal of indifference, till I showed him the portrait. It was then
+that he was seized with the attack of which I spoke. He looked ghastly, I
+assure you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then he must have seen the woman before. But there might be another
+explanation; it might have been the name, and not the face, which was familiar
+to him. What do you think?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t say. To the best of my belief it was after turning the
+portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from the chair. The name, you
+know, was written on the back.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Quite so. After all, it is impossible to come to any resolution in a
+case like this. I hate melodrama, and nothing strikes me as more commonplace
+and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commerce; but really, Villiers, it
+looks as if there were something very queer at the bottom of all this.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley Street, leading
+northward from Piccadilly. It was a long street, and rather a gloomy one, but
+here and there a brighter taste had illuminated the dark houses with flowers,
+and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the doors. Villiers glanced up as
+Austin stopped speaking, and looked at one of these houses; geraniums, red and
+white, drooped from every sill, and daffodil-coloured curtains were draped back
+from each window.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It looks cheerful, doesn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, and the inside is still more cheery. One of the pleasantest houses
+of the season, so I have heard. I haven&rsquo;t been there myself, but
+I&rsquo;ve met several men who have, and they tell me it&rsquo;s uncommonly
+jovial.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Whose house is it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A Mrs. Beaumont&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And who is she?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t tell you. I have heard she comes from South America,
+but after all, who she is is of little consequence. She is a very wealthy
+woman, there&rsquo;s no doubt of that, and some of the best people have taken
+her up. I hear she has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine, which
+must have cost a fabulous sum. Lord Argentine was telling me about it; he was
+there last Sunday evening. He assures me he has never tasted such a wine, and
+Argentine, as you know, is an expert. By the way, that reminds me, she must be
+an oddish sort of woman, this Mrs. Beaumont. Argentine asked her how old the
+wine was, and what do you think she said? &lsquo;About a thousand years, I
+believe.&rsquo; Lord Argentine thought she was chaffing him, you know, but when
+he laughed she said she was speaking quite seriously and offered to show him
+the jar. Of course, he couldn&rsquo;t say anything more after that; but it
+seems rather antiquated for a beverage, doesn&rsquo;t it? Why, here we are at
+my rooms. Come in, won&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thanks, I think I will. I haven&rsquo;t seen the curiosity-shop for a
+while.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every jar and bookcase and
+table, and every rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a thing apart,
+preserving each its own individuality.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Anything fresh lately?&rdquo; said Villiers after a while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs, didn&rsquo;t you? I thought
+so. I don&rsquo;t think I have come across anything for the last few
+weeks.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin glanced around the room from cupboard to cupboard, from shelf to shelf,
+in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an odd chest, pleasantly
+and quaintly carved, which stood in a dark corner of the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I was forgetting, I have got something to
+show you.&rdquo; Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto volume,
+laid it on the table, and resumed the cigar he had put down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A little; I met him two or three times at the house of a friend of mine.
+What has become of him? I haven&rsquo;t heard his name mentioned for some
+time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s dead.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so! Quite young, wasn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes; only thirty when he died.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What did he die of?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughly
+good fellow. He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he was one of
+the best talkers I have met. He could even talk about painting, and
+that&rsquo;s more than can be said of most painters. About eighteen months ago
+he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he went off on a
+sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or aim about it. I believe
+New York was to be his first port, but I never heard from him. Three months ago
+I got this book, with a very civil letter from an English doctor practising at
+Buenos Ayres, stating that he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during his
+illness, and that the deceased had expressed an earnest wish that the enclosed
+packet should be sent to me after his death. That was all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And haven&rsquo;t you written for further particulars?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me to write to the
+doctor?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Certainly. And what about the book?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It was sealed up when I got it. I don&rsquo;t think the doctor had seen
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you think of these
+Ainu jugs?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren&rsquo;t you going to show
+me poor Meyrick&rsquo;s legacy?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it&rsquo;s rather a peculiar sort of
+thing, and I haven&rsquo;t shown it to any one. I wouldn&rsquo;t say anything
+about it if I were you. There it is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t a printed volume, then?&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No. It is a collection of drawings in black and white by my poor friend
+Meyrick.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the second bore a brief
+inscription, which he read:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus est; lucet nocturnis
+ignibus, chorus Ægipanum undique personatur: audiuntur et cantus tibiarum, et
+tinnitus cymbalorum per oram maritimam.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the third page was a design which made Villiers start and look up at Austin;
+he was gazing abstractedly out of the window. Villiers turned page after page,
+absorbed, in spite of himself, in the frightful Walpurgis Night of evil,
+strange monstrous evil, that the dead artist had set forth in hard black and
+white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrs and Ægipans danced before his eyes, the
+darkness of the thicket, the dance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely
+shores, in green vineyards, by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a
+world before which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder. Villiers
+whirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough, but the picture on the
+last leaf caught his eye, as he almost closed the book.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Austin!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, what is it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you know who that is?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a woman&rsquo;s face, alone on the white page.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Know who it is? No, of course not.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is Mrs. Herbert.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you sure?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am perfectly sure of it. Poor Meyrick! He is one more chapter in her
+history.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But what do you think of the designs?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They are frightful. Lock the book up again, Austin. If I were you I
+would burn it; it must be a terrible companion even though it be in a
+chest.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, they are singular drawings. But I wonder what connection there
+could be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between her and these
+designs?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, who can say? It is possible that the matter may end here, and we
+shall never know, but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs. Herbert, is
+only the beginning. She will come back to London, Austin; depend on it, she
+will come back, and we shall hear more about her then. I doubt it will be very
+pleasant news.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI<br />
+THE SUICIDES</h2>
+
+<p>
+Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society. At twenty he had been a
+poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family, but forced to earn
+a livelihood as best he could, and the most speculative of money-lenders would
+not have entrusted him with fifty pounds on the chance of his ever changing his
+name for a title, and his poverty for a great fortune. His father had been near
+enough to the fountain of good things to secure one of the family livings, but
+the son, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so much as
+this, and moreover felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate. Thus he
+fronted the world with no better armour than the bachelor&rsquo;s gown and the
+wits of a younger son&rsquo;s grandson, with which equipment he contrived in
+some way to make a very tolerable fight of it. At twenty-five Mr. Charles
+Aubernon saw himself still a man of struggles and of warfare with the world,
+but out of the seven who stood before him and the high places of his family
+three only remained. These three, however, were &ldquo;good lives,&rdquo; but
+yet not proof against the Zulu assegais and typhoid fever, and so one morning
+Aubernon woke up and found himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had
+faced the difficulties of existence, and had conquered. The situation amused
+him immensely, and he resolved that riches should be as pleasant to him as
+poverty had always been. Argentine, after some little consideration, came to
+the conclusion that dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhaps the most
+amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinners became famous in
+London, and an invitation to his table a thing covetously desired. After ten
+years of lordship and dinners Argentine still declined to be jaded, still
+persisted in enjoying life, and by a kind of infection had become recognized as
+the cause of joy in others, in short, as the best of company. His sudden and
+tragical death therefore caused a wide and deep sensation. People could
+scarcely believe it, even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and the
+cry of &ldquo;Mysterious Death of a Nobleman&rdquo; came ringing up from the
+street. But there stood the brief paragraph: &ldquo;Lord Argentine was found
+dead this morning by his valet under distressing circumstances. It is stated
+that there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide, though no
+motive can be assigned for the act. The deceased nobleman was widely known in
+society, and much liked for his genial manner and sumptuous hospitality. He is
+succeeded by,&rdquo; etc., etc.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remained a
+mystery. The chief witness at the inquest was the deceased&rsquo;s valet, who
+said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined with a lady of
+good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaper reports. At about
+eleven o&rsquo;clock Lord Argentine had returned, and informed his man that he
+should not require his services till the next morning. A little later the valet
+had occasion to cross the hall and was somewhat astonished to see his master
+quietly letting himself out at the front door. He had taken off his evening
+clothes, and was dressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low
+brown hat. The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him,
+and though his master rarely kept late hours, thought little of the occurrence
+till the next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom door at a quarter to nine
+as usual. He received no answer, and, after knocking two or three times,
+entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine&rsquo;s body leaning forward at an
+angle from the bottom of the bed. He found that his master had tied a cord
+securely to one of the short bed-posts, and, after making a running noose and
+slipping it round his neck, the unfortunate man must have resolutely fallen
+forward, to die by slow strangulation. He was dressed in the light suit in
+which the valet had seen him go out, and the doctor who was summoned pronounced
+that life had been extinct for more than four hours. All papers, letters, and
+so forth seemed in perfect order, and nothing was discovered which pointed in
+the most remote way to any scandal either great or small. Here the evidence
+ended; nothing more could be discovered. Several persons had been present at
+the dinner-party at which Lord Argentine had assisted, and to all these he
+seemed in his usual genial spirits. The valet, indeed, said he thought his
+master appeared a little excited when he came home, but confessed that the
+alteration in his manner was very slight, hardly noticeable, indeed. It seemed
+hopeless to seek for any clue, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine had been
+suddenly attacked by acute suicidal mania was generally accepted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks, three more gentlemen, one
+of them a nobleman, and the two others men of good position and ample means,
+perished miserably in the almost precisely the same manner. Lord Swanleigh was
+found one morning in his dressing-room, hanging from a peg affixed to the wall,
+and Mr. Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries had chosen to die as Lord Argentine.
+There was no explanation in either case; a few bald facts; a living man in the
+evening, and a body with a black swollen face in the morning. The police had
+been forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest or to explain the sordid
+murders of Whitechapel; but before the horrible suicides of Piccadilly and
+Mayfair they were dumbfoundered, for not even the mere ferocity which did duty
+as an explanation of the crimes of the East End, could be of service in the
+West. Each of these men who had resolved to die a tortured shameful death was
+rich, prosperous, and to all appearances in love with the world, and not the
+acutest research should ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in either
+case. There was a horror in the air, and men looked at one another&rsquo;s
+faces when they met, each wondering whether the other was to be the victim of
+the fifth nameless tragedy. Journalists sought in vain for their scrapbooks for
+materials whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morning paper was
+unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knew when or where the
+next blow would light.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A short while after the last of these terrible events, Austin came to see Mr.
+Villiers. He was curious to know whether Villiers had succeeded in discovering
+any fresh traces of Mrs. Herbert, either through Clarke or by other sources,
+and he asked the question soon after he had sat down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Villiers, &ldquo;I wrote to Clarke, but he remains
+obdurate, and I have tried other channels, but without any result. I
+can&rsquo;t find out what became of Helen Vaughan after she left Paul Street,
+but I think she must have gone abroad. But to tell the truth, Austin, I
+haven&rsquo;t paid much attention to the matter for the last few weeks; I knew
+poor Herries intimately, and his terrible death has been a great shock to me, a
+great shock.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can well believe it,&rdquo; answered Austin gravely, &ldquo;you know
+Argentine was a friend of mine. If I remember rightly, we were speaking of him
+that day you came to my rooms.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley Street, Mrs.
+Beaumont&rsquo;s house. You said something about Argentine&rsquo;s dining
+there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Quite so. Of course you know it was there Argentine dined the night
+before&mdash;before his death.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I had not heard that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont.
+Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was in a terrible
+state for sometime after.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A curious look came over Villiers&rsquo; face; he seemed undecided whether to
+speak or not. Austin began again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I read the account
+of Argentine&rsquo;s death. I didn&rsquo;t understand it at the time, and I
+don&rsquo;t now. I knew him well, and it completely passes my understanding for
+what possible cause he&mdash;or any of the others for the matter of
+that&mdash;could have resolved in cold blood to die in such an awful manner.
+You know how men babble away each other&rsquo;s characters in London, you may
+be sure any buried scandal or hidden skeleton would have been brought to light
+in such a case as this; but nothing of the sort has taken place. As for the
+theory of mania, that is very well, of course, for the coroner&rsquo;s jury,
+but everybody knows that it&rsquo;s all nonsense. Suicidal mania is not
+small-pox.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin relapsed into gloomy silence. Villiers sat silent, also, watching his
+friend. The expression of indecision still fleeted across his face; he seemed
+as if weighing his thoughts in the balance, and the considerations he was
+resolving left him still silent. Austin tried to shake off the remembrance of
+tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as the labyrinth of Daedalus, and began to
+talk in an indifferent voice of the more pleasant incidents and adventures of
+the season.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That Mrs. Beaumont,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;of whom we were speaking, is
+a great success; she has taken London almost by storm. I met her the other
+night at Fulham&rsquo;s; she is really a remarkable woman.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have met Mrs. Beaumont?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes; she had quite a court around her. She would be called very
+handsome, I suppose, and yet there is something about her face which I
+didn&rsquo;t like. The features are exquisite, but the expression is strange.
+And all the time I was looking at her, and afterwards, when I was going home, I
+had a curious feeling that very expression was in some way or another familiar
+to me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You must have seen her in the Row.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it is that which
+makes it puzzling. And to the best of my belief I have never seen anyone like
+her; what I felt was a kind of dim far-off memory, vague but persistent. The
+only sensation I can compare it to, is that odd feeling one sometimes has in a
+dream, when fantastic cities and wondrous lands and phantom personages appear
+familiar and accustomed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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&rsquo;s strange legacy lay hid beneath a
+Gothic scutcheon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?&rdquo; he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death. I
+don&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, and it&rsquo;s very possible that the woman may have more than one
+name.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark!
+what are those boys calling?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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&rsquo;s Pomeroy, Devon, was found,
+after a prolonged search, hanging dead from the branch of a tree in his garden
+at one o&rsquo;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&rsquo;clock, and was seen walking leisurely up St. James&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin put down the paper in mute horror.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall leave London to-morrow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it is a city of
+nightmares. How awful this is, Villiers!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wait a moment, Austin,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s Street shortly after
+ten?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are quite right.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement at all
+events. Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o&rsquo;clock this
+morning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feet
+between us.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Where, in Heaven&rsquo;s name, did you see him?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He was just leaving a
+house.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did you notice what house it was?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Villiers! Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake. How
+could Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont&rsquo;s house at two o&rsquo;clock in the
+morning? Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers; you were always
+rather fanciful.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been dreaming as you say,
+what I saw would have roused me effectually.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything strange about
+Crashaw? But I can&rsquo;t believe it; it is impossible.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very good, Villiers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I was at a house near Regent&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 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&mdash;I will confess the truth&mdash;I set off at a good run,
+and kept it up till I was within my own door.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why? Because it made my blood run cold to see that man&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s face I looked
+upon.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What can it mean?&rdquo; he said at length.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who knows, Austin, who knows? It&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII<br />
+THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO</h2>
+
+<p>
+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&rsquo;s
+office.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the last three
+weeks?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who is she? In what way do you mean?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I mean that you and I know her better under another name.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What name is that?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Herbert.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Herbert!&rdquo; Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures
+unknown to me. You had reason to recognize the expression of her face; when you
+go home look at the face in Meyrick&rsquo;s book of horrors, and you will know
+the sources of your recollection.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And you have proof of this?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say Mrs.
+Herbert?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Where did you see her?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in
+Ashley Street, Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one of the meanest and
+most disreputable streets in Soho. In fact, I had made an appointment, though
+not with her, and she was precise to both time and place.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible. You must
+remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary adventure of
+London society, talking and laughing, and sipping her coffee in a commonplace
+drawing-room with commonplace people. But you know what you are saying.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises or fancies. It was
+with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs. Beaumont in
+the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been the issue.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You must have been in strange places, Villiers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I have been in very strange places. It would have been useless, you
+know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a short sketch
+of her previous history. No; assuming, as I had to assume, that her record was
+not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain that at some previous time she
+must have moved in circles not quite so refined as her present ones. If you see
+mud at the top of a stream, you may be sure that it was once at the bottom. I
+went to the bottom. I have always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my
+amusement, and I found my knowledge of that locality and its inhabitants very
+useful. It is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the
+name of Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite unable to
+describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The people there know
+me; I have been able to do some of them a service now and again, so they made
+no difficulty about giving their information; they were aware I had no
+communication direct or indirect with Scotland Yard. I had to cast out a good
+many lines, though, before I got what I wanted, and when I landed the fish I
+did not for a moment suppose it was my fish. But I listened to what I was told
+out of a constitutional liking for useless information, and I found myself in
+possession of a very curious story, though, as I imagined, not 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&rsquo;s of no use my going into details as to the
+life that woman led; if you want particulars you can look at Meyrick&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 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. &lsquo;Who is that?&rsquo; I said,
+and his answer was &lsquo;Mrs. Beaumont; lives in Ashley Street.&rsquo; Of
+course there could be no doubt after that. I don&rsquo;t know whether she saw
+me, but I don&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why to Clarke?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of facts about this
+woman, facts of which I know nothing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, what then?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked reflectively at Austin for a
+moment before he answered:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. Beaumont.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You would never go into such a house as that? No, no, Villiers, you
+cannot do it. Besides, consider; what result...&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;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, as their
+bodies blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot
+be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the
+most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale. But you
+and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the
+secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form
+taking to itself a form. Oh, Austin, how can it be? How is it that the very
+sunlight does not turn to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and
+boil beneath such a burden?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads of sweat stood out on
+his forehead. Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers saw him make a sign
+upon his breast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter such a house as that?
+You would never pass out alive.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive&mdash;I, and Clarke with me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What do you mean? You cannot, you would not dare...&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wait a moment. The air was very pleasant and fresh this morning; there
+was a breeze blowing, even through this dull street, and I thought I would take
+a walk. Piccadilly stretched before me a clear, bright vista, and the sun
+flashed on the carriages and on the quivering leaves in the park. It was a
+joyous morning, and men and women looked at the sky and smiled as they went
+about their work or their pleasure, and the wind blew as blithely as upon the
+meadows and the scented gorse. But somehow or other I got out of the bustle and
+the gaiety, and found myself walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where
+there seemed to be no sunshine and no air, and where the few foot-passengers
+loitered as they walked, and hung indecisively about corners and archways. I
+walked along, hardly knowing where I was going or what I did there, but feeling
+impelled, as one sometimes is, to explore still further, with a vague idea of
+reaching some unknown goal. Thus I forged up the street, noting the small
+traffic of the milk-shop, and wondering at the incongruous medley of penny
+pipes, black tobacco, sweets, newspapers, and comic songs which here and there
+jostled one another in the short compass of a single window. I think it was a
+cold shudder that suddenly passed through me that first told me that I had
+found what I wanted. I looked up from the pavement and stopped before a dusty
+shop, above which the lettering had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred
+years ago had grimed to black; where the windows had gathered to themselves the
+dust of winters innumerable. I saw what I required; but I think it was five
+minutes before I had steadied myself and could walk in and ask for it in a cool
+voice and with a calm face. I think there must even then have been a tremor in
+my words, for the old man who came out of the back parlour, and fumbled slowly
+amongst his goods, looked oddly at me as he tied the parcel. I paid what he
+asked, and stood leaning by the counter, with a strange reluctance to take up
+my goods and go. I asked about the business, and learnt that trade was bad and
+the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was not what it was before
+traffic had been diverted, but that was done forty years ago, &lsquo;just
+before my father died,&rsquo; he said. I got away at last, and walked along
+sharply; it was a dismal street indeed, and I was glad to return to the bustle
+and the noise. Would you like to see my purchase?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he still looked white and
+sick. Villiers pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and showed Austin a
+long coil of cord, hard and new; and at one end was a running noose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is the best hempen cord,&rdquo; said Villiers, &ldquo;just as it used
+to be made for the old trade, the man told me. Not an inch of jute from end to
+end.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, growing whiter as he looked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You would not do it,&rdquo; he murmured at last. &ldquo;You would not
+have blood on your hands. My God!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence,
+&ldquo;you cannot mean this, Villiers, that you will make yourself a
+hangman?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No. I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan alone with this cord
+in a locked room for fifteen minutes. If when we go in it is not done, I shall
+call the nearest policeman. That is all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this.
+Good-night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good-night, Austin.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The door shut, but in a moment it was open again, and Austin stood, white and
+ghastly, in the entrance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I was forgetting,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that I too have something to
+tell. I have received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres. He says that
+he attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life? It was not
+fever?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, it was not fever. According to the doctor, it was an utter collapse
+of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock. But he states that
+the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was consequently at some
+disadvantage in treating the case.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is there anything more?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: &lsquo;I think this is all
+the information I can give you about your poor friend. He had not been long in
+Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of a person who did
+not bear the best of characters, and has since left&mdash;a Mrs.
+Vaughan.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII<br />
+THE FRAGMENTS</h2>
+
+<p class="letter">
+[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr. Robert Matheson, of Ashley
+Street, Piccadilly, who died suddenly, of apoplectic seizure, at the beginning
+of 1892, a leaf of manuscript paper was found, covered with pencil jottings.
+These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated, and had evidently been made in
+great haste. The MS. was only deciphered with difficulty, and some words have
+up to the present time evaded all the efforts of the expert employed. The date,
+&ldquo;XXV Jul. 1888,&rdquo; is written on the right-hand corner of the MS. The
+following is a translation of Dr. Matheson&rsquo;s manuscript.]
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Whether science would benefit by these brief notes if they could be
+published, I do not know, but rather doubt. But certainly I shall never take
+the responsibility of publishing or divulging one word of what is here written,
+not only on account of my oath given freely to those two persons who were
+present, but also because the details are too abominable. It is probably that,
+upon mature consideration, and after weighting the good and evil, I shall one
+day destroy this paper, or at least leave it under seal to my friend D.,
+trusting in his discretion, to use it or to burn it, as he may think fit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;As was befitting, I did all that my knowledge suggested to make sure
+that I was suffering under no delusion. At first astounded, I could hardly
+think, but in a minute&rsquo;s time I was sure that my pulse was steady and
+regular, and that I was in my real and true senses. I then fixed my eyes
+quietly on what was before me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Though horror and revolting nausea rose up within me, and an odour of
+corruption choked my breath, I remained firm. I was then privileged or
+accursed, I dare not say which, to see that which was on the bed, lying there
+black like ink, transformed before my eyes. The skin, and the flesh, and the
+muscles, and the bones, and the firm structure of the human body that I had
+thought to be unchangeable, and permanent as adamant, began to melt and
+dissolve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know that the body may be separated into its elements by external
+agencies, but I should have refused to believe what I saw. For here there was
+some internal force, of which I knew nothing, that caused dissolution and
+change.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Here too was all the work by which man had been made repeated before my
+eyes. I saw the form waver from sex to sex, dividing itself from itself, and
+then again reunited. Then I saw the body descend to the beasts whence it
+ascended, and that which was on the heights go down to the depths, even to the
+abyss of all being. The principle of life, which makes organism, always
+remained, while the outward form changed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The light within the room had turned to blackness, not the darkness of
+night, in which objects are seen dimly, for I could see clearly and without
+difficulty. But it was the negation of light; objects were presented to my
+eyes, if I may say so, without any medium, in such a manner that if there had
+been a prism in the room I should have seen no colours represented in it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance as jelly. Then the
+ladder was ascended again... [<i>here the</i> MS. <i>is illegible</i>] ...for
+one instance I saw a Form, shaped in dimness before me, which I will not
+farther describe. But the symbol of this form may be seen in ancient
+sculptures, and in paintings which survived beneath the lava, too foul to be
+spoken of... as a horrible and unspeakable shape, neither man nor beast, was
+changed into human form, there came finally death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I who saw all this, not without great horror and loathing of soul, here
+write my name, declaring all that I have set on this paper to be true.
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+&ldquo;R<small>OBERT</small> M<small>ATHESON</small>, Med. Dr.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+...Such, Raymond, is the story of what I know and what I have seen. The burden
+of it was too heavy for me to bear alone, and yet I could tell it to none but
+you. Villiers, who was with me at the last, knows nothing of that awful secret
+of the wood, of how what we both saw die, lay upon the smooth, sweet turf
+amidst the summer flowers, half in sun and half in shadow, and holding the girl
+Rachel&rsquo;s hand, called and summoned those companions, and shaped in solid
+form, upon the earth we tread upon, the horror which we can but hint at, which
+we can only name under a figure. I would not tell Villiers of this, nor of that
+resemblance, which struck me as with a blow upon my heart, when I saw the
+portrait, which filled the cup of terror at the end. What this can mean I dare
+not guess. I know that what I saw perish was not Mary, and yet in the last
+agony Mary&rsquo;s eyes looked into mine. Whether there can be any one who can
+show the last link in this chain of awful mystery, I do not know, but if there
+be any one who can do this, you, Raymond, are the man. And if you know the
+secret, it rests with you to tell it or not, as you please.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I am writing this letter to you immediately on my getting back to town. I have
+been in the country for the last few days; perhaps you may be able to guess in
+which part. While the horror and wonder of London was at its height&mdash;for
+&ldquo;Mrs. Beaumont,&rdquo; as I have told you, was well known in
+society&mdash;I wrote to my friend Dr. Phillips, giving some brief outline, or
+rather hint, of what happened, and asking him to tell me the name of the
+village where the events he had related to me occurred. He gave me the name, as
+he said with the less hesitation, because Rachel&rsquo;s father and mother were
+dead, and the rest of the family had gone to a relative in the State of
+Washington six months before. The parents, he said, had undoubtedly died of
+grief and horror caused by the terrible death of their daughter, and by what
+had gone before that death. On the evening of the day which I received
+Phillips&rsquo; letter I was at Caermaen, and standing beneath the mouldering
+Roman walls, white with the winters of seventeen hundred years, I looked over
+the meadow where once had stood the older temple of the &ldquo;God of the
+Deeps,&rdquo; and saw a house gleaming in the sunlight. It was the house where
+Helen had lived. I stayed at Caermaen for several days. The people of the
+place, I found, knew little and had guessed less. Those whom I spoke to on the
+matter seemed surprised that an antiquarian (as I professed myself to be)
+should trouble about a village tragedy, of which they gave a very commonplace
+version, and, as you may imagine, I told nothing of what I knew. Most of my
+time was spent in the great wood that rises just above the village and climbs
+the hillside, and goes down to the river in the valley; such another long
+lovely valley, Raymond, as that on which we looked one summer night, walking to
+and fro before your house. For many an hour I strayed through the maze of the
+forest, turning now to right and now to left, pacing slowly down long alleys of
+undergrowth, shadowy and chill, even under the midday sun, and halting beneath
+great oaks; lying on the short turf of a clearing where the faint sweet scent
+of wild roses came to me on the wind and mixed with the heavy perfume of the
+elder, whose mingled odour is like the odour of the room of the dead, a vapour
+of incense and corruption. I stood at the edges of the wood, gazing at all the
+pomp and procession of the foxgloves towering amidst the bracken and shining
+red in the broad sunshine, and beyond them into deep thickets of close
+undergrowth where springs boil up from the rock and nourish the water-weeds,
+dank and evil. But in all my wanderings I avoided one part of the wood; it was
+not till yesterday that I climbed to the summit of the hill, and stood upon the
+ancient Roman road that threads the highest ridge of the wood. Here they had
+walked, Helen and Rachel, along this quiet causeway, upon the pavement of green
+turf, shut in on either side by high banks of red earth, and tall hedges of
+shining beech, and here I followed in their steps, looking out, now and again,
+through partings in the boughs, and seeing on one side the sweep of the wood
+stretching far to right and left, and sinking into the broad level, and beyond,
+the yellow sea, and the land over the sea. On the other side was the valley and
+the river and hill following hill as wave on wave, and wood and meadow, and
+cornfield, and white houses gleaming, and a great wall of mountain, and far
+blue peaks in the north. And so at last I came to the place. The track went up
+a gentle slope, and widened out into an open space with a wall of thick
+undergrowth around it, and then, narrowing again, passed on into the distance
+and the faint blue mist of summer heat. And into this pleasant summer glade
+Rachel passed a girl, and left it, who shall say what? I did not stay long
+there.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum, containing for the most part
+Roman remains which have been found in the neighbourhood at various times. On
+the day after my arrival in Caermaen I walked over to the town in question, and
+took the opportunity of inspecting the museum. After I had seen most of the
+sculptured stones, the coffins, rings, coins, and fragments of tessellated
+pavement which the place contains, I was shown a small square pillar of white
+stone, which had been recently discovered in the wood of which I have been
+speaking, and, as I found on inquiry, in that open space where the Roman road
+broadens out. On one side of the pillar was an inscription, of which I took a
+note. Some of the letters have been defaced, but I do not think there can be
+any doubt as to those which I supply. The inscription is as follows:
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+DEVOMNODENT<i>i</i><br />
+FLA<i>v</i>IVSSENILISPOSSV<i>it</i><br />
+PROPTERNVP<i>tias</i><br />
+<i>qua</i>SVIDITSVBVMB<i>ra</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or Abyss) Flavius
+Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the marriage which he saw beneath
+the shade.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The custodian of the museum informed me that local antiquaries were much
+puzzled, not by the inscription, or by any difficulty in translating it, but as
+to the circumstance or rite to which allusion is made.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+...And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me about Helen Vaughan, whom
+you say you saw die under circumstances of the utmost and almost incredible
+horror. I was interested in your account, but a good deal, nay all, of what you
+told me I knew already. I can understand the strange likeness you remarked in
+both the portrait and in the actual face; you have seen Helen&rsquo;s mother.
+You remember that still summer night so many years ago, when I talked to you of
+the world beyond the shadows, and of the god Pan. You remember Mary. She was
+the mother of Helen Vaughan, who was born nine months after that night.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mary never recovered her reason. She lay, as you saw her, all the while upon
+her bed, and a few days after the child was born she died. I fancy that just at
+the last she knew me; I was standing by the bed, and the old look came into her
+eyes for a second, and then she shuddered and groaned and died. It was an ill
+work I did that night when you were present; I broke open the door of the house
+of life, without knowing or caring what might pass forth or enter in. I
+recollect your telling me at the time, sharply enough, and rightly too, in one
+sense, that I had ruined the reason of a human being by a foolish experiment,
+based on an absurd theory. You did well to blame me, but my theory was not all
+absurdity. What I said Mary would see she saw, but I forgot that no human eyes
+can look on such a sight with impunity. And I forgot, as I have just said, that
+when the house of life is thus thrown open, there may enter in that for which
+we have no name, and human flesh may become the veil of a horror one dare not
+express. I played with energies which I did not understand, you have seen the
+ending of it. Helen Vaughan did well to bind the cord about her neck and die,
+though the death was horrible. The blackened face, the hideous form upon the
+bed, changing and melting before your eyes from woman to man, from man to
+beast, and from beast to worse than beast, all the strange horror that you
+witness, surprises me but little. What you say the doctor whom you sent for saw
+and shuddered at I noticed long ago; I knew what I had done the moment the
+child was born, and when it was scarcely five years old I surprised it, not
+once or twice but several times with a playmate, you may guess of what kind. It
+was for me a constant, an incarnate horror, and after a few years I felt I
+could bear it no more, and I sent Helen Vaughan away. You know now what
+frightened the boy in the wood. The rest of the strange story, and all else
+that you tell me, as discovered by your friend, I have contrived to learn from
+time to time, almost to the last chapter. And now Helen is with her
+companions...
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+THE END.
+</p>
+
+<p class="footnote">
+N<small>OTE</small>.&mdash;Helen Vaughan was born on August 5th, 1865, at the
+Red House, Breconshire, and died on July 25th, 1888, in her house in a street
+off Piccadilly, called Ashley Street in the story.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***</div>
+<div style='text-align:left'>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Updated editions will replace the previous one&#8212;the old editions will
+be renamed.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
+law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
+so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
+States without permission and without paying copyright
+royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
+of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
+concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
+and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
+the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
+of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br />
+<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br />
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span>
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+To protect the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
+or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.B. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
+Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg&#8482; work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
+on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
+phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+</div>
+
+<blockquote>
+  <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+    at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
+    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
+  </div>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221; associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg&#8482; License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; License.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work in a format
+other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original &#8220;Plain
+Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg&#8482; works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+provided that:
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
+        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, but he has
+        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+        Section 4, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        works.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+        receipt of the work.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works.
+    </div>
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &#8220;Right
+of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg&#8482;&#8217;s
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg&#8482; and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation&#8217;s EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state&#8217;s laws.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation&#8217;s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation&#8217;s website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
+public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
+visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg&#8482;,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+</body>
+
+</html>
+
+
diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6312041
--- /dev/null
+++ b/LICENSE.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a9b14ae
--- /dev/null
+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #389 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/389)
diff --git a/old/389.txt b/old/389.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a0e3b1d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/389.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,2652 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Great God Pan
+
+Author: Arthur Machen
+
+Posting Date: August 12, 2008 [EBook #389]
+Release Date: January, 1996
+Last updated: July 3, 2013
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Brandi Weed.  HTML version by Al Haines.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE GREAT GOD PAN
+
+by
+
+ARTHUR MACHEN
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+    I  THE EXPERIMENT
+   II  MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS
+  III  THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
+   IV  THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET
+    V  THE LETTER OF ADVICE
+   VI  THE SUICIDES
+  VII  THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO
+ VIII  THE FRAGMENTS
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+THE EXPERIMENT
+
+"I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed.  I was not sure you
+could spare the time."
+
+"I was able to make arrangements for a few days; things are not very
+lively just now.  But have you no misgivings, Raymond?  Is it
+absolutely safe?"
+
+The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond's
+house.  The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it
+shone with a dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was
+quiet; a sweet breath came from the great wood on the hillside above,
+and with it, at intervals, the soft murmuring call of the wild doves.
+Below, in the long lovely valley, the river wound in and out between
+the lonely hills, and, as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a
+faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills.  Dr. Raymond
+turned sharply to his friend.
+
+"Safe?  Of course it is.  In itself the operation is a perfectly simple
+one; any surgeon could do it."
+
+"And there is no danger at any other stage?"
+
+"None; absolutely no physical danger whatsoever, I give you my word.
+You are always timid, Clarke, always; but you know my history.  I have
+devoted myself to transcendental medicine for the last twenty years.  I
+have heard myself called quack and charlatan and impostor, but all the
+while I knew I was on the right path.  Five years ago I reached the
+goal, and since then every day has been a preparation for what we shall
+do tonight."
+
+"I should like to believe it is all true."  Clarke knit his brows, and
+looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond.  "Are you perfectly sure, Raymond,
+that your theory is not a phantasmagoria--a splendid vision, certainly,
+but a mere vision after all?"
+
+Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and turned sharply. He was a
+middle-aged man, gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow complexion, but as he
+answered Clarke and faced him, there was a flush on his cheek.
+
+"Look about you, Clarke.  You see the mountain, and hill following
+after hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods and orchard, the fields
+of ripe corn, and the meadows reaching to the reed-beds by the river.
+You see me standing here beside you, and hear my voice; but I tell you
+that all these things--yes, from that star that has just shone out in
+the sky to the solid ground beneath our feet--I say that all these are
+but dreams and shadows; the shadows that hide the real world from our
+eyes.  There is a real world, but it is beyond this glamour and this
+vision, beyond these 'chases in Arras, dreams in a career,' beyond them
+all as beyond a veil.  I do not know whether any human being has ever
+lifted that veil; but I do know, Clarke, that you and I shall see it
+lifted this very night from before another's eyes.  You may think this
+all strange nonsense; it may be strange, but it is true, and the
+ancients knew what lifting the veil means.  They called it seeing the
+god Pan."
+
+Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering over the river was chilly.
+
+"It is wonderful indeed," he said.  "We are standing on the brink of a
+strange world, Raymond, if what you say is true.  I suppose the knife
+is absolutely necessary?"
+
+"Yes; a slight lesion in the grey matter, that is all; a trifling
+rearrangement of certain cells, a microscopical alteration that would
+escape the attention of ninety-nine brain specialists out of a hundred.
+I don't want to bother you with 'shop,' Clarke; I might give you a mass
+of technical detail which would sound very imposing, and would leave
+you as enlightened as you are now.  But I suppose you have read,
+casually, in out-of-the-way corners of your paper, that immense strides
+have been made recently in the physiology of the brain.  I saw a
+paragraph the other day about Digby's theory, and Browne Faber's
+discoveries.  Theories and discoveries!  Where they are standing now, I
+stood fifteen years ago, and I need not tell you that I have not been
+standing still for the last fifteen years.  It will be enough if I say
+that five years ago I made the discovery that I alluded to when I said
+that ten years ago I reached the goal.  After years of labour, after
+years of toiling and groping in the dark, after days and nights of
+disappointments and sometimes of despair, in which I used now and then
+to tremble and grow cold with the thought that perhaps there were
+others seeking for what I sought, at last, after so long, a pang of
+sudden joy thrilled my soul, and I knew the long journey was at an end.
+By what seemed then and still seems a chance, the suggestion of a
+moment's idle thought followed up upon familiar lines and paths that I
+had tracked a hundred times already, the great truth burst upon me, and
+I saw, mapped out in lines of sight, a whole world, a sphere unknown;
+continents and islands, and great oceans in which no ship has sailed
+(to my belief) since a Man first lifted up his eyes and beheld the sun,
+and the stars of heaven, and the quiet earth beneath.  You will think
+this all high-flown language, Clarke, but it is hard to be literal.
+And yet; I do not know whether what I am hinting at cannot be set forth
+in plain and lonely terms.  For instance, this world of ours is pretty
+well girded now with the telegraph wires and cables; thought, with
+something less than the speed of thought, flashes from sunrise to
+sunset, from north to south, across the floods and the desert places.
+Suppose that an electrician of today were suddenly to perceive that he
+and his friends have merely been playing with pebbles and mistaking
+them for the foundations of the world; suppose that such a man saw
+uttermost space lie open before the current, and words of men flash
+forth to the sun and beyond the sun into the systems beyond, and the
+voice of articulate-speaking men echo in the waste void that bounds our
+thought.  As analogies go, that is a pretty good analogy of what I have
+done; you can understand now a little of what I felt as I stood here
+one evening; it was a summer evening, and the valley looked much as it
+does now; I stood here, and saw before me the unutterable, the
+unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of
+matter and the world of spirit; I saw the great empty deep stretch dim
+before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth
+to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned.  You may look in
+Browne Faber's book, if you like, and you will find that to the present
+day men of science are unable to account for the presence, or to
+specify the functions of a certain group of nerve-cells in the brain.
+That group is, as it were, land to let, a mere waste place for fanciful
+theories.  I am not in the position of Browne Faber and the
+specialists, I am perfectly instructed as to the possible functions of
+those nerve-centers in the scheme of things.  With a touch I can bring
+them into play, with a touch, I say, I can set free the current, with a
+touch I can complete the communication between this world of sense
+and--we shall be able to finish the sentence later on. Yes, the knife
+is necessary; but think what that knife will effect.  It will level
+utterly the solid wall of sense, and probably, for the first time since
+man was made, a spirit will gaze on a spirit-world.  Clarke, Mary will
+see the god Pan!"
+
+"But you remember what you wrote to me?  I thought it would be
+requisite that she--"
+
+He whispered the rest into the doctor's ear.
+
+"Not at all, not at all.  That is nonsense.  I assure you.  Indeed, it
+is better as it is; I am quite certain of that."
+
+"Consider the matter well, Raymond.  It's a great responsibility.
+Something might go wrong; you would be a miserable man for the rest of
+your days."
+
+"No, I think not, even if the worst happened.  As you know, I rescued
+Mary from the gutter, and from almost certain starvation, when she was
+a child; I think her life is mine, to use as I see fit.  Come, it's
+getting late; we had better go in."
+
+Dr. Raymond led the way into the house, through the hall, and down a
+long dark passage.  He took a key from his pocket and opened a heavy
+door, and motioned Clarke into his laboratory.  It had once been a
+billiard-room, and was lighted by a glass dome in the centre of the
+ceiling, whence there still shone a sad grey light on the figure of the
+doctor as he lit a lamp with a heavy shade and placed it on a table in
+the middle of the room.
+
+Clarke looked about him.  Scarcely a foot of wall remained bare; there
+were shelves all around laden with bottles and phials of all shapes and
+colours, and at one end stood a little Chippendale book-case.  Raymond
+pointed to this.
+
+"You see that parchment Oswald Crollius?  He was one of the first to
+show me the way, though I don't think he ever found it himself.  That
+is a strange saying of his: 'In every grain of wheat there lies hidden
+the soul of a star.'"
+
+There was not much furniture in the laboratory.  The table in the
+centre, a stone slab with a drain in one corner, the two armchairs on
+which Raymond and Clarke were sitting; that was all, except an
+odd-looking chair at the furthest end of the room.  Clarke looked at
+it, and raised his eyebrows.
+
+"Yes, that is the chair," said Raymond.  "We may as well place it in
+position."  He got up and wheeled the chair to the light, and began
+raising and lowering it, letting down the seat, setting the back at
+various angles, and adjusting the foot-rest.  It looked comfortable
+enough, and Clarke passed his hand over the soft green velvet, as the
+doctor manipulated the levers.
+
+"Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfortable.  I have a couple hours'
+work before me; I was obliged to leave certain matters to the last."
+
+Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him drearily as he
+bent over a row of phials and lit the flame under the crucible.  The
+doctor had a small hand-lamp, shaded as the larger one, on a ledge
+above his apparatus, and Clarke, who sat in the shadows, looked down at
+the great shadowy room, wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant
+light and undefined darkness contrasting with one another.  Soon he
+became conscious of an odd odour, at first the merest suggestion of
+odour, in the room, and as it grew more decided he felt surprised that
+he was not reminded of the chemist's shop or the surgery.  Clarke found
+himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and half conscious,
+he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that he had spent
+roaming through the woods and meadows near his own home.  It was a
+burning day at the beginning of August, the heat had dimmed the
+outlines of all things and all distances with a faint mist, and people
+who observed the thermometer spoke of an abnormal register, of a
+temperature that was almost tropical. Strangely that wonderful hot day
+of the fifties rose up again in Clarke's imagination; the sense of
+dazzling all-pervading sunlight seemed to blot out the shadows and the
+lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in
+gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and heard
+the myriad murmur of the summer.
+
+"I hope the smell doesn't annoy you, Clarke; there's nothing
+unwholesome about it.  It may make you a bit sleepy, that's all."
+
+Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was
+speaking to him, but for the life of him he could not rouse himself
+from his lethargy.  He could only think of the lonely walk he had taken
+fifteen years ago; it was his last look at the fields and woods he had
+known since he was a child, and now it all stood out in brilliant
+light, as a picture, before him.  Above all there came to his nostrils
+the scent of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the odour of the
+woods, of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by
+the sun's heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were with
+arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. His fancies
+made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the
+wood, tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of
+beech-trees; and the trickle of water dropping from the limestone rock
+sounded as a clear melody in the dream.  Thoughts began to go astray
+and to mingle with other thoughts; the beech alley was transformed to a
+path between ilex-trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bough
+to bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with purple grapes,
+and the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree stood out against
+the dark shadows of the ilex.  Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was
+conscious that the path from his father's house had led him into an
+undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it
+all, when suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an
+infinite silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed,
+and for a moment in time he stood face to face there with a presence,
+that was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but
+all things mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all form.  And
+in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a
+voice seemed to cry "Let us go hence," and then the darkness of
+darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting.
+
+When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of
+some oily fluid into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly.
+
+"You have been dozing," he said; "the journey must have tired you out.
+It is done now.  I am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten
+minutes."
+
+Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered.  It seemed as if he had but
+passed from one dream into another.  He half expected to see the walls
+of the laboratory melt and disappear, and to awake in London,
+shuddering at his own sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened,
+and the doctor returned, and behind him came a girl of about seventeen,
+dressed all in white.  She was so beautiful that Clarke did not wonder
+at what the doctor had written to him.  She was blushing now over face
+and neck and arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved.
+
+"Mary," he said, "the time has come.  You are quite free.  Are you
+willing to trust yourself to me entirely?"
+
+"Yes, dear."
+
+"Do you hear that, Clarke?  You are my witness.  Here is the chair,
+Mary.  It is quite easy.  Just sit in it and lean back.  Are you ready?"
+
+"Yes, dear, quite ready.  Give me a kiss before you begin."
+
+The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough. "Now shut your
+eyes," he said.  The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired, and
+longed for sleep, and Raymond placed the green phial to her nostrils.
+Her face grew white, whiter than her dress; she struggled faintly, and
+then with the feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms
+upon her breast as a little child about to say her prayers.  The bright
+light of the lamp fell full upon her, and Clarke watched changes
+fleeting over her face as the changes of the hills when the summer
+clouds float across the sun.  And then she lay all white and still, and
+the doctor turned up one of her eyelids.  She was quite unconscious.
+Raymond pressed hard on one of the levers and the chair instantly sank
+back.  Clarke saw him cutting away a circle, like a tonsure, from her
+hair, and the lamp was moved nearer.  Raymond took a small glittering
+instrument from a little case, and Clarke turned away shudderingly.
+When he looked again the doctor was binding up the wound he had made.
+
+"She will awake in five minutes."  Raymond was still perfectly cool.
+"There is nothing more to be done; we can only wait."
+
+The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow, heavy, ticking.
+There was an old clock in the passage.  Clarke felt sick and faint; his
+knees shook beneath him, he could hardly stand.
+
+Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn sigh, and suddenly
+did the colour that had vanished return to the girl's cheeks, and
+suddenly her eyes opened.  Clarke quailed before them.  They shone with
+an awful light, looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon her
+face, and her hands stretched out as if to touch what was invisible;
+but in an instant the wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful
+terror.  The muscles of her face were hideously convulsed, she shook
+from head to foot; the soul seemed struggling and shuddering within the
+house of flesh.  It was a horrible sight, and Clarke rushed forward, as
+she fell shrieking to the floor.
+
+Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary's bedside. She was lying
+wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side, and grinning vacantly.
+
+"Yes," said the doctor, still quite cool, "it is a great pity; she is a
+hopeless idiot.  However, it could not be helped; and, after all, she
+has seen the Great God Pan."
+
+
+
+II
+
+MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS
+
+Mr. Clarke, the gentleman chosen by Dr. Raymond to witness the strange
+experiment of the god Pan, was a person in whose character caution and
+curiosity were oddly mingled; in his sober moments he thought of the
+unusual and eccentric with undisguised aversion, and yet, deep in his
+heart, there was a wide-eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the
+more recondite and esoteric elements in the nature of men.  The latter
+tendency had prevailed when he accepted Raymond's invitation, for
+though his considered judgment had always repudiated the doctor's
+theories as the wildest nonsense, yet he secretly hugged a belief in
+fantasy, and would have rejoiced to see that belief confirmed. The
+horrors that he witnessed in the dreary laboratory were to a certain
+extent salutary; he was conscious of being involved in an affair not
+altogether reputable, and for many years afterwards he clung bravely to
+the commonplace, and rejected all occasions of occult investigation.
+Indeed, on some homeopathic principle, he for some time attended the
+seances of distinguished mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of
+these gentlemen would make him altogether disgusted with mysticism of
+every kind, but the remedy, though caustic, was not efficacious. Clarke
+knew that he still pined for the unseen, and little by little, the old
+passion began to reassert itself, as the face of Mary, shuddering and
+convulsed with an unknown terror, faded slowly from his memory.
+Occupied all day in pursuits both serious and lucrative, the temptation
+to relax in the evening was too great, especially in the winter months,
+when the fire cast a warm glow over his snug bachelor apartment, and a
+bottle of some choice claret stood ready by his elbow.  His dinner
+digested, he would make a brief pretence of reading the evening paper,
+but the mere catalogue of news soon palled upon him, and Clarke would
+find himself casting glances of warm desire in the direction of an old
+Japanese bureau, which stood at a pleasant distance from the hearth.
+Like a boy before a jam-closet, for a few minutes he would hover
+indecisive, but lust always prevailed, and Clarke ended by drawing up
+his chair, lighting a candle, and sitting down before the bureau.  Its
+pigeon-holes and drawers teemed with documents on the most morbid
+subjects, and in the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in which
+he had painfully entered the gems of his collection.  Clarke had a fine
+contempt for published literature; the most ghostly story ceased to
+interest him if it happened to be printed; his sole pleasure was in the
+reading, compiling, and rearranging what he called his "Memoirs to
+prove the Existence of the Devil," and engaged in this pursuit the
+evening seemed to fly and the night appeared too short.
+
+On one particular evening, an ugly December night, black with fog, and
+raw with frost, Clarke hurried over his dinner, and scarcely deigned to
+observe his customary ritual of taking up the paper and laying it down
+again.  He paced two or three times up and down the room, and opened
+the bureau, stood still a moment, and sat down.  He leant back,
+absorbed in one of those dreams to which he was subject, and at length
+drew out his book, and opened it at the last entry.  There were three
+or four pages densely covered with Clarke's round, set penmanship, and
+at the beginning he had written in a somewhat larger hand:
+
+        Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr. Phillips.
+                He assures me that all the facts related
+                therein are strictly and wholly True, but
+                refuses to give either the Surnames of the
+                Persons Concerned, or the Place where these
+                Extraordinary Events occurred.
+
+Mr. Clarke began to read over the account for the tenth time, glancing
+now and then at the pencil notes he had made when it was told him by
+his friend.  It was one of his humours to pride himself on a certain
+literary ability; he thought well of his style, and took pains in
+arranging the circumstances in dramatic order.  He read the following
+story:--
+
+
+The persons concerned in this statement are Helen V., who, if she is
+still alive, must now be a woman of twenty-three, Rachel M., since
+deceased, who was a year younger than the above, and Trevor W., an
+imbecile, aged eighteen. These persons were at the period of the story
+inhabitants of a village on the borders of Wales, a place of some
+importance in the time of the Roman occupation, but now a scattered
+hamlet, of not more than five hundred souls.  It is situated on rising
+ground, about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered by a large and
+picturesque forest.
+
+Some eleven years ago, Helen V. came to the village under rather
+peculiar circumstances.  It is understood that she, being an orphan,
+was adopted in her infancy by a distant relative, who brought her up in
+his own house until she was twelve years old. Thinking, however, that
+it would be better for the child to have playmates of her own age, he
+advertised in several local papers for a good home in a comfortable
+farmhouse for a girl of twelve, and this advertisement was answered by
+Mr. R., a well-to-do farmer in the above-mentioned village.  His
+references proving satisfactory, the gentleman sent his adopted
+daughter to Mr. R., with a letter, in which he stipulated that the girl
+should have a room to herself, and stated that her guardians need be at
+no trouble in the matter of education, as she was already sufficiently
+educated for the position in life which she would occupy.  In fact, Mr.
+R. was given to understand that the girl be allowed to find her own
+occupations and to spend her time almost as she liked.  Mr. R.  duly
+met her at the nearest station, a town seven miles away from his house,
+and seems to have remarked nothing extraordinary about the child except
+that she was reticent as to her former life and her adopted father. She
+was, however, of a very different type from the inhabitants of the
+village; her skin was a pale, clear olive, and her features were
+strongly marked, and of a somewhat foreign character.  She appears to
+have settled down easily enough into farmhouse life, and became a
+favourite with the children, who sometimes went with her on her rambles
+in the forest, for this was her amusement.  Mr. R. states that he has
+known her to go out by herself directly after their early breakfast,
+and not return till after dusk, and that, feeling uneasy at a young
+girl being out alone for so many hours, he communicated with her
+adopted father, who replied in a brief note that Helen must do as she
+chose.  In the winter, when the forest paths are impassable, she spent
+most of her time in her bedroom, where she slept alone, according to
+the instructions of her relative. It was on one of these expeditions to
+the forest that the first of the singular incidents with which this
+girl is connected occurred, the date being about a year after her
+arrival at the village.  The preceding winter had been remarkably
+severe, the snow drifting to a great depth, and the frost continuing
+for an unexampled period, and the summer following was as noteworthy
+for its extreme heat.  On one of the very hottest days in this summer,
+Helen V. left the farmhouse for one of her long rambles in the forest,
+taking with her, as usual, some bread and meat for lunch.  She was seen
+by some men in the fields making for the old Roman Road, a green
+causeway which traverses the highest part of the wood, and they were
+astonished to observe that the girl had taken off her hat, though the
+heat of the sun was already tropical.  As it happened, a labourer,
+Joseph W. by name, was working in the forest near the Roman Road, and
+at twelve o'clock his little son, Trevor, brought the man his dinner of
+bread and cheese.  After the meal, the boy, who was about seven years
+old at the time, left his father at work, and, as he said, went to look
+for flowers in the wood, and the man, who could hear him shouting with
+delight at his discoveries, felt no uneasiness.  Suddenly, however, he
+was horrified at hearing the most dreadful screams, evidently the
+result of great terror, proceeding from the direction in which his son
+had gone, and he hastily threw down his tools and ran to see what had
+happened.  Tracing his path by the sound, he met the little boy, who
+was running headlong, and was evidently terribly frightened, and on
+questioning him the man elicited that after picking a posy of flowers
+he felt tired, and lay down on the grass and fell asleep.  He was
+suddenly awakened, as he stated, by a peculiar noise, a sort of singing
+he called it, and on peeping through the branches he saw Helen V.
+playing on the grass with a "strange naked man," who he seemed unable
+to describe more fully.  He said he felt dreadfully frightened and ran
+away crying for his father.  Joseph W. proceeded in the direction
+indicated by his son, and found Helen V. sitting on the grass in the
+middle of a glade or open space left by charcoal burners.  He angrily
+charged her with frightening his little boy, but she entirely denied
+the accusation and laughed at the child's story of a "strange man," to
+which he himself did not attach much credence.  Joseph W.  came to the
+conclusion that the boy had woke up with a sudden fright, as children
+sometimes do, but Trevor persisted in his story, and continued in such
+evident distress that at last his father took him home, hoping that his
+mother would be able to soothe him. For many weeks, however, the boy
+gave his parents much anxiety; he became nervous and strange in his
+manner, refusing to leave the cottage by himself, and constantly
+alarming the household by waking in the night with cries of "The man in
+the wood! father! father!"
+
+In course of time, however, the impression seemed to have worn off, and
+about three months later he accompanied his father to the home of a
+gentleman in the neighborhood, for whom Joseph W. occasionally did
+work.  The man was shown into the study, and the little boy was left
+sitting in the hall, and a few minutes later, while the gentleman was
+giving W. his instructions, they were both horrified by a piercing
+shriek and the sound of a fall, and rushing out they found the child
+lying senseless on the floor, his face contorted with terror.  The
+doctor was immediately summoned, and after some examination he
+pronounced the child to be suffering form a kind of fit, apparently
+produced by a sudden shock.  The boy was taken to one of the bedrooms,
+and after some time recovered consciousness, but only to pass into a
+condition described by the medical man as one of violent hysteria.  The
+doctor exhibited a strong sedative, and in the course of two hours
+pronounced him fit to walk home, but in passing through the hall the
+paroxysms of fright returned and with additional violence.  The father
+perceived that the child was pointing at some object, and heard the old
+cry, "The man in the wood," and looking in the direction indicated saw
+a stone head of grotesque appearance, which had been built into the
+wall above one of the doors.  It seems the owner of the house had
+recently made alterations in his premises, and on digging the
+foundations for some offices, the men had found a curious head,
+evidently of the Roman period, which had been placed in the manner
+described.  The head is pronounced by the most experienced
+archaeologists of the district to be that of a faun or satyr.  [Dr.
+Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in question, and assures me
+that he has never received such a vivid presentment of intense evil.]
+
+From whatever cause arising, this second shock seemed too severe for
+the boy Trevor, and at the present date he suffers from a weakness of
+intellect, which gives but little promise of amending.  The matter
+caused a good deal of sensation at the time, and the girl Helen was
+closely questioned by Mr. R., but to no purpose, she steadfastly
+denying that she had frightened or in any way molested Trevor.
+
+The second event with which this girl's name is connected took place
+about six years ago, and is of a still more extraordinary character.
+
+At the beginning of the summer of 1882, Helen contracted a friendship
+of a peculiarly intimate character with Rachel M., the daughter of a
+prosperous farmer in the neighbourhood.  This girl, who was a year
+younger than Helen, was considered by most people to be the prettier of
+the two, though Helen's features had to a great extent softened as she
+became older.  The two girls, who were together on every available
+opportunity, presented a singular contrast, the one with her clear,
+olive skin and almost Italian appearance, and the other of the
+proverbial red and white of our rural districts.  It must be stated
+that the payments made to Mr. R. for the maintenance of Helen were
+known in the village for their excessive liberality, and the impression
+was general that she would one day inherit a large sum of money from
+her relative. The parents of Rachel were therefore not averse from
+their daughter's friendship with the girl, and even encouraged the
+intimacy, though they now bitterly regret having done so. Helen still
+retained her extraordinary fondness for the forest, and on several
+occasions Rachel accompanied her, the two friends setting out early in
+the morning, and remaining in the wood until dusk.  Once or twice after
+these excursions Mrs. M. thought her daughter's manner rather peculiar;
+she seemed languid and dreamy, and as it has been expressed, "different
+from herself," but these peculiarities seem to have been thought too
+trifling for remark.  One evening, however, after Rachel had come home,
+her mother heard a noise which sounded like suppressed weeping in the
+girl's room, and on going in found her lying, half undressed, upon the
+bed, evidently in the greatest distress.  As soon as she saw her
+mother, she exclaimed, "Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to
+the forest with Helen?"  Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a
+question, and proceeded to make inquiries.  Rachel told her a wild
+story.  She said--
+
+Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the
+fire.  When his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his
+story, Clarke had interrupted him at a point a little subsequent to
+this, had cut short his words in a paroxysm of horror.  "My God!" he
+had exclaimed, "think, think what you are saying.  It is too
+incredible, too monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet
+world, where men and women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or
+maybe fail, and fall down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange
+fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips, not such things as
+this.  There must be some explanation, some way out of the terror.
+Why, man, if such a case were possible, our earth would be a nightmare."
+
+But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:
+
+"Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad
+sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she
+was not there."
+
+Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and
+again his mind shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of
+such awful, unspeakable elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant
+in human flesh.  Before him stretched the long dim vista of the green
+causeway in the forest, as his friend had described it; he saw the
+swaying leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
+sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long distance, the
+two figures moved toward him.  One was Rachel, but the other?
+
+Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the
+account, as he had written it in his book, he had placed the
+inscription:
+
+ET DIABOLUS INCARNATE EST.  ET HOMO FACTUS EST.
+
+
+
+III
+
+THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
+
+"Herbert!  Good God!  Is it possible?"
+
+"Yes, my name's Herbert.  I think I know your face, too, but I don't
+remember your name.  My memory is very queer."
+
+"Don't you recollect Villiers of Wadham?"
+
+"So it is, so it is.  I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn't think I was
+begging of an old college friend. Good-night."
+
+"My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary.  My rooms are close by, but
+we won't go there just yet.  Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a
+little way?  But how in heaven's name have you come to this pass,
+Herbert?"
+
+"It's a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can hear
+it if you like."
+
+"Come on, then.  Take my arm, you don't seem very strong."
+
+The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty,
+evil-looking rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a
+man about town, trim, glossy, and eminently well-to-do.  Villiers had
+emerged from his restaurant after an excellent dinner of many courses,
+assisted by an ingratiating little flask of Chianti, and, in that frame
+of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the
+door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those
+mysterious incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem
+in every quarter and every hour.  Villiers prided himself as a
+practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of London life, and
+in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity which was worthy
+of more serious employment.  Thus he stood by the lamp-post surveying
+the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known
+only to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the
+formula: "London has been called the city of encounters; it is more
+than that, it is the city of Resurrections," when these reflections
+were suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a
+deplorable appeal for alms.  He looked around in some irritation, and
+with a sudden shock found himself confronted with the embodied proof of
+his somewhat stilted fancies.  There, close beside him, his face
+altered and disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his body barely covered
+by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who
+had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been
+merry and wise for twelve revolving terms.  Different occupations and
+varying interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years
+since Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a
+man with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain inquisitiveness as to
+what dreary chain of circumstances had dragged him down to such a
+doleful pass.  Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of
+the amateur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely
+speculations outside the restaurant.
+
+They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by
+stared in astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed
+man with an unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing
+this, Villiers led the way to an obscure street in Soho.  Here he
+repeated his question.
+
+"How on earth has it happened, Herbert?  I always understood you would
+succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire.  Did your father
+disinherit you?  Surely not?"
+
+"No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father's death;
+he died a year after I left Oxford.  He was a very good father to me,
+and I mourned his death sincerely enough.  But you know what young men
+are; a few months later I came up to town and went a good deal into
+society.  Of course I had excellent introductions, and I managed to
+enjoy myself very much in a harmless sort of way.  I played a little,
+certainly, but never for heavy stakes, and the few bets I made on races
+brought me in money--only a few pounds, you know, but enough to pay for
+cigars and such petty pleasures.  It was in my second season that the
+tide turned.  Of course you have heard of my marriage?"
+
+"No, I never heard anything about it."
+
+"Yes, I married, Villiers.  I met a girl, a girl of the most wonderful
+and most strange beauty, at the house of some people whom I knew.  I
+cannot tell you her age; I never knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I
+should think she must have been about nineteen when I made her
+acquaintance.  My friends had come to know her at Florence; she told
+them she was an orphan, the child of an English father and an Italian
+mother, and she charmed them as she charmed me.  The first time I saw
+her was at an evening party.  I was standing by the door talking to a
+friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I heard
+a voice which seemed to thrill to my heart.  She was singing an Italian
+song.  I was introduced to her that evening, and in three months I
+married Helen.  Villiers, that woman, if I can call her woman,
+corrupted my soul.  The night of the wedding I found myself sitting in
+her bedroom in the hotel, listening to her talk.  She was sitting up in
+bed, and I listened to her as she spoke in her beautiful voice, spoke
+of things which even now I would not dare whisper in the blackest
+night, though I stood in the midst of a wilderness.   You, Villiers,
+you may think you know life, and London, and what goes on day and night
+in this dreadful city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of
+the vilest, but I tell you you can have no conception of what I know,
+not in your most fantastic, hideous dreams can you have imaged forth
+the faintest shadow of what I have heard--and seen.  Yes, seen.  I have
+seen the incredible, such horrors that even I myself sometimes stop in
+the middle of the street and ask whether it is possible for a man to
+behold such things and live. In a year, Villiers, I was a ruined man,
+in body and soul--in body and soul."
+
+"But your property, Herbert?  You had land in Dorset."
+
+"I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old house--everything."
+
+"And the money?"
+
+"She took it all from me."
+
+"And then left you?"
+
+"Yes; she disappeared one night.  I don't know where she went, but I am
+sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no
+interest; sordid misery, that is all.  You may think, Villiers, that I
+have exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half.
+I could tell you certain things which would convince you, but you would
+never know a happy day again.  You would pass the rest of your life, as
+I pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell."
+
+Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal.
+Herbert could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set
+before him.  He sat moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved
+when Villiers sent him away with a small present of money.
+
+"By the way, Herbert," said Villiers, as they parted at the door, "what
+was your wife's name?  You said Helen, I think? Helen what?"
+
+"The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what
+her real name was I can't say.  I don't think she had a name.  No, no,
+not in that sense.  Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can't say
+anymore.  Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in
+which you can help me. Good-night."
+
+The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his
+fireside.  There was something about Herbert which shocked him
+inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks which poverty had set
+upon his face, but rather an indefinite terror which hung about him
+like a mist.  He had acknowledged that he himself was not devoid of
+blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him body and soul, and
+Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an actor in
+scenes evil beyond the power of words.  His story needed no
+confirmation: he himself was the embodied proof of it.  Villiers mused
+curiously over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had
+heard both the first and the last of it.  "No," he thought, "certainly
+not the last, probably only the beginning.  A case like this is like a
+nest of Chinese boxes; you open one after the other and find a quainter
+workmanship in every box.  Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of
+the outside boxes; there are stranger ones to follow."
+
+Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and his story, which
+seemed to grow wilder as the night wore on. The fire seemed to burn
+low, and the chilly air of the morning crept into the room; Villiers
+got up with a glance over his shoulder, and, shivering slightly, went
+to bed.
+
+A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his acquaintance,
+named Austin, who was famous for his intimate knowledge of London life,
+both in its tenebrous and luminous phases.  Villiers, still full of his
+encounter in Soho and its consequences, thought Austin might possibly
+be able to shed some light on Herbert's history, and so after some
+casual talk he suddenly put the question:
+
+"Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert--Charles
+Herbert?"
+
+Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with some
+astonishment.
+
+"Charles Herbert?  Weren't you in town three years ago? No; then you
+have not heard of the Paul Street case?  It caused a good deal of
+sensation at the time."
+
+"What was the case?"
+
+"Well, a gentleman, a man of very good position, was found dead, stark
+dead, in the area of a certain house in Paul Street, off Tottenham
+Court Road.  Of course the police did not make the discovery; if you
+happen to be sitting up all night and have a light in your window, the
+constable will ring the bell, but if you happen to be lying dead in
+somebody's area, you will be left alone.  In this instance, as in many
+others, the alarm was raised by some kind of vagabond; I don't mean a
+common tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a gentleman, whose business
+or pleasure, or both, made him a spectator of the London streets at
+five o'clock in the morning.  This individual was, as he said, 'going
+home,' it did not appear whence or whither, and had occasion to pass
+through Paul Street between four and five a.m. Something or other
+caught his eye at Number 20; he said, absurdly enough, that the house
+had the most unpleasant physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any
+rate, he glanced down the area and was a good deal astonished to see a
+man lying on the stones, his limbs all huddled together, and his face
+turned up.  Our gentleman thought his face looked peculiarly ghastly,
+and so set off at a run in search of the nearest policeman.  The
+constable was at first inclined to treat the matter lightly, suspecting
+common drunkenness; however, he came, and after looking at the man's
+face, changed his tone, quickly enough.  The early bird, who had picked
+up this fine worm, was sent off for a doctor, and the policeman rang
+and knocked at the door till a slatternly servant girl came down
+looking more than half asleep.  The constable pointed out the contents
+of the area to the maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake up the
+street, but she knew nothing of the man; had never seen him at the
+house, and so forth.  Meanwhile, the original discoverer had come back
+with a medical man, and the next thing was to get into the area.  The
+gate was open, so the whole quartet stumped down the steps.  The doctor
+hardly needed a moment's examination; he said the poor fellow had been
+dead for several hours, and it was then the case began to get
+interesting.  The dead man had not been robbed, and in one of his
+pockets were papers identifying him as--well, as a man of good family
+and means, a favourite in society, and nobody's enemy, as far as could
+be known.  I don't give his name, Villiers, because it has nothing to
+do with the story, and because it's no good raking up these affairs
+about the dead when there are no relations living.  The next curious
+point was that the medical men couldn't agree as to how he met his
+death.  There were some slight bruises on his shoulders, but they were
+so slight that it looked as if he had been pushed roughly out of the
+kitchen door, and not thrown over the railings from the street or even
+dragged down the steps. But there were positively no other marks of
+violence about him, certainly none that would account for his death;
+and when they came to the autopsy there wasn't a trace of poison of any
+kind. Of course the police wanted to know all about the people at
+Number 20, and here again, so I have heard from private sources, one or
+two other very curious points came out.  It appears that the occupants
+of the house were a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Herbert; he was said to be a
+landed proprietor, though it struck most people that Paul Street was
+not exactly the place to look for country gentry.  As for Mrs. Herbert,
+nobody seemed to know who or what she was, and, between ourselves, I
+fancy the divers after her history found themselves in rather strange
+waters.  Of course they both denied knowing anything about the
+deceased, and in default of any evidence against them they were
+discharged. But some very odd things came out about them.  Though it
+was between five and six in the morning when the dead man was removed,
+a large crowd had collected, and several of the neighbours ran to see
+what was going on.  They were pretty free with their comments, by all
+accounts, and from these it appeared that Number 20 was in very bad
+odour in Paul Street.  The detectives tried to trace down these rumours
+to some solid foundation of fact, but could not get hold of anything.
+People shook their heads and raised their eyebrows and thought the
+Herberts rather 'queer,' 'would rather not be seen going into their
+house,' and so on, but there was nothing tangible.  The authorities
+were morally certain the man met his death in some way or another in
+the house and was thrown out by the kitchen door, but they couldn't
+prove it, and the absence of any indications of violence or poisoning
+left them helpless.  An odd case, wasn't it?  But curiously enough,
+there's something more that I haven't told you.  I happened to know one
+of the doctors who was consulted as to the cause of death, and some
+time after the inquest I met him, and asked him about it.  'Do you
+really mean to tell me,' I said, 'that you were baffled by the case,
+that you actually don't know what the man died of?' 'Pardon me,' he
+replied, 'I know perfectly well what caused death.  Blank died of
+fright, of sheer, awful terror; I never saw features so hideously
+contorted in the entire course of my practice, and I have seen the
+faces of a whole host of dead.'  The doctor was usually a cool customer
+enough, and a certain vehemence in his manner struck me, but I couldn't
+get anything more out of him. I suppose the Treasury didn't see their
+way to prosecuting the Herberts for frightening a man to death; at any
+rate, nothing was done, and the case dropped out of men's minds.  Do
+you happen to know anything of Herbert?"
+
+"Well," replied Villiers, "he was an old college friend of mine."
+
+"You don't say so?  Have you ever seen his wife?"
+
+"No, I haven't.  I have lost sight of Herbert for many years."
+
+"It's queer, isn't it, parting with a man at the college gate or at
+Paddington, seeing nothing of him for years, and then finding him pop
+up his head in such an odd place.  But I should like to have seen Mrs.
+Herbert; people said extraordinary things about her."
+
+"What sort of things?"
+
+"Well, I hardly know how to tell you.  Everyone who saw her at the
+police court said she was at once the most beautiful woman and the most
+repulsive they had ever set eyes on.  I have spoken to a man who saw
+her, and I assure you he positively shuddered as he tried to describe
+the woman, but he couldn't tell why.  She seems to have been a sort of
+enigma; and I expect if that one dead man could have told tales, he
+would have told some uncommonly queer ones.  And there you are again in
+another puzzle; what could a respectable country gentleman like Mr.
+Blank (we'll call him that if you don't mind) want in such a very queer
+house as Number 20?  It's altogether a very odd case, isn't it?"
+
+"It is indeed, Austin; an extraordinary case.  I didn't think, when I
+asked you about my old friend, I should strike on such strange metal.
+Well, I must be off; good-day."
+
+Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the Chinese boxes;
+here was quaint workmanship indeed.
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET
+
+A few months after Villiers' meeting with Herbert, Mr. Clarke was
+sitting, as usual, by his after-dinner hearth, resolutely guarding his
+fancies from wandering in the direction of the bureau.  For more than a
+week he had succeeded in keeping away from the "Memoirs," and he
+cherished hopes of a complete self-reformation; but, in spite of his
+endeavours, he could not hush the wonder and the strange curiosity that
+the last case he had written down had excited within him.  He had put
+the case, or rather the outline of it, conjecturally to a scientific
+friend, who shook his head, and thought Clarke getting queer, and on
+this particular evening Clarke was making an effort to rationalize the
+story, when a sudden knock at the door roused him from his meditations.
+
+"Mr. Villiers to see you sir."
+
+"Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me up; I have not
+seen you for many months; I should think nearly a year.  Come in, come
+in.  And how are you, Villiers?  Want any advice about investments?"
+
+"No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is pretty safe.  No,
+Clarke, I have really come to consult you about a rather curious matter
+that has been brought under my notice of late.  I am afraid you will
+think it all rather absurd when I tell my tale.  I sometimes think so
+myself, and that's just what I made up my mind to come to you, as I
+know you're a practical man."
+
+Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the "Memoirs to prove the Existence of the
+Devil."
+
+"Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my advice, to the best of
+my ability.  What is the nature of the case?"
+
+"It's an extraordinary thing altogether.  You know my ways; I always
+keep my eyes open in the streets, and in my time I have chanced upon
+some queer customers, and queer cases too, but this, I think, beats
+all.  I was coming out of a restaurant one nasty winter night about
+three months ago; I had had a capital dinner and a good bottle of
+Chianti, and I stood for a moment on the pavement, thinking what a
+mystery there is about London streets and the companies that pass along
+them.  A bottle of red wine encourages these fancies, Clarke, and I
+dare say I should have thought a page of small type, but I was cut
+short by a beggar who had come behind me, and was making the usual
+appeals.  Of course I looked round, and this beggar turned out to be
+what was left of an old friend of mine, a man named Herbert.  I asked
+him how he had come to such a wretched pass, and he told me.  We walked
+up and down one of those long and dark Soho streets, and there I
+listened to his story.  He said he had married a beautiful girl, some
+years younger than himself, and, as he put it, she had corrupted him
+body and soul.  He wouldn't go into details; he said he dare not, that
+what he had seen and heard haunted him by night and day, and when I
+looked in his face I knew he was speaking the truth. There was
+something about the man that made me shiver.  I don't know why, but it
+was there.  I gave him a little money and sent him away, and I assure
+you that when he was gone I gasped for breath.  His presence seemed to
+chill one's blood."
+
+"Isn't this all just a little fanciful, Villiers?  I suppose the poor
+fellow had made an imprudent marriage, and, in plain English, gone to
+the bad."
+
+"Well, listen to this."  Villiers told Clarke the story he had heard
+from Austin.
+
+"You see," he concluded, "there can be but little doubt that this Mr.
+Blank, whoever he was, died of sheer terror; he saw something so awful,
+so terrible, that it cut short his life. And what he saw, he most
+certainly saw in that house, which, somehow or other, had got a bad
+name in the neighbourhood.  I had the curiosity to go and look at the
+place for myself.  It's a saddening kind of street; the houses are old
+enough to be mean and dreary, but not old enough to be quaint.  As far
+as I could see most of them are let in lodgings, furnished and
+unfurnished, and almost every door has three bells to it.  Here and
+there the ground floors have been made into shops of the commonest
+kind; it's a dismal street in every way.  I found Number 20 was to let,
+and I went to the agent's and got the key.  Of course I should have
+heard nothing of the Herberts in that quarter, but I asked the man,
+fair and square, how long they had left the house and whether there had
+been other tenants in the meanwhile. He looked at me queerly for a
+minute, and told me the Herberts had left immediately after the
+unpleasantness, as he called it, and since then the house had been
+empty."
+
+Mr. Villiers paused for a moment.
+
+"I have always been rather fond of going over empty houses; there's a
+sort of fascination about the desolate empty rooms, with the nails
+sticking in the walls, and the dust thick upon the window-sills.  But I
+didn't enjoy going over Number 20, Paul Street.  I had hardly put my
+foot inside the passage when I noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the
+air of the house.  Of course all empty houses are stuffy, and so forth,
+but this was something quite different; I can't describe it to you, but
+it seemed to stop the breath.  I went into the front room and the back
+room, and the kitchens downstairs; they were all dirty and dusty
+enough, as you would expect, but there was something strange about them
+all.  I couldn't define it to you, I only know I felt queer.  It was
+one of the rooms on the first floor, though, that was the worst.  It
+was a largish room, and once on a time the paper must have been
+cheerful enough, but when I saw it, paint, paper, and everything were
+most doleful.  But the room was full of horror; I felt my teeth
+grinding as I put my hand on the door, and when I went in, I thought I
+should have fallen fainting to the floor.  However, I pulled myself
+together, and stood against the end wall, wondering what on earth there
+could be about the room to make my limbs tremble, and my heart beat as
+if I were at the hour of death.  In one corner there was a pile of
+newspapers littered on the floor, and I began looking at them; they
+were papers of three or four years ago, some of them half torn, and
+some crumpled as if they had been used for packing.  I turned the whole
+pile over, and amongst them I found a curious drawing; I will show it
+to you presently.  But I couldn't stay in the room; I felt it was
+overpowering me.  I was thankful to come out, safe and sound, into the
+open air.  People stared at me as I walked along the street, and one
+man said I was drunk.  I was staggering about from one side of the
+pavement to the other, and it was as much as I could do to take the key
+back to the agent and get home.  I was in bed for a week, suffering
+from what my doctor called nervous shock and exhaustion.  One of those
+days I was reading the evening paper, and happened to notice a
+paragraph headed: 'Starved to Death.'  It was the usual style of thing;
+a model lodging-house in Marylebone, a door locked for several days,
+and a dead man in his chair when they broke in.  'The deceased,' said
+the paragraph, 'was known as Charles Herbert, and is believed to have
+been once a prosperous country gentleman.  His name was familiar to the
+public three years ago in connection with the mysterious death in Paul
+Street, Tottenham Court Road, the deceased being the tenant of the
+house Number 20, in the area of which a gentleman of good position was
+found dead under circumstances not devoid of suspicion.'  A tragic
+ending, wasn't it?  But after all, if what he told me were true, which
+I am sure it was, the man's life was all a tragedy, and a tragedy of a
+stranger sort than they put on the boards."
+
+"And that is the story, is it?" said Clarke musingly.
+
+"Yes, that is the story."
+
+"Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what to say about it.  There
+are, no doubt, circumstances in the case which seem peculiar, the
+finding of the dead man in the area of Herbert's house, for instance,
+and the extraordinary opinion of the physician as to the cause of
+death; but, after all, it is conceivable that the facts may be
+explained in a straightforward manner.  As to your own sensations, when
+you went to see the house, I would suggest that they were due to a
+vivid imagination; you must have been brooding, in a semi-conscious
+way, over what you had heard.  I don't exactly see what more can be
+said or done in the matter; you evidently think there is a mystery of
+some kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you propose to look?"
+
+"I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he married.  She is
+the mystery."
+
+The two men sat silent by the fireside; Clarke secretly congratulating
+himself on having successfully kept up the character of advocate of the
+commonplace, and Villiers wrapped in his gloomy fancies.
+
+"I think I will have a cigarette," he said at last, and put his hand in
+his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case.
+
+"Ah!" he said, starting slightly, "I forgot I had something to show
+you.  You remember my saying that I had found a rather curious sketch
+amongst the pile of old newspapers at the house in Paul Street?  Here
+it is."
+
+Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his pocket. It was covered
+with brown paper, and secured with string, and the knots were
+troublesome.  In spite of himself Clarke felt inquisitive; he bent
+forward on his chair as Villiers painfully undid the string, and
+unfolded the outer covering.  Inside was a second wrapping of tissue,
+and Villiers took it off and handed the small piece of paper to Clarke
+without a word.
+
+There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or more; the two
+men sat so still that they could hear the ticking of the tall
+old-fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall, and in the mind of
+one of them the slow monotony of sound woke up a far, far memory.  He
+was looking intently at the small pen-and-ink sketch of the woman's
+head; it had evidently been drawn with great care, and by a true
+artist, for the woman's soul looked out of the eyes, and the lips were
+parted with a strange smile.  Clarke gazed still at the face; it
+brought to his memory one summer evening, long ago; he saw again the
+long lovely valley, the river winding between the hills, the meadows
+and the cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white mist rising
+from the water.  He heard a voice speaking to him across the waves of
+many years, and saying "Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!" and then he
+was standing in the grim room beside the doctor, listening to the heavy
+ticking of the clock, waiting and watching, watching the figure lying
+on the green chair beneath the lamplight.  Mary rose up, and he looked
+into her eyes, and his heart grew cold within him.
+
+"Who is this woman?" he said at last.  His voice was dry and hoarse.
+
+"That is the woman who Herbert married."
+
+Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary after all.  There
+certainly was Mary's face, but there was something else, something he
+had not seen on Mary's features when the white-clad girl entered the
+laboratory with the doctor, nor at her terrible awakening, nor when she
+lay grinning on the bed.   Whatever it was, the glance that came from
+those eyes, the smile on the full lips, or the expression of the whole
+face, Clarke shuddered before it at his inmost soul, and thought,
+unconsciously, of Dr. Phillip's words, "the most vivid presentment of
+evil I have ever seen."  He turned the paper over mechanically in his
+hand and glanced at the back.
+
+"Good God!  Clarke, what is the matter?  You are as white as death."
+
+Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke fell back with a
+groan, and let the paper drop from his hands.
+
+"I don't feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to these attacks.  Pour
+me out a little wine; thanks, that will do. I shall feel better in a
+few minutes."
+
+Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over as Clarke had
+done.
+
+"You saw that?" he said.  "That's how I identified it as being a
+portrait of Herbert's wife, or I should say his widow.  How do you feel
+now?"
+
+"Better, thanks, it was only a passing faintness.  I don't think I
+quite catch your meaning.  What did you say enabled you to identify the
+picture?"
+
+"This word--'Helen'--was written on the back. Didn't I tell you her
+name was Helen?  Yes; Helen Vaughan."
+
+Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow of doubt.
+
+"Now, don't you agree with me," said Villiers, "that in the story I
+have told you to-night, and in the part this woman plays in it, there
+are some very strange points?"
+
+"Yes, Villiers," Clarke muttered, "it is a strange story indeed; a
+strange story indeed.  You must give me time to think it over; I may be
+able to help you or I may not.  Must you be going now?  Well,
+good-night, Villiers, good-night.  Come and see me in the course of a
+week."
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE LETTER OF ADVICE
+
+"Do you know, Austin," said Villiers, as the two friends were pacing
+sedately along Piccadilly one pleasant morning in May, "do you know I
+am convinced that what you told me about Paul Street and the Herberts
+is a mere episode in an extraordinary history?  I may as well confess
+to you that when I asked you about Herbert a few months ago I had just
+seen him."
+
+"You had seen him?  Where?"
+
+"He begged of me in the street one night.  He was in the most pitiable
+plight, but I recognized the man, and I got him to tell me his history,
+or at least the outline of it.  In brief, it amounted to this--he had
+been ruined by his wife."
+
+"In what manner?"
+
+"He would not tell me; he would only say that she had destroyed him,
+body and soul.  The man is dead now."
+
+"And what has become of his wife?"
+
+"Ah, that's what I should like to know, and I mean to find her sooner
+or later.  I know a man named Clarke, a dry fellow, in fact a man of
+business, but shrewd enough.  You understand my meaning; not shrewd in
+the mere business sense of the word, but a man who really knows
+something about men and life.  Well, I laid the case before him, and he
+was evidently impressed.  He said it needed consideration, and asked me
+to come again in the course of a week.  A few days later I received
+this extraordinary letter."
+
+Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter, and read it curiously.
+It ran as follows:--
+
+"MY DEAR VILLIERS,--I have thought over the matter on which you
+consulted me the other night, and my advice to you is this.  Throw the
+portrait into the fire, blot out the story from your mind.  Never give
+it another thought, Villiers, or you will be sorry.  You will think, no
+doubt, that I am in possession of some secret information, and to a
+certain extent that is the case.  But I only know a little; I am like a
+traveller who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror.
+What I know is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond my
+knowledge there are depths and horrors more frightful still, more
+incredible than any tale told of winter nights about the fire. I have
+resolved, and nothing shall shake that resolve, to explore no whit
+farther, and if you value your happiness you will make the same
+determination.
+
+"Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more cheerful topics
+than this."
+
+Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it to Villiers.
+
+"It is certainly an extraordinary letter," he said, "what does he mean
+by the portrait?"
+
+"Ah!  I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street and have made a
+discovery."
+
+Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke, and Austin
+listened in silence.  He seemed puzzled.
+
+"How very curious that you should experience such an unpleasant
+sensation in that room!" he said at length.  "I hardly gather that it
+was a mere matter of the imagination; a feeling of repulsion, in short."
+
+"No, it was more physical than mental.  It was as if I were inhaling at
+every breath some deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to every nerve
+and bone and sinew of my body.  I felt racked from head to foot, my
+eyes began to grow dim; it was like the entrance of death."
+
+"Yes, yes, very strange certainly.  You see, your friend confesses that
+there is some very black story connected with this woman.  Did you
+notice any particular emotion in him when you were telling your tale?"
+
+"Yes, I did.  He became very faint, but he assured me that it was a
+mere passing attack to which he was subject."
+
+"Did you believe him?"
+
+"I did at the time, but I don't now.  He heard what I had to say with a
+good deal of indifference, till I showed him the portrait.  It was then
+that he was seized with the attack of which I spoke.  He looked
+ghastly, I assure you."
+
+"Then he must have seen the woman before.  But there might be another
+explanation; it might have been the name, and not the face, which was
+familiar to him.  What do you think?"
+
+"I couldn't say.  To the best of my belief it was after turning the
+portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from the chair.  The name,
+you know, was written on the back."
+
+"Quite so.  After all, it is impossible to come to any resolution in a
+case like this.  I hate melodrama, and nothing strikes me as more
+commonplace and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commerce; but
+really, Villiers, it looks as if there were something very queer at the
+bottom of all this."
+
+The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley Street, leading
+northward from Piccadilly.  It was a long street, and rather a gloomy
+one, but here and there a brighter taste had illuminated the dark
+houses with flowers, and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the
+doors.  Villiers glanced up as Austin stopped speaking, and looked at
+one of these houses; geraniums, red and white, drooped from every sill,
+and daffodil-coloured curtains were draped back from each window.
+
+"It looks cheerful, doesn't it?" he said.
+
+"Yes, and the inside is still more cheery.  One of the pleasantest
+houses of the season, so I have heard.  I haven't been there myself,
+but I've met several men who have, and they tell me it's uncommonly
+jovial."
+
+"Whose house is it?"
+
+"A Mrs. Beaumont's."
+
+"And who is she?"
+
+"I couldn't tell you.  I have heard she comes from South America, but
+after all, who she is is of little consequence.  She is a very wealthy
+woman, there's no doubt of that, and some of the best people have taken
+her up.  I hear she has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine,
+which must have cost a fabulous sum.  Lord Argentine was telling me
+about it; he was there last Sunday evening.  He assures me he has never
+tasted such a wine, and Argentine, as you know, is an expert.  By the
+way, that reminds me, she must be an oddish sort of woman, this Mrs.
+Beaumont.  Argentine asked her how old the wine was, and what do you
+think she said?  'About a thousand years, I believe.' Lord Argentine
+thought she was chaffing him, you know, but when he laughed she said
+she was speaking quite seriously and offered to show him the jar.  Of
+course, he couldn't say anything more after that; but it seems rather
+antiquated for a beverage, doesn't it?  Why, here we are at my rooms.
+Come in, won't you?"
+
+"Thanks, I think I will.  I haven't seen the curiosity-shop for a
+while."
+
+It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every jar and bookcase
+and table, and every rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a thing
+apart, preserving each its own individuality.
+
+"Anything fresh lately?" said Villiers after a while.
+
+"No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs, didn't you? I thought so.
+I don't think I have come across anything for the last few weeks."
+
+Austin glanced around the room from cupboard to cupboard, from shelf to
+shelf, in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an odd
+chest, pleasantly and quaintly carved, which stood in a dark corner of
+the room.
+
+"Ah," he said, "I was forgetting, I have got something to show you."
+Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto volume, laid it on
+the table, and resumed the cigar he had put down.
+
+"Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?"
+
+"A little; I met him two or three times at the house of a friend of
+mine.  What has become of him?  I haven't heard his name mentioned for
+some time."
+
+"He's dead."
+
+"You don't say so!  Quite young, wasn't he?"
+
+"Yes; only thirty when he died."
+
+"What did he die of?"
+
+"I don't know.  He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughly
+good fellow.  He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he was
+one of the best talkers I have met.  He could even talk about painting,
+and that's more than can be said of most painters.  About eighteen
+months ago he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at my
+suggestion he went off on a sort of roving expedition, with no very
+definite end or aim about it.  I believe New York was to be his first
+port, but I never heard from him.  Three months ago I got this book,
+with a very civil letter from an English doctor practising at Buenos
+Ayres, stating that he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during his
+illness, and that the deceased had expressed an earnest wish that the
+enclosed packet should be sent to me after his death. That was all."
+
+"And haven't you written for further particulars?"
+
+"I have been thinking of doing so.  You would advise me to write to the
+doctor?"
+
+"Certainly.  And what about the book?"
+
+"It was sealed up when I got it.  I don't think the doctor had seen it."
+
+"It is something very rare?  Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?"
+
+"No, I think not, hardly a collector.  Now, what do you think of these
+Ainu jugs?"
+
+"They are peculiar, but I like them.  But aren't you going to show me
+poor Meyrick's legacy?"
+
+"Yes, yes, to be sure.  The fact is, it's rather a peculiar sort of
+thing, and I haven't shown it to any one.  I wouldn't say anything
+about it if I were you.  There it is."
+
+Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard.
+
+"It isn't a printed volume, then?" he said.
+
+"No.  It is a collection of drawings in black and white by my poor
+friend Meyrick."
+
+Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the second bore a
+brief inscription, which he read:
+
+
+Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus est; lucet
+nocturnis ignibus, chorus Aegipanum undique personatur: audiuntur et
+cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum per oram maritimam.
+
+
+On the third page was a design which made Villiers start and look up at
+Austin; he was gazing abstractedly out of the window.  Villiers turned
+page after page, absorbed, in spite of himself, in the frightful
+Walpurgis Night of evil, strange monstrous evil, that the dead artist
+had set forth in hard black and white.  The figures of Fauns and Satyrs
+and Aegipans danced before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, the
+dance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in green
+vineyards, by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a world
+before which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder. Villiers
+whirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough, but the picture
+on the last leaf caught his eye, as he almost closed the book.
+
+"Austin!"
+
+"Well, what is it?"
+
+"Do you know who that is?"
+
+It was a woman's face, alone on the white page.
+
+"Know who it is?  No, of course not."
+
+"I do."
+
+"Who is it?"
+
+"It is Mrs. Herbert."
+
+"Are you sure?"
+
+"I am perfectly sure of it.  Poor Meyrick!  He is one more chapter in
+her history."
+
+"But what do you think of the designs?"
+
+"They are frightful.  Lock the book up again, Austin. If I were you I
+would burn it; it must be a terrible companion even though it be in a
+chest."
+
+"Yes, they are singular drawings.  But I wonder what connection there
+could be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between her and
+these designs?"
+
+"Ah, who can say?  It is possible that the matter may end here, and we
+shall never know, but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs.
+Herbert, is only the beginning.  She will come back to London, Austin;
+depend on it, she will come back, and we shall hear more about her
+then.  I doubt it will be very pleasant news."
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE SUICIDES
+
+Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society.  At twenty he
+had been a poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family,
+but forced to earn a livelihood as best he could, and the most
+speculative of money-lenders would not have entrusted him with fifty
+pounds on the chance of his ever changing his name for a title, and his
+poverty for a great fortune.  His father had been near enough to the
+fountain of good things to secure one of the family livings, but the
+son, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so much
+as this, and moreover felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate.
+Thus he fronted the world with no better armour than the bachelor's
+gown and the wits of a younger son's grandson, with which equipment he
+contrived in some way to make a very tolerable fight of it.  At
+twenty-five Mr. Charles Aubernon saw himself still a man of struggles
+and of warfare with the world, but out of the seven who stood before
+him and the high places of his family three only remained.  These
+three, however, were "good lives," but yet not proof against the Zulu
+assegais and typhoid fever, and so one morning Aubernon woke up and
+found himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had faced the
+difficulties of existence, and had conquered.  The situation amused him
+immensely, and he resolved that riches should be as pleasant to him as
+poverty had always been.  Argentine, after some little consideration,
+came to the conclusion that dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhaps
+the most amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinners
+became famous in London, and an invitation to his table a thing
+covetously desired.  After ten years of lordship and dinners Argentine
+still declined to be jaded, still persisted in enjoying life, and by a
+kind of infection had become recognized as the cause of joy in others,
+in short, as the best of company.  His sudden and tragical death
+therefore caused a wide and deep sensation. People could scarcely
+believe it, even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and the
+cry of "Mysterious Death of a Nobleman" came ringing up from the
+street.  But there stood the brief paragraph: "Lord Argentine was found
+dead this morning by his valet under distressing circumstances.  It is
+stated that there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide,
+though no motive can be assigned for the act.  The deceased nobleman
+was widely known in society, and much liked for his genial manner and
+sumptuous hospitality.  He is succeeded by," etc., etc.
+
+By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remained
+a mystery.  The chief witness at the inquest was the deceased's valet,
+who said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined with
+a lady of good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaper
+reports.  At about eleven o'clock Lord Argentine had returned, and
+informed his man that he should not require his services till the next
+morning.  A little later the valet had occasion to cross the hall and
+was somewhat astonished to see his master quietly letting himself out
+at the front door.  He had taken off his evening clothes, and was
+dressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low brown hat.
+The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him,
+and though his master rarely kept late hours, thought little of the
+occurrence till the next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom door
+at a quarter to nine as usual.  He received no answer, and, after
+knocking two or three times, entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine's
+body leaning forward at an angle from the bottom of the bed.  He found
+that his master had tied a cord securely to one of the short bed-posts,
+and, after making a running noose and slipping it round his neck, the
+unfortunate man must have resolutely fallen forward, to die by slow
+strangulation.  He was dressed in the light suit in which the valet had
+seen him go out, and the doctor who was summoned pronounced that life
+had been extinct for more than four hours.  All papers, letters, and so
+forth seemed in perfect order, and nothing was discovered which pointed
+in the most remote way to any scandal either great or small.  Here the
+evidence ended; nothing more could be discovered.  Several persons had
+been present at the dinner-party at which Lord Argentine had assisted,
+and to all these he seemed in his usual genial spirits.  The valet,
+indeed, said he thought his master appeared a little excited when he
+came home, but confessed that the alteration in his manner was very
+slight, hardly noticeable, indeed.  It seemed hopeless to seek for any
+clue, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine had been suddenly attacked
+by acute suicidal mania was generally accepted.
+
+It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks, three more
+gentlemen, one of them a nobleman, and the two others men of good
+position and ample means, perished miserably in the almost precisely
+the same manner.  Lord Swanleigh was found one morning in his
+dressing-room, hanging from a peg affixed to the wall, and Mr.
+Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries had chosen to die as Lord Argentine.
+There was no explanation in either case; a few bald facts; a living man
+in the evening, and a body with a black swollen face in the morning.
+The police had been forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest or
+to explain the sordid murders of Whitechapel; but before the horrible
+suicides of Piccadilly and Mayfair they were dumbfoundered, for not
+even the mere ferocity which did duty as an explanation of the crimes
+of the East End, could be of service in the West. Each of these men who
+had resolved to die a tortured shameful death was rich, prosperous, and
+to all appearances in love with the world, and not the acutest research
+should ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in either case.  There
+was a horror in the air, and men looked at one another's faces when
+they met, each wondering whether the other was to be the victim of the
+fifth nameless tragedy. Journalists sought in vain for their scrapbooks
+for materials whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morning
+paper was unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knew
+when or where the next blow would light.
+
+A short while after the last of these terrible events, Austin came to
+see Mr. Villiers.  He was curious to know whether Villiers had
+succeeded in discovering any fresh traces of Mrs. Herbert, either
+through Clarke or by other sources, and he asked the question soon
+after he had sat down.
+
+"No," said Villiers, "I wrote to Clarke, but he remains obdurate, and I
+have tried other channels, but without any result.  I can't find out
+what became of Helen Vaughan after she left Paul Street, but I think
+she must have gone abroad.  But to tell the truth, Austin, I haven't
+paid much attention to the matter for the last few weeks; I knew poor
+Herries intimately, and his terrible death has been a great shock to
+me, a great shock."
+
+"I can well believe it," answered Austin gravely, "you know Argentine
+was a friend of mine.  If I remember rightly, we were speaking of him
+that day you came to my rooms."
+
+"Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley Street, Mrs.
+Beaumont's house.  You said something about Argentine's dining there."
+
+"Quite so.  Of course you know it was there Argentine dined the night
+before--before his death."
+
+"No, I had not heard that."
+
+"Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont.
+Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was in a
+terrible state for sometime after."
+
+A curious look came over Villiers' face; he seemed undecided whether to
+speak or not.  Austin began again.
+
+"I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I read the
+account of Argentine's death.  I didn't understand it at the time, and
+I don't now.  I knew him well, and it completely passes my
+understanding for what possible cause he--or any of the others for the
+matter of that--could have resolved in cold blood to die in such an
+awful manner.  You know how men babble away each other's characters in
+London, you may be sure any buried scandal or hidden skeleton would
+have been brought to light in such a case as this; but nothing of the
+sort has taken place.  As for the theory of mania, that is very well,
+of course, for the coroner's jury, but everybody knows that it's all
+nonsense.  Suicidal mania is not small-pox."
+
+Austin relapsed into gloomy silence.  Villiers sat silent, also,
+watching his friend.  The expression of indecision still fleeted across
+his face; he seemed as if weighing his thoughts in the balance, and the
+considerations he was resolving left him still silent.  Austin tried to
+shake off the remembrance of tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as the
+labyrinth of Daedalus, and began to talk in an indifferent voice of the
+more pleasant incidents and adventures of the season.
+
+"That Mrs. Beaumont," he said, "of whom we were speaking, is a great
+success; she has taken London almost by storm.  I met her the other
+night at Fulham's; she is really a remarkable woman."
+
+"You have met Mrs. Beaumont?"
+
+"Yes; she had quite a court around her.  She would be called very
+handsome, I suppose, and yet there is something about her face which I
+didn't like.  The features are exquisite, but the expression is
+strange.  And all the time I was looking at her, and afterwards, when I
+was going home, I had a curious feeling that very expression was in
+some way or another familiar to me."
+
+"You must have seen her in the Row."
+
+"No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it is that which
+makes it puzzling.  And to the best of my belief I have never seen
+anyone like her; what I felt was a kind of dim far-off memory, vague
+but persistent.  The only sensation I can compare it to, is that odd
+feeling one sometimes has in a dream, when fantastic cities and
+wondrous lands and phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed."
+
+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!"
+
+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 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!"
+
+"Who is she?  In what way do you mean?"
+
+"I mean that you and I know her better under another name."
+
+"What name is that?"
+
+"Herbert."
+
+"Herbert!"  Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment.
+
+"Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures
+unknown to me.  You had reason to recognize the expression of her face;
+when you go home look at the face in Meyrick's book of horrors, and you
+will know the sources of your recollection."
+
+"And you have proof of this?"
+
+"Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say
+Mrs. Herbert?"
+
+"Where did you see her?"
+
+"Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in
+Ashley Street, Piccadilly.  I saw her entering a house in one of the
+meanest and most disreputable streets in Soho.  In fact, I had made an
+appointment, though not with her, and she was precise to both time and
+place."
+
+"All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible.  You
+must remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary
+adventure of London society, talking and laughing, and sipping her
+coffee in a commonplace drawing-room with commonplace people.  But you
+know what you are saying."
+
+"I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises or fancies.  It
+was with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs.
+Beaumont in the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been
+the issue."
+
+"You must have been in strange places, Villiers."
+
+"Yes, I have been in very strange places.  It would have been useless,
+you know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a
+short sketch of her previous history.  No; assuming, as I had to
+assume, that her record was not of the cleanest, it would be pretty
+certain that at some previous time she must have moved in circles not
+quite so refined as her present ones.  If you see mud at the top of a
+stream, you may be sure that it was once at the bottom.  I went to the
+bottom.  I have always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my
+amusement, and I found my knowledge of that locality and its
+inhabitants very useful.  It is, perhaps, needless to say that my
+friends had never heard the name of Beaumont, and as I had never seen
+the lady, and was quite unable to describe her, I had to set to work in
+an indirect way.  The people there know me; I have been able to do some
+of them a service now and again, so they made no difficulty about
+giving their information; they were aware I had no communication direct
+or indirect with Scotland Yard.  I had to cast out a good many lines,
+though, before I got what I wanted, and when I landed the fish I did
+not for a moment suppose it was my fish.  But I listened to what I was
+told out of a constitutional liking for useless information, and I
+found myself in possession of a very curious story, though, as I
+imagined, not 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 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, as their bodies
+blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot
+be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a
+symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a
+foolish tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the
+terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under
+human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form.  Oh,
+Austin, how can it be?  How is it that the very sunlight does not turn
+to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath
+such a burden?"
+
+Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads of sweat stood
+out on his forehead.  Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers saw
+him make a sign upon his breast.
+
+"I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter such a house as
+that?  You would never pass out alive."
+
+"Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive--I, and Clarke with me."
+
+"What do you mean?  You cannot, you would not dare..."
+
+"Wait a moment.  The air was very pleasant and fresh this morning;
+there was a breeze blowing, even through this dull street, and I
+thought I would take a walk.  Piccadilly stretched before me a clear,
+bright vista, and the sun flashed on the carriages and on the quivering
+leaves in the park.  It was a joyous morning, and men and women looked
+at the sky and smiled as they went about their work or their pleasure,
+and the wind blew as blithely as upon the meadows and the scented
+gorse.  But somehow or other I got out of the bustle and the gaiety,
+and found myself walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where there
+seemed to be no sunshine and no air, and where the few foot-passengers
+loitered as they walked, and hung indecisively about corners and
+archways.  I walked along, hardly knowing where I was going or what I
+did there, but feeling impelled, as one sometimes is, to explore still
+further, with a vague idea of reaching some unknown goal.  Thus I
+forged up the street, noting the small traffic of the milk-shop, and
+wondering at the incongruous medley of penny pipes, black tobacco,
+sweets, newspapers, and comic songs which here and there jostled one
+another in the short compass of a single window.  I think it was a cold
+shudder that suddenly passed through me that first told me that I had
+found what I wanted.  I looked up from the pavement and stopped before
+a dusty shop, above which the lettering had faded, where the red bricks
+of two hundred years ago had grimed to black; where the windows had
+gathered to themselves the dust of winters innumerable.  I saw what I
+required; but I think it was five minutes before I had steadied myself
+and could walk in and ask for it in a cool voice and with a calm face.
+I think there must even then have been a tremor in my words, for the
+old man who came out of the back parlour, and fumbled slowly amongst
+his goods, looked oddly at me as he tied the parcel.  I paid what he
+asked, and stood leaning by the counter, with a strange reluctance to
+take up my goods and go. I asked about the business, and learnt that
+trade was bad and the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was
+not what it was before traffic had been diverted, but that was done
+forty years ago, 'just before my father died,' he said.  I got away at
+last, and walked along sharply; it was a dismal street indeed, and I
+was glad to return to the bustle and the noise.  Would you like to see
+my purchase?"
+
+Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he still looked
+white and sick.  Villiers pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and
+showed Austin a long coil of cord, hard and new; and at one end was a
+running noose.
+
+"It is the best hempen cord," said Villiers, "just as it used to be
+made for the old trade, the man told me.  Not an inch of jute from end
+to end."
+
+Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, growing whiter as he
+looked.
+
+"You would not do it," he murmured at last. "You would not have blood
+on your hands.  My God!" he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence, "you
+cannot mean this, Villiers, that you will make yourself a hangman?"
+
+"No.  I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan alone with this
+cord in a locked room for fifteen minutes.  If when we go in it is not
+done, I shall call the nearest policeman.  That is all."
+
+"I must go now.  I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this.
+Good-night."
+
+"Good-night, Austin."
+
+The door shut, but in a moment it was open again, and Austin stood,
+white and ghastly, in the entrance.
+
+"I was forgetting," he said, "that I too have something to tell.  I
+have received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres.  He says that
+he attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death."
+
+"And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life?  It was not
+fever?"
+
+"No, it was not fever.  According to the doctor, it was an utter
+collapse of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock.
+But he states that the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was
+consequently at some disadvantage in treating the case."
+
+"Is there anything more?"
+
+"Yes.  Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: 'I think this is all the
+information I can give you about your poor friend.  He had not been
+long in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of
+a person who did not bear the best of characters, and has since left--a
+Mrs. Vaughan.'"
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE FRAGMENTS
+
+[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr. Robert Matheson,
+of Ashley Street, Piccadilly, who died suddenly, of apoplectic seizure,
+at the beginning of 1892, a leaf of manuscript paper was found, covered
+with pencil jottings.  These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated, and
+had evidently been made in great haste.  The MS. was only deciphered
+with difficulty, and some words have up to the present time evaded all
+the efforts of the expert employed. The date, "XXV Jul. 1888," is
+written on the right-hand corner of the MS.  The following is a
+translation of Dr. Matheson's manuscript.]
+
+"Whether science would benefit by these brief notes if they could be
+published, I do not know, but rather doubt.  But certainly I shall
+never take the responsibility of publishing or divulging one word of
+what is here written, not only on account of my oath given freely to
+those two persons who were present, but also because the details are
+too abominable.  It is probably that, upon mature consideration, and
+after weighting the good and evil, I shall one day destroy this paper,
+or at least leave it under seal to my friend D., trusting in his
+discretion, to use it or to burn it, as he may think fit.
+
+"As was befitting, I did all that my knowledge suggested to make sure
+that I was suffering under no delusion. At first astounded, I could
+hardly think, but in a minute's time I was sure that my pulse was
+steady and regular, and that I was in my real and true senses.  I then
+fixed my eyes quietly on what was before me.
+
+"Though horror and revolting nausea rose up within me, and an odour of
+corruption choked my breath, I remained firm. I was then privileged or
+accursed, I dare not say which, to see that which was on the bed, lying
+there black like ink, transformed before my eyes.  The skin, and the
+flesh, and the muscles, and the bones, and the firm structure of the
+human body that I had thought to be unchangeable, and permanent as
+adamant, began to melt and dissolve.
+
+"I know that the body may be separated into its elements by external
+agencies, but I should have refused to believe what I saw.  For here
+there was some internal force, of which I knew nothing, that caused
+dissolution and change.
+
+"Here too was all the work by which man had been made repeated before
+my eyes.  I saw the form waver from sex to sex, dividing itself from
+itself, and then again reunited.  Then I saw the body descend to the
+beasts whence it ascended, and that which was on the heights go down to
+the depths, even to the abyss of all being.  The principle of life,
+which makes organism, always remained, while the outward form changed.
+
+"The light within the room had turned to blackness, not the darkness of
+night, in which objects are seen dimly, for I could see clearly and
+without difficulty.  But it was the negation of light; objects were
+presented to my eyes, if I may say so, without any medium, in such a
+manner that if there had been a prism in the room I should have seen no
+colours represented in it.
+
+"I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance as jelly.  Then
+the ladder was ascended again... [here the MS. is illegible] ...for one
+instance I saw a Form, shaped in dimness before me, which I will not
+farther describe.  But the symbol of this form may be seen in ancient
+sculptures, and in paintings which survived beneath the lava, too foul
+to be spoken of... as a horrible and unspeakable shape, neither man nor
+beast, was changed into human form, there came finally death.
+
+"I who saw all this, not without great horror and loathing of soul,
+here write my name, declaring all that I have set on this paper to be
+true.
+
+"ROBERT MATHESON, Med. Dr."
+
+      *      *      *      *      *
+
+...Such, Raymond, is the story of what I know and what I have seen.
+The burden of it was too heavy for me to bear alone, and yet I could
+tell it to none but you.  Villiers, who was with me at the last, knows
+nothing of that awful secret of the wood, of how what we both saw die,
+lay upon the smooth, sweet turf amidst the summer flowers, half in sun
+and half in shadow, and holding the girl Rachel's hand, called and
+summoned those companions, and shaped in solid form, upon the earth we
+tread upon, the horror which we can but hint at, which we can only name
+under a figure.  I would not tell Villiers of this, nor of that
+resemblance, which struck me as with a blow upon my heart, when I saw
+the portrait, which filled the cup of terror at the end.  What this can
+mean I dare not guess.  I know that what I saw perish was not Mary, and
+yet in the last agony Mary's eyes looked into mine.  Whether there can
+be any one who can show the last link in this chain of awful mystery, I
+do not know, but if there be any one who can do this, you, Raymond, are
+the man.  And if you know the secret, it rests with you to tell it or
+not, as you please.
+
+I am writing this letter to you immediately on my getting back to town.
+I have been in the country for the last few days; perhaps you may be
+able to guess in which part.  While the horror and wonder of London was
+at its height--for "Mrs. Beaumont," as I have told you, was well known
+in society--I wrote to my friend Dr. Phillips, giving some brief
+outline, or rather hint, of what happened, and asking him to tell me
+the name of the village where the events he had related to me occurred.
+He gave me the name, as he said with the less hesitation, because
+Rachel's father and mother were dead, and the rest of the family had
+gone to a relative in the State of Washington six months before.  The
+parents, he said, had undoubtedly died of grief and horror caused by
+the terrible death of their daughter, and by what had gone before that
+death. On the evening of the day which I received Phillips' letter I
+was at Caermaen, and standing beneath the mouldering Roman walls, white
+with the winters of seventeen hundred years, I looked over the meadow
+where once had stood the older temple of the "God of the Deeps," and
+saw a house gleaming in the sunlight.  It was the house where Helen had
+lived.  I stayed at Caermaen for several days.  The people of the
+place, I found, knew little and had guessed less.  Those whom I spoke
+to on the matter seemed surprised that an antiquarian (as I professed
+myself to be) should trouble about a village tragedy, of which they
+gave a very commonplace version, and, as you may imagine, I told
+nothing of what I knew.  Most of my time was spent in the great wood
+that rises just above the village and climbs the hillside, and goes
+down to the river in the valley; such another long lovely valley,
+Raymond, as that on which we looked one summer night, walking to and
+fro before your house.  For many an hour I strayed through the maze of
+the forest, turning now to right and now to left, pacing slowly down
+long alleys of undergrowth, shadowy and chill, even under the midday
+sun, and halting beneath great oaks; lying on the short turf of a
+clearing where the faint sweet scent of wild roses came to me on the
+wind and mixed with the heavy perfume of the elder, whose mingled odour
+is like the odour of the room of the dead, a vapour of incense and
+corruption.  I stood at the edges of the wood, gazing at all the pomp
+and procession of the foxgloves towering amidst the bracken and shining
+red in the broad sunshine, and beyond them into deep thickets of close
+undergrowth where springs boil up from the rock and nourish the
+water-weeds, dank and evil.  But in all my wanderings I avoided one
+part of the wood; it was not till yesterday that I climbed to the
+summit of the hill, and stood upon the ancient Roman road that threads
+the highest ridge of the wood.  Here they had walked, Helen and Rachel,
+along this quiet causeway, upon the pavement of green turf, shut in on
+either side by high banks of red earth, and tall hedges of shining
+beech, and here I followed in their steps, looking out, now and again,
+through partings in the boughs, and seeing on one side the sweep of the
+wood stretching far to right and left, and sinking into the broad
+level, and beyond, the yellow sea, and the land over the sea.  On the
+other side was the valley and the river and hill following hill as wave
+on wave, and wood and meadow, and cornfield, and white houses gleaming,
+and a great wall of mountain, and far blue peaks in the north.  And so
+at last I came to the place.  The track went up a gentle slope, and
+widened out into an open space with a wall of thick undergrowth around
+it, and then, narrowing again, passed on into the distance and the
+faint blue mist of summer heat.  And into this pleasant summer glade
+Rachel passed a girl, and left it, who shall say what?  I did not stay
+long there.
+
+In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum, containing for the
+most part Roman remains which have been found in the neighbourhood at
+various times.  On the day after my arrival in Caermaen I walked over
+to the town in question, and took the opportunity of inspecting the
+museum.  After I had seen most of the sculptured stones, the coffins,
+rings, coins, and fragments of tessellated pavement which the place
+contains, I was shown a small square pillar of white stone, which had
+been recently discovered in the wood of which I have been speaking,
+and, as I found on inquiry, in that open space where the Roman road
+broadens out.  On one side of the pillar was an inscription, of which I
+took a note.  Some of the letters have been defaced, but I do not think
+there can be any doubt as to those which I supply.  The inscription is
+as follows:
+
+        DEVOMNODENT--i--
+        FLA--v--IVSSENILISPOSSV--it--
+        PROPTERNVP--tias--
+        --qua--SVIDITSVBVMB--ra--
+
+"To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or Abyss) Flavius
+Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the marriage which he saw
+beneath the shade."
+
+The custodian of the museum informed me that local antiquaries were
+much puzzled, not by the inscription, or by any difficulty in
+translating it, but as to the circumstance or rite to which allusion is
+made.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *
+
+...And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me about Helen Vaughan,
+whom you say you saw die under circumstances of the utmost and almost
+incredible horror.  I was interested in your account, but a good deal,
+nay all, of what you told me I knew already.  I can understand the
+strange likeness you remarked in both the portrait and in the actual
+face; you have seen Helen's mother.  You remember that still summer
+night so many years ago, when I talked to you of the world beyond the
+shadows, and of the god Pan.  You remember Mary.  She was the mother of
+Helen Vaughan, who was born nine months after that night.
+
+Mary never recovered her reason.  She lay, as you saw her, all the
+while upon her bed, and a few days after the child was born she died.
+I fancy that just at the last she knew me; I was standing by the bed,
+and the old look came into her eyes for a second, and then she
+shuddered and groaned and died.  It was an ill work I did that night
+when you were present; I broke open the door of the house of life,
+without knowing or caring what might pass forth or enter in.  I
+recollect your telling me at the time, sharply enough, and rightly too,
+in one sense, that I had ruined the reason of a human being by a
+foolish experiment, based on an absurd theory.  You did well to blame
+me, but my theory was not all absurdity.  What I said Mary would see
+she saw, but I forgot that no human eyes can look on such a sight with
+impunity.  And I forgot, as I have just said, that when the house of
+life is thus thrown open, there may enter in that for which we have no
+name, and human flesh may become the veil of a horror one dare not
+express.  I played with energies which I did not understand, you have
+seen the ending of it.  Helen Vaughan did well to bind the cord about
+her neck and die, though the death was horrible.  The blackened face,
+the hideous form upon the bed, changing and melting before your eyes
+from woman to man, from man to beast, and from beast to worse than
+beast, all the strange horror that you witness, surprises me but
+little. What you say the doctor whom you sent for saw and shuddered at
+I noticed long ago; I knew what I had done the moment the child was
+born, and when it was scarcely five years old I surprised it, not once
+or twice but several times with a playmate, you may guess of what kind.
+It was for me a constant, an incarnate horror, and after a few years I
+felt I could bear it no more, and I sent Helen Vaughan away.  You know
+now what frightened the boy in the wood.  The rest of the strange
+story, and all else that you tell me, as discovered by your friend, I
+have contrived to learn from time to time, almost to the last chapter.
+And now Helen is with her companions...
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GOD PAN ***
+
+***** This file should be named 389.txt or 389.zip *****
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+        https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/389/
+
+Produced by Brandi Weed.  HTML version by Al Haines.
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.
+
+
+
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
+https://gutenberg.org/license).
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
+or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
+https://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
+809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
+business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
+information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
+page at https://pglaf.org
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit https://pglaf.org
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
+donations.  To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+     https://www.gutenberg.org
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
diff --git a/old/389.zip b/old/389.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b6c8a59
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/389.zip
diff --git a/old/ggpan10.txt b/old/ggpan10.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..20f5966
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/ggpan10.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,2752 @@
+Project Gutenberg's Etext of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
+the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!
+
+Please take a look at the important information in this header.
+We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
+electronic path open for the next readers.  Do not remove this.
+
+
+**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
+
+**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
+
+*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
+
+Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
+further information is included below.  We need your donations.
+
+
+The Great God Pan
+
+by Arthur Machen
+
+January, 1996 [Etext #389]
+[Date last updated: December 6, 2004]
+
+
+Project Gutenberg's Etext of The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen
+*****This file should be named ggpan10.txt or ggpan10.zip******
+
+Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, ggpan11.txt.
+VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, ggpan10a.txt.
+
+This book prepared by:
+Brandi Weed           
+brandi@primenet.com   
+
+
+We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
+of the official release dates, for time for better editing.
+
+Please note:  neither this list nor its contents are final till
+midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
+The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
+Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
+preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
+and editing by those who wish to do so.  To be sure you have an
+up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
+in the first week of the next month.  Since our ftp program has
+a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
+look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
+new copy has at least one byte more or less.
+
+
+Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
+
+We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
+fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take
+to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
+searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.  This
+projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If our value
+per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $4
+million dollars per hour this year as we release some eight text
+files per month:  thus upping our productivity from $2 million.
+
+The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
+Files by the December 31, 2001.  [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]
+This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
+which is 10% of the expected number of computer users by the end
+of the year 2001.
+
+We need your donations more than ever!
+
+All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/IBC", and are
+tax deductible to the extent allowable by law ("IBC" is Illinois
+Benedictine College).  (Subscriptions to our paper newsletter go
+to IBC, too)
+
+For these and other matters, please mail to:
+
+Project Gutenberg
+P. O. Box  2782
+Champaign, IL 61825
+
+When all other email fails try our Michael S. Hart, Executive
+Director:
+hart@vmd.cso.uiuc.edu (internet)   hart@uiucvmd   (bitnet)
+
+We would prefer to send you this information by email
+(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).
+
+******
+If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please
+FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:
+[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]
+
+ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu
+login:  anonymous
+password:  your@login
+cd etext/etext90 through /etext96
+or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information]
+dir [to see files]
+get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
+GET INDEX?00.GUT
+for a list of books
+and
+GET NEW GUT for general information
+and
+MGET GUT* for newsletters.
+
+**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
+(Three Pages)
+
+
+***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
+Why is this "Small Print!" statement here?  You know: lawyers.
+They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
+your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
+someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
+fault.  So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
+disclaims most of our liability to you.  It also tells you how
+you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
+
+*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
+By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
+etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
+this "Small Print!" statement.  If you do not, you can receive
+a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
+sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
+you got it from.  If you received this etext on a physical
+medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
+
+ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
+This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
+tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
+Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
+Illinois Benedictine College (the "Project").  Among other
+things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
+on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
+distribute it in the United States without permission and
+without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules, set forth
+below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
+under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
+
+To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
+efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
+works.  Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
+medium they may be on may contain "Defects".  Among other
+things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
+disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
+codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
+
+LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
+But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
+[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
+etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
+legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
+UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
+INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
+OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
+POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
+
+If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
+receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
+you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
+time to the person you received it from.  If you received it
+on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
+such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
+copy.  If you received it electronically, such person may
+choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
+receive it electronically.
+
+THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS".  NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
+TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
+PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
+
+Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
+the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
+above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
+may have other legal rights.
+
+INDEMNITY
+You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
+officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
+and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
+indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
+[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
+or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.
+
+DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
+You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
+disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
+"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
+or:
+
+[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
+     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
+     etext or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
+     if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
+     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
+     including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
+     cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
+     *EITHER*:
+
+     [*]  The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
+          does *not* contain characters other than those
+          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
+          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
+          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
+          author, and additional characters may be used to
+          indicate hypertext links; OR
+
+     [*]  The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
+          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
+          form by the program that displays the etext (as is
+          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
+          OR
+
+     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
+          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
+          etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
+          or other equivalent proprietary form).
+
+[2]  Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
+     "Small Print!" statement.
+
+[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
+     net profits you derive calculated using the method you
+     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
+     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
+     payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois
+     Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each
+     date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
+     your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.
+
+WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
+The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
+scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
+free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
+you can think of.  Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
+Association / Illinois Benedictine College".
+
+*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
+
+
+
+
+
+This book prepared by:
+Brandi Weed
+brandi@primenet.com
+
+
+
+
+
+THE GREAT GOD PAN
+
+by
+
+ARTHUR MACHEN
+
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+THE EXPERIMENT
+
+
+
+"I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed.  I was
+not sure you could spare the time."
+
+"I was able to make arrangements for a few days; things
+are not very lively just now.  But have you no misgivings,
+Raymond?  Is it absolutely safe?"
+
+The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of
+Dr. Raymond's house.  The sun still hung above the western
+mountain-line, but it shone with a dull red glow that cast no
+shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet breath came from the
+great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals, the
+soft murmuring call of the wild doves.  Below, in the long
+lovely valley, the river wound in and out between the lonely
+hills, and, as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a
+faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills.  Dr.
+Raymond turned sharply to his friend.
+
+"Safe?  Of course it is.  In itself the operation is a
+perfectly simple one; any surgeon could do it."
+
+"And there is no danger at any other stage?"
+
+"None; absolutely no physical danger whatsoever, I give
+you my word.  You are always timid, Clarke, always; but you know
+my history.  I have devoted myself to transcendental medicine
+for the last twenty years.  I have heard myself called quack and
+charlatan and impostor, but all the while I knew I was on the
+right path.  Five years ago I reached the goal, and since then
+every day has been a preparation for what we shall do tonight."
+
+"I should like to believe it is all true."  Clarke knit
+his brows, and looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond.  "Are you
+perfectly sure, Raymond, that your theory is not a
+phantasmagoria--a splendid vision, certainly, but a mere
+vision after all?"
+
+Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and turned sharply.
+He was a middle-aged man, gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow
+complexion, but as he answered Clarke and faced him, there was a
+flush on his cheek.
+
+"Look about you, Clarke.  You see the mountain, and
+hill following after hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods
+and orchard, the fields of ripe corn, and the meadows reaching
+to the reed-beds by the river.  You see me standing here beside
+you, and hear my voice; but I tell you that all these things--
+yes, from that star that has just shone out in the sky to the
+solid ground beneath our feet--I say that all these are but
+dreams and shadows; the shadows that hide the real world from
+our eyes.  There is a real world, but it is beyond this glamour
+and this vision, beyond these 'chases in Arras, dreams in a
+career,' beyond them all as beyond a veil.  I do not know whether
+any human being has ever lifted that veil; but I do know,
+Clarke, that you and I shall see it lifted this very night from
+before another's eyes.  You may think this all strange nonsense;
+it may be strange, but it is true, and the ancients knew what
+lifting the veil means.  They called it seeing the god Pan."
+
+Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering over the
+river was chilly.
+
+"It is wonderful indeed," he said.  "We are standing on
+the brink of a strange world, Raymond, if what you say
+is true.  I suppose the knife is absolutely necessary?"
+
+"Yes; a slight lesion in the grey matter, that is all;
+a trifling rearrangement of certain cells, a microscopical
+alteration that would escape the attention of ninety-nine brain
+specialists out of a hundred.  I don't want to bother you with
+'shop,' Clarke; I might give you a mass of technical detail which
+would sound very imposing, and would leave you as enlightened as
+you are now.  But I suppose you have read, casually, in
+out-of-the-way corners of your paper, that immense strides have
+been made recently in the physiology of the brain.  I saw a
+paragraph the other day about Digby's theory, and Browne Faber's
+discoveries.  Theories and discoveries!  Where they are standing
+now, I stood fifteen years ago, and I need not tell you that I
+have not been standing still for the last fifteen years.  It
+will be enough if I say that five years ago I made the discovery
+that I alluded to when I said that ten years ago I reached the
+goal.  After years of labour, after years of toiling and groping
+in the dark, after days and nights of disappointments and
+sometimes of despair, in which I used now and then to tremble
+and grow cold with the thought that perhaps there were others
+seeking for what I sought, at last, after so long, a pang of
+sudden joy thrilled my soul, and I knew the long journey was at
+an end.  By what seemed then and still seems a chance, the
+suggestion of a moment's idle thought followed up upon familiar
+lines and paths that I had tracked a hundred times already, the
+great truth burst upon me, and I saw, mapped out in lines of
+sight, a whole world, a sphere unknown; continents and islands,
+and great oceans in which no ship has sailed (to my belief)
+since a Man first lifted up his eyes and beheld the sun, and the
+stars of heaven, and the quiet earth beneath.  You will think
+this all high-flown language, Clarke, but it is hard to be
+literal.  And yet; I do not know whether what I am hinting at
+cannot be set forth in plain and lonely terms.  For instance,
+this world of ours is pretty well girded now with the telegraph
+wires and cables; thought, with something less than the speed
+of thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset, from north to south,
+across the floods and the desert places.  Suppose that an
+electrician of today were suddenly to perceive that he and his
+friends have merely been playing with pebbles and mistaking them
+for the foundations of the world; suppose that such a man saw
+uttermost space lie open before the current, and words of men
+flash forth to the sun and beyond the sun into the systems
+beyond, and the voice of articulate-speaking men echo in the
+waste void that bounds our thought.  As analogies go, that is a
+pretty good analogy of what I have done; you can understand now
+a little of what I felt as I stood here one evening; it was a
+summer evening, and the valley looked much as it does now; I
+stood here, and saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable
+gulf that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of matter
+and the world of spirit; I saw the great empty deep stretch dim
+before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the
+earth to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned.  You may
+look in Browne Faber's book, if you like, and you will find
+that to the present day men of science are unable to account for
+the presence, or to specify the functions of a certain group of
+nerve-cells in the brain.  That group is, as it were, land to
+let, a mere waste place for fanciful theories.  I am not in the
+position of Browne Faber and the specialists, I am perfectly
+instructed as to the possible functions of those nerve-centers
+in the scheme of things.  With a touch I can bring them into
+play, with a touch, I say, I can set free the current, with a
+touch I can complete the communication between this world of
+sense and--we shall be able to finish the sentence later on.
+Yes, the knife is necessary; but think what that knife will
+effect.  It will level utterly the solid wall of sense, and
+probably, for the first time since man was made, a spirit will
+gaze on a spirit-world.  Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!"
+
+"But you remember what you wrote to me?  I thought it
+would be requisite that she--"
+
+He whispered the rest into the doctor's ear.
+
+"Not at all, not at all.  That is nonsense.  I assure
+you.  Indeed, it is better as it is; I am quite certain of
+that."
+
+"Consider the matter well, Raymond.  It's a great
+responsibility.  Something might go wrong; you would be a
+miserable man for the rest of your days."
+
+"No, I think not, even if the worst happened.  As you
+know, I rescued Mary from the gutter, and from almost certain
+starvation, when she was a child; I think her life is mine, to
+use as I see fit.  Come, it's getting late; we had better go
+in."
+
+Dr. Raymond led the way into the house, through the
+hall, and down a long dark passage.  He took a key from his
+pocket and opened a heavy door, and motioned Clarke into his
+laboratory.  It had once been a billiard-room, and was lighted
+by a glass dome in the centre of the ceiling, whence there still
+shone a sad grey light on the figure of the doctor as he lit a
+lamp with a heavy shade and placed it on a table in the middle
+of the room.
+
+Clarke looked about him.  Scarcely a foot of wall
+remained bare; there were shelves all around laden with bottles
+and phials of all shapes and colours, and at one end stood a
+little Chippendale book-case.  Raymond pointed to this.
+
+"You see that parchment Oswald Crollius?  He was one of
+the first to show me the way, though I don't think he ever found
+it himself.  That is a strange saying of his: 'In every grain of
+wheat there lies hidden the soul of a star.'"
+
+There was not much furniture in the laboratory.  The
+table in the centre, a stone slab with a drain in one corner,
+the two armchairs on which Raymond and Clarke were sitting; that
+was all, except an odd-looking chair at the furthest end of the
+room.  Clarke looked at it, and raised his eyebrows.
+
+"Yes, that is the chair," said Raymond.  "We may as
+well place it in position."  He got up and wheeled the chair to
+the light, and began raising and lowering it, letting down the
+seat, setting the back at various angles, and adjusting the
+foot-rest.  It looked comfortable enough, and Clarke passed his
+hand over the soft green velvet, as the doctor manipulated the
+levers.
+
+"Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfortable.  I have
+a couple hours' work before me; I was obliged to leave certain
+matters to the last."
+
+Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him
+drearily as he bent over a row of phials and lit the flame under
+the crucible.  The doctor had a small hand-lamp, shaded as the
+larger one, on a ledge above his apparatus, and Clarke, who sat
+in the shadows, looked down at the great shadowy room, wondering
+at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and undefined darkness
+contrasting with one another.  Soon he became conscious of an
+odd odour, at first the merest suggestion of odour, in the room,
+and as it grew more decided he felt surprised that he was not
+reminded of the chemist's shop or the surgery.  Clarke found
+himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and half
+conscious, he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that
+he had spent roaming through the woods and meadows near his own
+home.  It was a burning day at the beginning of August, the heat
+had dimmed the outlines of all things and all distances with a
+faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer spoke of an
+abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost tropical.
+Strangely that wonderful hot day of the fifties rose up again in
+Clarke's imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading
+sunlight seemed to blot out the shadows and the lights of the
+laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in gusts
+about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and heard
+the myriad murmur of the summer.
+
+"I hope the smell doesn't annoy you, Clarke; there's
+nothing unwholesome about it.  It may make you a bit sleepy,
+that's all."
+
+Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that
+Raymond was speaking to him, but for the life of him he could
+not rouse himself from his lethargy.  He could only think of the
+lonely walk he had taken fifteen years ago; it was his last look
+at the fields and woods he had known since he was a child, and
+now it all stood out in brilliant light, as a picture, before
+him.  Above all there came to his nostrils the scent of summer,
+the smell of flowers mingled, and the odour of the woods, of
+cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by the
+sun's heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were
+with arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all.
+His fancies made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from
+the fields into the wood, tracking a little path between the
+shining undergrowth of beech-trees; and the trickle of water
+dropping from the limestone rock sounded as a clear melody in
+the dream.  Thoughts began to go astray and to mingle with other
+thoughts; the beech alley was transformed to a path between
+ilex-trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bough to
+bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with purple
+grapes, and the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree
+stood out against the dark shadows of the ilex.  Clarke, in the
+deep folds of dream, was conscious that the path from his
+father's house had led him into an undiscovered country, and he
+was wondering at the strangeness of it all, when suddenly, in
+place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite silence
+seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed, and for a
+moment in time he stood face to face there with a presence, that
+was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but
+all things mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all
+form.  And in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was
+dissolved, and a voice seemed to cry "Let us go hence," and
+then the darkness of darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of
+everlasting.
+
+When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring
+a few drops of some oily fluid into a green phial, which he
+stoppered tightly.
+
+"You have been dozing," he said; "the journey must have
+tired you out.  It is done now.  I am going to fetch Mary; I
+shall be back in ten minutes."
+
+Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered.  It seemed
+as if he had but passed from one dream into another.  He half
+expected to see the walls of the laboratory melt and disappear,
+and to awake in London, shuddering at his own sleeping fancies.
+But at last the door opened, and the doctor returned, and behind
+him came a girl of about seventeen, dressed all in white.  She
+was so beautiful that Clarke did not wonder at what the doctor
+had written to him.  She was blushing now over face and neck and
+arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved.
+
+"Mary," he said, "the time has come.  You are quite
+free.  Are you willing to trust yourself to me entirely?"
+
+"Yes, dear."
+
+"Do you hear that, Clarke?  You are my witness.  Here
+is the chair, Mary.  It is quite easy.  Just sit in it and lean
+back.  Are you ready?"
+
+"Yes, dear, quite ready.  Give me a kiss before you
+begin."
+
+The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough.
+"Now shut your eyes," he said.  The girl closed her eyelids, as
+if she were tired, and longed for sleep, and Raymond placed the
+green phial to her nostrils.  Her face grew white, whiter than
+her dress; she struggled faintly, and then with the feeling of
+submission strong within her, crossed her arms upon her breast
+as a little child about to say her prayers.  The bright light
+of the lamp fell full upon her, and Clarke watched changes
+fleeting over her face as the changes of the hills when the
+summer clouds float across the sun.  And then she lay all white
+and still, and the doctor turned up one of her eyelids.  She was
+quite unconscious.  Raymond pressed hard on one of the levers
+and the chair instantly sank back.  Clarke saw him cutting away
+a circle, like a tonsure, from her hair, and the lamp was moved
+nearer.  Raymond took a small glittering instrument from a
+little case, and Clarke turned away shudderingly.  When he
+looked again the doctor was binding up the wound he had made.
+
+"She will awake in five minutes."  Raymond was still
+perfectly cool.  "There is nothing more to be done; we can only
+wait."
+
+The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow,
+heavy, ticking.  There was an old clock in the passage.  Clarke
+felt sick and faint; his knees shook beneath him, he could
+hardly stand.
+
+Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn
+sigh, and suddenly did the colour that had vanished return to
+the girl's cheeks, and suddenly her eyes opened.  Clarke quailed
+before them.  They shone with an awful light, looking far away,
+and a great wonder fell upon her face, and her hands stretched
+out as if to touch what was invisible; but in an instant the
+wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful terror.  The
+muscles of her face were hideously convulsed, she shook from
+head to foot; the soul seemed struggling and shuddering within
+the house of flesh.  It was a horrible sight, and Clarke rushed
+forward, as she fell shrieking to the floor.
+
+Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary's bedside.
+She was lying wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side,
+and grinning vacantly.
+
+"Yes," said the doctor, still quite cool, "it is a
+great pity; she is a hopeless idiot.  However, it could not be
+helped; and, after all, she has seen the Great God Pan."
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS
+
+
+
+Mr. Clarke, the gentleman chosen by Dr. Raymond to
+witness the strange experiment of the god Pan, was a person in
+whose character caution and curiosity were oddly mingled; in his
+sober moments he thought of the unusual and eccentric with
+undisguised aversion, and yet, deep in his heart, there was a
+wide-eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the more recondite
+and esoteric elements in the nature of men.  The latter tendency had
+prevailed when he accepted Raymond's invitation, for though his
+considered judgment had always repudiated the doctor's theories
+as the wildest nonsense, yet he secretly hugged a belief in
+fantasy, and would have rejoiced to see that belief confirmed.
+The horrors that he witnessed in the dreary laboratory were to a
+certain extent salutary; he was conscious of being involved in
+an affair not altogether reputable, and for many years
+afterwards he clung bravely to the commonplace, and rejected all
+occasions of occult investigation.  Indeed, on some homeopathic
+principle, he for some time attended the seances of
+distinguished mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of these
+gentlemen would make him altogether disgusted with mysticism of
+every kind, but the remedy, though caustic, was not efficacious.
+Clarke knew that he still pined for the unseen, and little by
+little, the old passion began to reassert itself, as the face of
+Mary, shuddering and convulsed with an unknown terror, faded
+slowly from his memory.  Occupied all day in pursuits both
+serious and lucrative, the temptation to relax in the evening
+was too great, especially in the winter months, when the fire
+cast a warm glow over his snug bachelor apartment, and a bottle
+of some choice claret stood ready by his elbow.  His dinner
+digested, he would make a brief pretence of reading the evening
+paper, but the mere catalogue of news soon palled upon him, and
+Clarke would find himself casting glances of warm desire in the
+direction of an old Japanese bureau, which stood at a pleasant
+distance from the hearth.  Like a boy before a jam-closet, for
+a few minutes he would hover indecisive, but lust always
+prevailed, and Clarke ended by drawing up his chair, lighting a
+candle, and sitting down before the bureau.  Its pigeon-holes
+and drawers teemed with documents on the most morbid subjects,
+and in the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in which he
+had painfully entered he gems of his collection.  Clarke had a
+fine contempt for published literature; the most ghostly story
+ceased to interest him if it happened to be printed; his sole
+pleasure was in the reading, compiling, and rearranging what he
+called his "Memoirs to prove the Existence of the Devil," and
+engaged in this pursuit the evening seemed to fly and the night
+appeared too short.
+
+On one particular evening, an ugly December night,
+black with fog, and raw with frost, Clarke hurried over his
+dinner, and scarcely deigned to observe his customary ritual of
+taking up the paper and laying it down again.  He paced two or
+three times up and down the room, and opened the bureau, stood
+still a moment, and sat down.  He leant back, absorbed in one
+of those dreams to which he was subject, and at length drew out
+his book, and opened it at the last entry.  There were three or
+four pages densely covered with Clarke's round, set penmanship,
+and at the beginning he had written in a somewhat larger hand:
+
+        Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr. Phillips.
+                He assures me that all the facts related
+                therein are strictly and wholly True, but
+                refuses to give either the Surnames of the
+                Persons Concerned, or the Place where these
+                Extraordinary Events occurred.
+
+Mr. Clarke began to read over the account for the
+tenth time, glancing now and then at the pencil notes he had
+made when it was told him by his friend.  It was one of his
+humours to pride himself on a certain literary ability; he
+thought well of his style, and took pains in arranging the
+circumstances in dramatic order.  He read the following story:--
+
+
+The persons concerned in this statement are Helen V.,
+who, if she is still alive, must now be a woman of
+twenty-three, Rachel M., since deceased, who was a year younger
+than the above, and Trevor W., an imbecile, aged eighteen.
+These persons were at the period of the story inhabitants of a
+village on the borders of Wales, a place of some importance in
+the time of the Roman occupation, but now a scattered hamlet,
+of not more than five hundred souls.  It is situated on rising
+ground, about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered by a
+large and picturesque forest.
+
+Some eleven years ago, Helen V.  came to the village under
+rather peculiar circumstances.  It is understood that she, being
+an orphan, was adopted in her infancy by a distant relative, who
+brought her up in his own house until she was twelve years old.
+Thinking, however, that it would be better for the child to have
+playmates of her own age, he advertised in several local papers
+for a good home in a comfortable farmhouse for a girl of twelve,
+and this advertisement was answered by Mr.  R., a well-to-do
+farmer in the above-mentioned village.  His references proving
+satisfactory, the gentleman sent his adopted daughter to Mr.
+R., with a letter, in which he stipulated that the girl should
+have a room to herself, and stated that her guardians need be
+at no trouble in the matter of education, as she was already
+sufficiently educated for the position in life which she would
+occupy.  In fact, Mr. R. was given to understand that the girl
+be allowed to find her own occupations and to spend her time
+almost as she liked.  Mr. R.  duly met her at the nearest
+station, a town seven miles away from his house, and seems to
+have remarked nothing extraordinary about the child except that
+she was reticent as to her former life and her adopted father.
+She was, however, of a very different type from the inhabitants
+of the village; her skin was a pale, clear olive, and her
+features were strongly marked, and of a somewhat foreign
+character.  She appears to have settled down easily enough into
+farmhouse life, and became a favourite with the children, who
+sometimes went with her on her rambles in the forest, for this
+was her amusement.  Mr.  R. states that he has known her to go
+out by herself directly after their early breakfast, and not
+return till after dusk, and that, feeling uneasy at a young
+girl being out alone for so many hours, he communicated with
+her adopted father, who replied in a brief note that Helen must
+do as she chose.  In the winter, when the forest paths are
+impassable, she spent most of her time in her bedroom, where
+she slept alone, according to the instructions of her relative.
+It was on one of these expeditions to the forest that the first
+of the singular incidents with which this girl is connected
+occurred, the date being about a year after her arrival at the
+village.  The preceding winter had been remarkably severe, the
+snow drifting to a great depth, and the frost continuing for an
+unexampled period, and the summer following was as noteworthy
+for its extreme heat.  On one of the very hottest days in this
+summer, Helen V. left the farmhouse for one of her long rambles
+in the forest, taking with her, as usual, some bread and meat
+for lunch.  She was seen by some men in the fields making for
+the old Roman Road, a green causeway which traverses the
+highest part of the wood, and they were astonished to observe
+that the girl had taken off her hat, though the heat of the sun
+was already tropical.  As it happened, a labourer, Joseph W. by
+name, was working in the forest near the Roman Road, and at
+twelve o'clock his little son, Trevor, brought the man his
+dinner of bread and cheese.  After the meal, the boy, who was
+about seven years old at the time, left his father at work,
+and, as he said, went to look for flowers in the wood, and the
+man, who could hear him shouting with delight at his
+discoveries, felt no uneasiness.  Suddenly, however, he was
+horrified at hearing the most dreadful screams, evidently the
+result of great terror, proceeding from the direction in which
+his son had gone, and he hastily threw down his tools and ran
+to see what had happened.  Tracing his path by the sound, he
+met the little boy, who was running headlong, and was evidently
+terribly frightened, and on questioning him the man elicited
+that after picking a posy of flowers he felt tired, and lay
+down on the grass and fell asleep.  He was suddenly awakened,
+as he stated, by a peculiar noise, a sort of singing he called
+it, and on peeping through the branches he saw Helen V. playing
+on the grass with a "strange naked man," who he seemed unable
+to describe more fully.  He said he felt dreadfully frightened
+and ran away crying for his father.  Joseph W. proceeded in the
+direction indicated by his son, and found Helen V. sitting on
+the grass in the middle of a glade or open space left by
+charcoal burners.  He angrily charged her with frightening his
+little boy, but she entirely denied the accusation and laughed
+at the child's story of a "strange man," to which he himself
+did not attach much credence.  Joseph W.  came to the
+conclusion that the boy had woke up with a sudden fright, as
+children sometimes do, but Trevor persisted in his story, and
+continued in such evident distress that at last his father took
+him home, hoping that his mother would be able to soothe him.
+For many weeks, however, the boy gave his parents much anxiety;
+he became nervous and strange in his manner, refusing to leave
+the cottage by himself, and constantly alarming the household
+by waking in the night with cries of "The man in the wood!
+father!  father!"
+
+In course of time, however, the impression seemed to
+have worn off, and about three months later he accompanied his
+father to the home of a gentleman in the neighborhood, for whom
+Joseph W. occasionally did work.  The man was shown into the
+study, and the little boy was left sitting in the hall, and a
+few minutes later, while the gentleman was giving W. his
+instructions, they were both horrified by a piercing shriek and
+the sound of a fall, and rushing out they found the child lying
+senseless on the floor, his face contorted with terror.  The
+doctor was immediately summoned, and after some examination he
+pronounced the child to be suffering form a kind of fit,
+apparently produced by a sudden shock.  The boy was taken to
+one of the bedrooms, and after some time recovered
+consciousness, but only to pass into a condition described by
+the medical man as one of violent hysteria.  The doctor
+exhibited a strong sedative, and in the course of two hours
+pronounced him fit to walk home, but in passing through the
+hall the paroxysms of fright returned and with additional
+violence.  The father perceived that the child was pointing at
+some object, and heard the old cry, "The man in the wood," and
+looking in the direction indicated saw a stone head of
+grotesque appearance, which had been built into the wall above
+one of the doors.  It seems the owner of the house had recently
+made alterations in his premises, and on digging the
+foundations for some offices, the men had found a curious head,
+evidently of the Roman period, which had been placed in the
+manner described.  The head is pronounced by the most
+experienced archaeologists of the district to be that of a faun
+or satyr.  [Dr. Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in
+question, and assures me that he has never received such a
+vivid presentment of intense evil.]
+
+From whatever cause arising, this second shock seemed
+too severe for the boy Trevor, and at the present date he
+suffers from a weakness of intellect, which gives but little
+promise of amending.  The matter caused a good deal of
+sensation at the time, and the girl Helen was closely
+questioned by Mr.  R., but to no purpose, she steadfastly
+denying that she had frightened or in any way molested Trevor.
+
+The second event with which this girl's name is
+connected took place about six years ago, and is of a still
+more extraordinary character.
+
+At the beginning of the summer of 1882, Helen
+contracted a friendship of a peculiarly intimate character with
+Rachel M., the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the
+neighbourhood.  This girl, who was a year younger than Helen,
+was considered by most people to be the prettier of the two,
+though Helen's features had to a great extent softened as she
+became older.  The two girls, who were together on every
+available opportunity, presented a singular contrast, the one
+with her clear, olive skin and almost Italian appearance, and
+the other of the proverbial red and white of our rural
+districts.  It must be stated that the payments made to Mr. R.
+for the maintenance of Helen were known in the village for their
+excessive liberality, and the impression was general that she
+would one day inherit a large sum of money from her relative.
+The parents of Rachel were therefore not averse from their
+daughter's friendship with the girl, and even encouraged the
+intimacy, though they now bitterly regret having done so.
+Helen still retained her extraordinary fondness for the forest,
+and on several occasions Rachel accompanied her, the two
+friends setting out early in the morning, and remaining in the
+wood until dusk.  Once or twice after these excursions Mrs. M.
+thought her daughter's manner rather peculiar; she seemed
+languid and dreamy, and as it has been expressed, "different
+from herself," but these peculiarities seem to have been
+thought too trifling for remark.  One evening, however, after
+Rachel had come home, her mother heard a noise which sounded
+like suppressed weeping in the girl's room, and on going in
+found her lying, half undressed, upon the bed, evidently in the
+greatest distress.  As soon as she saw her mother, she
+exclaimed, "Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the
+forest with Helen?"  Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a
+question, and proceeded to make inquiries.  Rachel told her a
+wild story.  She said--
+
+Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his
+chair towards the fire.  When his friend sat one evening in
+that very chair, and told his story, Clarke had interrupted him
+at a point a little subsequent to this, had cut short his words
+in a paroxysm of horror.  "My God!" he had exclaimed, "think,
+think what you are saying.  It is too incredible, too
+monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet world, where
+men and women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or maybe
+fail, and fall down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange
+fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips, not such
+things as this.  There must be some explanation, some way out
+of the terror.  Why, man, if such a case were possible, our
+earth would be a nightmare."
+
+But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:
+
+"Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished
+in broad sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few
+moments later she was not there."
+
+Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by
+the fire, and again his mind shuddered and shrank back,
+appalled before the sight of such awful, unspeakable elements
+enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh.  Before
+him stretched the long dim vista of the green causeway in the
+forest, as his friend had described it; he saw the swaying
+leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
+sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long
+distance, the two figure moved toward him.  One was Rachel, but
+the other?
+
+Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at
+the end of the account, as he had written it in his book, he
+had placed the inscription:
+
+ET DIABOLUS INCARNATE EST.  ET HOMO FACTUS EST.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
+
+
+
+"Herbert!  Good God!  Is it possible?"
+
+"Yes, my name's Herbert.  I think I know your face,
+too, but I don't remember your name.  My memory is very queer."
+
+"Don't you recollect Villiers of Wadham?"
+
+"So it is, so it is.  I beg your pardon, Villiers, I
+didn't think I was begging of an old college friend.
+Good-night."
+
+"My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary.  My rooms
+are close by, but we won't go there just yet.  Suppose we walk
+up Shaftesbury Avenue a little way?  But how in heaven's name
+have you come to this pass, Herbert?"
+
+"It's a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too,
+but you can hear it if you like."
+
+"Come on, then.  Take my arm, you don't seem very
+strong."
+
+The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street;
+the one in dirty, evil-looking rags, and the other attired in
+the regulation uniform of a man about town, trim, glossy, and
+eminently well-to-do.  Villiers had emerged from his restaurant
+after an excellent dinner of many courses, assisted by an
+ingratiating little flask of Chianti, and, in that frame of mind
+which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the
+door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of
+those mysterious incidents and persons with which the streets of
+London teem in every quarter and every hour.  Villiers prided
+himself as a practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways
+of London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an
+assiduity which was worthy of more serious employment.  Thus he
+stood by the lamp-post surveying the passers-by with
+undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known only to the
+systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula:
+"London has been called the city of encounters; it is more than
+that, it is the city of Resurrections," when these reflections
+were suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and
+a deplorable appeal for alms.  He looked around in some
+irritation, and with a sudden shock found himself confronted
+with the embodied proof of his somewhat stilted fancies.  There,
+close beside him, his face altered and disfigured by poverty and
+disgrace, his body barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags,
+stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who had matriculated on
+the same day as himself, with whom he had been merry and wise
+for twelve revolving terms.  Different occupations and varying
+interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years
+since Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this
+wreck of a man with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain
+inquisitiveness as to what dreary chain of circumstances had
+dragged him down to such a doleful pass.  Villiers felt together
+with compassion all the relish of the amateur in mysteries, and
+congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations outside the
+restaurant.
+
+They walked on in silence for some time, and more than
+one passer-by stared in astonishment at the unaccustomed
+spectacle of a well-dressed man with an unmistakable beggar
+hanging on to his arm, and, observing this, Villiers led the way
+to an obscure street in Soho.  Here he repeated his question.
+
+"How on earth has it happened, Herbert?  I always
+understood you would succeed to an excellent position in
+Dorsetshire.  Did your father disinherit you?  Surely not?"
+
+"No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor
+father's death; he died a year after I left Oxford.  He was a
+very good father to me, and I mourned his death sincerely
+enough.  But you know what young men are; a few months later I
+came up to town and went a good deal into society.  Of course I
+had excellent introductions, and I managed to enjoy myself very
+much in a harmless sort of way.  I played a little, certainly,
+but never for heavy stakes, and the few bets I made on races
+brought me in money--only a few pounds, you know, but enough
+to pay for cigars and such petty pleasures.  It was in my second
+season that the tide turned.  Of course you have heard of my
+marriage?"
+
+"No, I never heard anything about it."
+
+"Yes, I married, Villiers.  I met a girl, a girl of the
+most wonderful and most strange beauty, at the house of some
+people whom I knew.  I cannot tell you her age; I never knew it,
+but, so far as I can guess, I should think she must have been
+about nineteen when I made her acquaintance.  My friends had
+come to know her at Florence; she told them she was an orphan,
+the child of an English father and an Italian mother, and she
+charmed them as she charmed me.  The first time I saw her was at
+an evening party.  I was standing by the door talking to a
+friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I
+heard a voice which seemed to thrill to my heart.  She was
+singing an Italian song.  I was introduced to her that evening,
+and in three months I married Helen.  Villiers, that woman, if I
+can call her woman, corrupted my soul.  The night of the wedding
+I found myself sitting in her bedroom in the hotel, listening to
+her talk.  She was sitting up in bed, and I listened to her as
+she spoke in her beautiful voice, spoke of things which even now
+I would not dare whisper in the blackest night, though I stood
+in the midst of a wilderness.   You, Villiers, you may think you
+know life, and London, and what goes on day and night in this
+dreadful city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of
+the vilest, but I tell you you can have no conception of what I
+know, not in your most fantastic, hideous dreams can you have
+imaged forth the faintest shadow of what I have heard--and
+seen.  Yes, seen.  I have seen the incredible, such horrors that
+even I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the street and ask
+whether it is possible for a man to behold such things and live.
+In a year, Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul--in
+body and soul."
+
+"But your property, Herbert?  You had land in Dorset."
+
+"I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old
+house--everything."
+
+"And the money?"
+
+"She took it all from me."
+
+"And then left you?"
+
+"Yes; she disappeared one night.  I don't know where
+she went, but I am sure if I saw her again it would kill me.
+The rest of my story is of no interest; sordid misery, that is
+all.  You may think, Villiers, that I have exaggerated and
+talked for effect; but I have not told you half.  I could tell
+you certain things which would convince you, but you would never
+know a happy day again.  You would pass the rest of your life,
+as I pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell."
+
+Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and
+gave him a meal.  Herbert could eat little, and scarcely touched
+the glass of wine set before him.  He sat moody and silent by
+the fire, and seemed relieved when Villiers sent him away with a
+small present of money.
+
+"By the way, Herbert," said Villiers, as they parted at
+the door, "what was your wife's name?  You said Helen, I think?
+Helen what?"
+
+"The name she passed under when I met her was Helen
+Vaughan, but what her real name was I can't say.  I don't think
+she had a name.  No, no, not in that sense.  Only human beings
+have names, Villiers; I can't say anymore.  Good-bye; yes, I
+will not fail to call if I see any way in which you can help me.
+Good-night."
+
+The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers
+returned to his fireside.  There was something about Herbert
+which shocked him inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks
+which poverty had set upon his face, but rather an indefinite
+terror which hung about him like a mist.  He had acknowledged
+that he himself was not devoid of blame; the woman, he had
+avowed, had corrupted him body and soul, and Villiers felt that
+this man, once his friend, had been an actor in scenes evil
+beyond the power of words.  His story needed no confirmation: he
+himself was the embodied proof of it.  Villiers mused curiously
+over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had heard
+both the first and the last of it.  "No," he thought, "certainly
+not the last, probably only the beginning.  A case like this is
+like a nest of Chinese boxes; you open one after the other and
+find a quainter workmanship in every box.  Most likely poor
+Herbert is merely one of the outside boxes; there are stranger
+ones to follow."
+
+Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and
+his story, which seemed to grow wilder as the night wore on.
+The fire seemed to burn low, and the chilly air of the morning
+crept into the room; Villiers got up with a glance over his
+shoulder, and, shivering slightly, went to bed.
+
+A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his
+acquaintance, named Austin, who was famous for his intimate
+knowledge of London life, both in its tenebrous and luminous
+phases.  Villiers, still full of his encounter in Soho and its
+consequences, thought Austin might possibly be able to shed some
+light on Herbert's history, and so after some casual talk he
+suddenly put the question:
+
+"Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert
+--Charles Herbert?"
+
+Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with
+some astonishment.
+
+"Charles Herbert?  Weren't you in town three years ago?
+No; then you have not heard of the Paul Street case?  It caused
+a good deal of sensation at the time."
+
+"What was the case?"
+
+"Well, a gentleman, a man of very good position, was
+found dead, stark dead, in the area of a certain house in Paul
+Street, off Tottenham Court Road.  Of course the police did not
+make the discovery; if you happen to be sitting up all night and
+have a light in your window, the constable will ring the bell,
+but if you happen to be lying dead in somebody's area, you will
+be left alone.  In this instance, as in many others, the alarm
+was raised by some kind of vagabond; I don't mean a common
+tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a gentleman, whose business
+or pleasure, or both, made him a spectator of the London streets
+at five o'clock in the morning.  This individual was, as he
+said, 'going home,' it did not appear whence or whither, and had
+occasion to pass through Paul Street between four and five a.m.
+Something or other caught his eye at Number 20; he said,
+absurdly enough, that the house had the most unpleasant
+physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any rate, he glanced
+down the area and was a good deal astonished to see a man lying
+on the stones, his limbs all huddled together, and his face
+turned up.  Our gentleman thought his face looked peculiarly
+ghastly, and so set off at a run in search of the nearest
+policeman.  The constable was at first inclined to treat the
+matter lightly, suspecting common drunkenness; however, he came,
+and after looking at the man's face, changed his tone, quickly
+enough.  The early bird, who had picked up this fine worm, was
+sent off for a doctor, and the policeman rang and knocked at the
+door till a slatternly servant girl came down looking more than
+half asleep.  The constable pointed out the contents of the area
+to the maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake up the street,
+but she knew nothing of the man; had never seen him at the
+house, and so forth.  Meanwhile, the original discoverer had
+come back with a medical man, and the next thing was to get into
+the area.  The gate was open, so the whole quartet stumped down
+the steps.  The doctor hardly needed a moment's examination; he
+said the poor fellow had been dead for several hours, and it was
+then the case began to get interesting.  The dead man had not
+been robbed, and in one of his pockets were papers identifying
+him as--well, as a man of good family and means, a favourite
+in society, and nobody's enemy, as far as could be known.  I
+don't give his name, Villiers, because it has nothing to do with
+the story, and because it's no good raking up these affairs
+about the dead when there are no relations living.  The next
+curious point was that the medical men couldn't agree as to how
+he met his death.  There were some slight bruises on his
+shoulders, but they were so slight that it looked as if he had
+been pushed roughly out of the kitchen door, and not thrown over
+the railings from the street or even dragged down the steps.
+But there were positively no other marks of violence about him,
+certainly none that would account for his death; and when they
+came to the autopsy there wasn't a trace of poison of any kind.
+Of course the police wanted to know all about the people at
+Number 20, and here again, so I have heard from private sources,
+one or two other very curious points came out.  It appears that
+the occupants of the house were a Mr.  and Mrs. Charles Herbert;
+he was said to be a landed proprietor, though it struck most
+people that Paul Street was not exactly the place to look for
+country gentry.  As for Mrs. Herbert, nobody seemed to know
+who or what she was, and, between ourselves, I fancy the divers
+after her history found themselves in rather strange waters.  Of
+course they both denied knowing anything about the deceased, and
+in default of any evidence against them they were discharged.
+But some very odd things came out about them.  Though it was
+between five and six in the morning when the dead man was
+removed, a large crowd had collected, and several of the
+neighbours ran to see what was going on.  They were pretty free
+with their comments, by all accounts, and from these it appeared
+that Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul Street.  The
+detectives tried to trace down these rumours to some solid
+foundation of fact, but could not get hold of anything.  People
+shook their heads and raised their eyebrows and thought the
+Herberts rather 'queer,' 'would rather not be seen going into
+their house,' and so on, but there was nothing tangible.  The
+authorities were morally certain the man met his death in some
+way or another in the house and was thrown out by the kitchen
+door, but they couldn't prove it, and the absence of any
+indications of violence or poisoning left them helpless.  An odd
+case, wasn't it?  But curiously enough, there's something more
+that I haven't told you.  I happened to know one of the doctors
+who was consulted as to the cause of death, and some time after
+the inquest I met him, and asked him about it.  'Do you really
+mean to tell me,' I said, 'that you were baffled by the case,
+that you actually don't know what the man died of?' 'Pardon me,'
+he replied, 'I know perfectly well what caused death.  Blank
+died of fright, of sheer, awful terror; I never saw features so
+hideously contorted in the entire course of my practice, and I
+have seen the faces of a whole host of dead.'  The doctor was
+usually a cool customer enough, and a certain vehemence in his
+manner struck me, but I couldn't get anything more out of him.
+I suppose the Treasury didn't see their way to prosecuting the
+Herberts for frightening a man to death; at any rate, nothing
+was done, and the case dropped out of men's minds.  Do you
+happen to know anything of Herbert?"
+
+"Well," replied Villiers, "he was an old college friend
+of mine."
+
+"You don't say so?  Have you ever seen his wife?"
+
+"No, I haven't.  I have lost sight of Herbert for many
+years."
+
+"It's queer, isn't it, parting with a man at the
+college gate or at Paddington, seeing nothing of him for years,
+and then finding him pop up his head in such an odd place.  But
+I should like to have seen Mrs. Herbert; people said
+extraordinary things about her."
+
+"What sort of things?"
+
+"Well, I hardly know how to tell you.  Everyone who saw
+her at the police court said she was at once the most beautiful
+woman and the most repulsive they had ever set eyes on.  I have
+spoken to a man who saw her, and I assure you he positively
+shuddered as he tried to describe the woman, but he couldn't
+tell why.  She seems to have been a sort of enigma; and I expect
+if that one dead man could have told tales, he would have told
+some uncommonly queer ones.  And there you are again in another
+puzzle; what could a respectable country gentleman like Mr.
+Blank (we'll call him that if you don't mind) want in such a
+very queer house as Number 20?  It's altogether a very odd case,
+isn't it?"
+
+"It is indeed, Austin; an extraordinary case.  I
+didn't think, when I asked you about my old friend, I should
+strike on such strange metal.  Well, I must be off; good-day."
+
+Villiers went away, thinking of his own conceit of the
+Chinese boxes; here was quaint workmanship indeed.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET
+
+
+
+A few months after Villiers' meeting with Herbert, Mr.
+Clarke was sitting, as usual, by his after-dinner hearth,
+resolutely guarding his fancies from wandering in the direction
+of the bureau.  For more than a week he had succeeded in keeping
+away from the "Memoirs," and he cherished hopes of a complete
+self-reformation; but, in spite of his endeavours, he could not
+hush the wonder and the strange curiosity that the last case he
+had written down had excited within him.  He had put the case,
+or rather the outline of it, conjecturally to a scientific
+friend, who shook his head, and thought Clarke getting queer,
+and on this particular evening Clarke was making an effort to
+rationalize the story, when a sudden knock at the door roused
+him from his meditations.
+
+"Mr. Villiers to see you sir."
+
+"Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me
+up; I have not seen you for many months; I should think nearly a
+year.  Come in, come in.  And how are you, Villiers?  Want any
+advice about investments?"
+
+"No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is
+pretty safe.  No, Clarke, I have really come to consult you
+about a rather curious matter that has been brought under my
+notice of late.  I am afraid you will think it all rather absurd
+when I tell my tale.  I sometimes think so myself, and that's
+just what I made up my mind to come to you, as I know you're a
+practical man."
+
+Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the "Memoirs to prove the
+Existence of the Devil."
+
+"Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my
+advice, to the best of my ability.  What is the nature of the
+case?"
+
+"It's an extraordinary thing altogether.  You know my
+ways; I always keep my eyes open in the streets, and in my time
+I have chanced upon some queer customers, and queer cases too,
+but this, I think, beats all.  I was coming out of a restaurant
+one nasty winter night about three months ago; I had had a
+capital dinner and a good bottle of Chianti, and I stood for a
+moment on the pavement, thinking what a mystery there is about
+London streets and the companies that pass along them.  A bottle
+of red wine encourages these fancies, Clarke, and I dare say I
+should have thought a page of small type, but I was cut short by
+a beggar who had come behind me, and was making the usual
+appeals.  Of course I looked round, and this beggar turned out
+to be what was left of an old friend of mine, a man named
+Herbert.  I asked him how he had come to such a wretched pass,
+and he told me.  We walked up and down one of those long and
+dark Soho streets, and there I listened to his story.  He said
+he had married a beautiful girl, some years younger than
+himself, and, as he put it, she had corrupted him body and
+soul.  He wouldn't go into details; he said he dare not, that
+what he had seen and heard haunted him by night and day, and
+when I looked in his face I knew he was speaking the truth.
+There was something about the man that made me shiver.  I don't
+know why, but it was there.  I gave him a little money and sent
+him away, and I assure you that when he was gone I gasped for
+breath.  His presence seemed to chill one's blood."
+
+"Isn't this all just a little fanciful, Villiers?  I
+suppose the poor fellow had made an imprudent marriage, and, in
+plain English, gone to the bad."
+
+"Well, listen to this."  Villiers told Clarke the story
+he had heard from Austin.
+
+"You see," he concluded, "there can be but little doubt
+that this Mr.  Blank, whoever he was, died of sheer terror; he
+saw something so awful, so terrible, that it cut short his life.
+And what he saw, he most certainly saw in that house, which,
+somehow or other, had got a bad name in the neighbourhood.  I
+had the curiosity to go and look at the place for myself.  It's
+a saddening kind of street; the houses are old enough to be mean
+and dreary, but not old enough to be quaint.  As far as I could
+see most of them are let in lodgings, furnished and unfurnished,
+and almost every door has three bells to it.  Here and there the
+ground floors have been made into shops of the commonest kind;
+it's a dismal street in every way.  I found Number 20 was to
+let, and I went to the agent's and got the key.  Of course I
+should have heard nothing of the Herberts in that quarter, but
+I asked the man, fair and square, how long they had left the
+house and whether there had been other tenants in the meanwhile.
+He looked at me queerly for a minute, and told me the Herberts
+had left immediately after the unpleasantness, as he called it,
+and since then the house had been empty."
+
+Mr. Villiers paused for a moment.
+
+"I have always been rather fond of going over empty
+houses; there's a sort of fascination about the desolate empty
+rooms, with the nails sticking in the walls, and the dust thick
+upon the window-sills.  But I didn't enjoy going over Number 20,
+Paul Street.  I had hardly put my foot inside the passage when I
+noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the air of the house.  Of
+course all empty houses are stuffy, and so forth, but this was
+something quite different; I can't describe it to you, but it
+seemed to stop the breath.  I went into the front room and the
+back room, and the kitchens downstairs; they were all dirty and
+dusty enough, as you would expect, but there was something
+strange about them all.  I couldn't define it to you, I only
+know I felt queer.  It was one of the rooms on the first floor,
+though, that was the worst.  It was a largish room, and once on
+a time the paper must have been cheerful enough, but when I saw
+it, paint, paper, and everything were most doleful.  But the
+room was full of horror; I felt my teeth grinding as I put my
+hand on the door, and when I went in, I thought I should have
+fallen fainting to the floor.  However, I pulled myself
+together, and stood against the end wall, wondering what on
+earth there could be about the room to make my limbs tremble,
+and my heart beat as if I were at the hour of death.  In one
+corner there was a pile of newspapers littered on the floor, and
+I began looking at them; they were papers of three or four years
+ago, some of them half torn, and some crumpled as if they had
+been used for packing.  I turned the whole pile over, and
+amongst them I found a curious drawing; I will show it to you
+presently.  But I couldn't stay in the room; I felt it was
+overpowering me.  I was thankful to come out, safe and sound,
+into the open air.  People stared at me as I walked along the
+street, and one man said I was drunk.  I was staggering about
+from one side of the pavement to the other, and it was as much
+as I could do to take the key back to the agent and get home.  I
+was in bed for a week, suffering from what my doctor called
+nervous shock and exhaustion.  One of those days I was reading
+the evening paper, and happened to notice a paragraph headed:
+'Starved to Death.'  It was the usual style of thing; a model
+lodging-house in Marylebone, a door locked for several days, and
+a dead man in his chair when they broke in.  'The deceased,' said
+the paragraph, 'was known as Charles Herbert, and is believed to
+have been once a prosperous country gentleman.  His name was
+familiar to the public three years ago in connection with the
+mysterious death in Paul Street, Tottenham Court Road, the
+deceased being the tenant of the house Number 20, in the area of
+which a gentleman of good position was found dead under
+circumstances not devoid of suspicion.'  A tragic ending, wasn't
+it?  But after all, if what he told me were true, which I am
+sure it was, the man's life was all a tragedy, and a tragedy of
+a stranger sort than they put on the boards."
+
+"And that is the story, is it?" said Clarke musingly.
+
+"Yes, that is the story."
+
+"Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what to say
+about it.  There are, no doubt, circumstances in the case which
+seem peculiar, the finding of the dead man in the area of
+Herbert's house, for instance, and the extraordinary opinion of
+the physician as to the cause of death; but, after all, it is
+conceivable that the facts may be explained in a straightforward
+manner.  As to your own sensations, when you went to see the
+house, I would suggest that they were due to a vivid
+imagination; you must have been brooding, in a semi-conscious
+way, over what you had heard.  I don't exactly see what more can
+be said or done in the matter; you evidently think there is a
+mystery of some kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you
+propose to look?"
+
+"I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he
+married.  She is the mystery."
+
+The two men sat silent by the fireside; Clarke secretly
+congratulating himself on having successfully kept up the
+character of advocate of the commonplace, and Villiers wrapped
+in his gloomy fancies.
+
+"I think I will have a cigarette," he said at last, and
+put his hand in his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case.
+
+"Ah!" he said, starting slightly, "I forgot I had
+something to show you.  You remember my saying that I had found
+a rather curious sketch amongst the pile of old newspapers at
+the house in Paul Street?  Here it is."
+
+Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his pocket.
+It was covered with brown paper, and secured with string, and
+the knots were troublesome.  In spite of himself Clarke felt
+inquisitive; he bent forward on his chair as Villiers painfully
+undid the string, and unfolded the outer covering.  Inside was a
+second wrapping of tissue, and Villiers took it off and handed
+the small piece of paper to Clarke without a word.
+
+There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or
+more; the two man sat so still that they could hear the ticking
+of the tall old-fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall,
+and in the mind of one of them the slow monotony of sound woke
+up a far, far memory.  He was looking intently at the small
+pen-and-ink sketch of the woman's head; it had evidently been
+drawn with great care, and by a true artist, for the woman's
+soul looked out of the eyes, and the lips were parted with a
+strange smile.  Clarke gazed still at the face; it brought to
+his memory one summer evening, long ago; he saw again the long
+lovely valley, the river winding between the hills, the meadows
+and the cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white mist
+rising from the water.  He heard a voice speaking to him across
+the waves of many years, and saying "Clarke, Mary will see the
+god Pan!" and then he was standing in the grim room beside the
+doctor, listening to the heavy ticking of the clock, waiting and
+watching, watching the figure lying on the green char beneath
+the lamplight.  Mary rose up, and he looked into her eyes, and
+his heart grew cold within him.
+
+"Who is this woman?" he said at last.  His voice was
+dry and hoarse.
+
+"That is the woman who Herbert married."
+
+Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary
+after all.  There certainly was Mary's face, but there was
+something else, something he had not seen on Mary's features
+when the white-clad girl entered the laboratory with the doctor,
+nor at her terrible awakening, nor when she lay grinning on the
+bed.   Whatever it was, the glance that came from those eyes,
+the smile on the full lips, or the expression of the whole face,
+Clarke shuddered before it at his inmost soul, and thought,
+unconsciously, of Dr. Phillip's words, "the most vivid
+presentment of evil I have ever seen."  He turned the paper over
+mechanically in his hand and glanced at the back.
+
+"Good God!  Clarke, what is the matter?  You are as
+white as death."
+
+Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke
+fell back with a groan, and let the paper drop from his hands.
+
+"I don't feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to
+these attacks.  Pour me out a little wine; thanks, that will do.
+I shall feel better in a few minutes."
+
+Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over
+as Clarke had done.
+
+"You saw that?" he said.  "That's how I identified it
+as being a portrait of Herbert's wife, or I should say his
+widow.  How do you feel now?"
+
+"Better, thanks, it was only a passing faintness.  I
+don't think I quite catch your meaning.  What did you say
+enabled you to identify the picture?"
+
+"This word--'Helen'--was written on the back.
+Didn't I tell you her name was Helen?  Yes; Helen Vaughan."
+
+Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow of doubt.
+
+"Now, don't you agree with me," said Villiers, "that in
+the story I have told you to-night, and in the part this woman
+plays in it, there are some very strange points?"
+
+"Yes, Villiers," Clarke muttered, "it is a strange
+story indeed; a strange story indeed.  You must give me time to
+think it over; I may be able to help you or I may not.  Must you
+be going now?  Well, good-night, Villiers, good-night.  Come and
+see me in the course of a week."
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+THE LETTER OF ADVICE
+
+
+
+"Do you know, Austin," said Villiers, as the two
+friends were pacing sedately along Piccadilly one pleasant
+morning in May, "do you know I am convinced that what you told
+me about Paul Street and the Herberts is a mere episode in an
+extraordinary history?  I may as well confess to you that when I
+asked you about Herbert a few months ago I had just seen him."
+
+"You had seen him?  Where?"
+
+"He begged of me in the street one night.  He was in
+the most pitiable plight, but I recognized the man, and I got
+him to tell me his history, or at least the outline of it.  In
+brief, it amounted to this--he had been ruined by his wife."
+
+"In what manner?"
+
+"He would not tell me; he would only say that she had
+destroyed him, body and soul.  The man is dead now."
+
+"And what has become of his wife?"
+
+"Ah, that's what I should like to know, and I mean to
+find her sooner or later.  I know a man named Clarke, a dry
+fellow, in fact a man of business, but shrewd enough.  You
+understand my meaning; not shrewd in the mere business sense of
+the word, but a man who really knows something about men and
+life.  Well, I laid the case before him, and he was evidently
+impressed.  He said it needed consideration, and asked me to
+come again in the course of a week.  A few days later I received
+this extraordinary letter."
+
+Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter, and read
+it curiously.  It ran as follows:--
+
+"MY DEAR VILLIERS,--I have thought over the matter on
+which you consulted me the other night, and my advice to you is
+this.  Throw the portrait into the fire, blot out the story from
+your mind.  Never give it another thought, Villiers, or you will
+be sorry.  You will think, no doubt, that I am in possession of
+some secret information, and to a certain extent that is the
+case.  But I only know a little; I am like a traveller who has
+peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror.  What I know
+is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond my knowledge
+there are depths and horrors more frightful still, more
+incredible than any tale told of winter nights about the fire.
+I have resolved, and nothing shall shake that resolve, to
+explore no whit farther, and if you value your happiness you will
+make the same determination.
+
+"Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more
+cheerful topics than this."
+
+Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it
+to Villiers.
+
+"It is certainly an extraordinary letter," he said,
+"what does he mean by the portrait?"
+
+"Ah!  I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street
+and have made a discovery."
+
+Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke,
+and Austin listened in silence.  He seemed puzzled.
+
+"How very curious that you should experience such an
+unpleasant sensation in that room!" he said at length.  "I
+hardly gather that it was a mere matter of the imagination; a
+feeling of repulsion, in short."
+
+"No, it was more physical than mental.  It was as if I
+were inhaling at every breath some deadly fume, which seemed to
+penetrate to every nerve and bone and sinew of my body.  I felt
+racked from head to foot, my eyes began to grow dim; it was like
+the entrance of death."
+
+"Yes, yes, very strange certainly.  You see, your
+friend confesses that there is some very black story connected
+with this woman.  Did you notice any particular emotion in him
+when you were telling your tale?"
+
+"Yes, I did.  He became very faint, but he assured me
+that it was a mere passing attack to which he was subject."
+
+"Did you believe him?"
+
+"I did at the time, but I don't now.  He heard what I
+had to say with a good deal of indifference, till I showed him
+the portrait.  It was then that he was seized with the attack of
+which I spoke.  He looked ghastly, I assure you."
+
+"Then he must have seen the woman before.  But there
+might be another explanation; it might have been the name, and
+not the face, which was familiar to him.  What do you think?"
+
+"I couldn't say.  To the best of my belief it was after
+turning the portrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from
+the chair.  The name, you know, was written on the back."
+
+"Quite so.  After all, it is impossible to come to any
+resolution in a case like this.  I hate melodrama, and nothing
+strikes me as more commonplace and tedious than the ordinary
+ghost story of commerce; but really, Villiers, it looks as if
+there were something very queer at the bottom of all this."
+
+The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley
+Street, leading northward from Piccadilly.  It was a long
+street, and rather a gloomy one, but here and there a brighter
+taste had illuminated the dark houses with flowers, and gay
+curtains, and a cheerful paint on the doors.  Villiers glanced
+up as Austin stopped speaking, and looked at one of these
+houses; geraniums, red and white, drooped from every sill, and
+daffodil-coloured curtains were draped back from each window.
+
+"It looks cheerful, doesn't it?" he said.
+
+"Yes, and the inside is still more cheery.  One of the
+pleasantest houses of the season, so I have heard.  I haven't
+been there myself, but I've met several men who have, and they
+tell me it's uncommonly jovial."
+
+"Whose house is it?"
+
+"A Mrs. Beaumont's."
+
+"And who is she?"
+
+"I couldn't tell you.  I have heard she comes from
+South America, but after all, who she is is of little
+consequence.  She is a very wealthy woman, there's no doubt of
+that, and some of the best people have taken her up.  I hear she
+has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine, which must
+have cost a fabulous sum.  Lord Argentine was telling me about
+it; he was there last Sunday evening.  He assures me he has
+never tasted such a wine, and Argentine, as you know, is an
+expert.  By the way, that reminds me, she must be an oddish sort
+of woman, this Mrs. Beaumont.  Argentine asked her how old the
+wine was, and what do you think she said?  'About a thousand
+years, I believe.' Lord Argentine thought she was chaffing him,
+you know, but when he laughed she said she was speaking quite
+seriously and offered to show him the jar.  Of course, he
+couldn't say anything more after that; but it seems rather
+antiquated for a beverage, doesn't it?  Why, here we are at my
+rooms.  Come in, won't you?"
+
+"Thanks, I think I will.  I haven't seen the
+curiosity-shop for a while."
+
+It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every
+jar and bookcase and table, and every rug and jar and ornament
+seemed to be a thing apart, preserving each its own
+individuality.
+
+"Anything fresh lately?" said Villiers after a while.
+
+"No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs, didn't you?
+I thought so.  I don't think I have come across anything for the
+last few weeks."
+
+Austin glanced around the room from cupboard to
+cupboard, from shelf to shelf, in search of some new oddity.
+His eyes fell at last on an odd chest, pleasantly and quaintly
+carved, which stood in a dark corner of the room.
+
+"Ah," he said, "I was forgetting, I have got something
+to show you." Austin unlocked the chest, drew out a thick quarto
+volume, laid it on the table, and resumed the cigar he had put
+down.
+
+"Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter, Villiers?"
+
+"A little; I met him two or three times at the house of
+a friend of mine.  What has become of him?  I haven't heard his
+name mentioned for some time."
+
+"He's dead."
+
+"You don't say so!  Quite young, wasn't he?"
+
+"Yes; only thirty when he died."
+
+"What did he die of?"
+
+"I don't know.  He was an intimate friend of mine, and
+a thoroughly good fellow.  He used to come here and talk to me
+for hours, and he was one of the best talkers I have met.  He
+could even talk about painting, and that's more than can be said
+of most painters.  About eighteen months ago he was feeling
+rather overworked, and partly at my suggestion he went off on a
+sort of roving expedition, with no very definite end or aim
+about it.  I believe New York was to be his first port, but I
+never heard from him.  Three months ago I got this book, with a
+very civil letter from an English doctor practising at Buenos
+Ayres, stating that he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during
+his illness, and that the deceased had expressed an earnest wish
+that the enclosed packet should be sent to me after his death.
+That was all."
+
+"And haven't you written for further particulars?"
+
+"I have been thinking of doing so.  You would advise me
+to write to the doctor?"
+
+"Certainly.  And what about the book?"
+
+"It was sealed up when I got it.  I don't think the
+doctor had seen it."
+
+"It is something very rare?  Meyrick was a collector,
+perhaps?"
+
+"No, I think not, hardly a collector.  Now, what do you
+think of these Ainu jugs?"
+
+"They are peculiar, but I like them.  But aren't you
+going to show me poor Meyrick's legacy?"
+
+"Yes, yes, to be sure.  The fact is, it's rather a
+peculiar sort of thing, and I haven't shown it to any one.  I
+wouldn't say anything about it if I were you.  There it is."
+
+Villiers took the book, and opened it at haphazard.
+
+"It isn't a printed volume, then?" he said.
+
+"No.  It is a collection of drawings in black and white
+by my poor friend Meyrick."
+
+Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the
+second bore a brief inscription, which he read:
+
+
+Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus
+est; lucet nocturnis ignibus, chorus Aegipanum undique
+personatur: audiuntur et cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum
+per oram maritimam.
+
+
+On the third page was a design which made Villiers
+start and look up at Austin; he was gazing abstractedly out of
+the window.  Villiers turned page after page, absorbed, in spite
+of himself, in the frightful Walpurgis Night of evil, strange
+monstrous evil, that the dead artist had set forth in hard black
+and white.  The figures of Fauns and Satyrs and Aegipans danced
+before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, the dance on the
+mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in green vineyards,
+by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a world before
+which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder.
+Villiers whirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough,
+but the picture on the last leaf caught his eye, as he almost
+closed the book.
+
+"Austin!"
+
+"Well, what is it?"
+
+"Do you know who that is?"
+
+It was a woman's face, alone on the white page.
+
+"Know who it is?  No, of course not."
+
+"I do."
+
+"Who is it?"
+
+"It is Mrs. Herbert."
+
+"Are you sure?"
+
+"I am perfectly sure of it.  Poor Meyrick!  He is one
+more chapter in her history."
+
+"But what do you think of the designs?"
+
+"They are frightful.  Lock the book up again, Austin.
+If I were you I would burn it; it must be a terrible companion
+even though it be in a chest."
+
+"Yes, they are singular drawings.  But I wonder what
+connection there could be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or
+what link between her and these designs?"
+
+"Ah, who can say?  It is possible that the matter may
+end here, and we shall never know, but in my own opinion this
+Helen Vaughan, or Mrs. Herbert, is only the beginning.  She
+will come back to London, Austin; depend on it, she will come
+back, and we shall hear more about her then.  I doubt it will
+be very pleasant news."
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE SUICIDES
+
+
+
+Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London
+Society.  At twenty he had been a poor man, decked with the
+surname of an illustrious family, but forced to earn a
+livelihood as best he could, and the most speculative of
+money-lenders would not have entrusted him with fifty pounds on
+the chance of his ever changing his name for a title, and his
+poverty for a great fortune.  His father had been near enough to
+the fountain of good things to secure one of the family livings,
+but the son, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have
+obtained so much as this, and moreover felt no vocation for the
+ecclesiastical estate.  Thus he fronted the world with no
+better armour than the bachelor's gown and the wits of a younger
+son's grandson, with which equipment he contrived in some way to
+make a very tolerable fight of it.  At twenty-five Mr. Charles
+Aubernon saw himself still a man of struggles and of warfare
+with the world, but out of the seven who stood before him and
+the high places of his family three only remained.  These three,
+however, were "good lives," but yet not proof against the Zulu
+assegais and typhoid fever, and so one morning Aubernon woke up
+and found himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had faced
+the difficulties of existence, and had conquered.  The situation
+amused him immensely, and he resolved that riches should be as
+pleasant to him as poverty had always been.  Argentine, after
+some little consideration, came to the conclusion that dining,
+regarded as a fine art, was perhaps the most amusing pursuit
+open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinners became famous in
+London, and an invitation to his table a thing covetously
+desired.  After ten years of lordship and dinners Argentine
+still declined to be jaded, still persisted in enjoying life,
+and by a kind of infection had become recognized as the cause of
+joy in others, in short, as the best of company.  His sudden and
+tragical death therefore caused a wide and deep sensation.
+People could scarcely believe it, even though the newspaper was
+before their eyes, and the cry of "Mysterious Death of a
+Nobleman" came ringing up from the street.  But there stood the
+brief paragraph: "Lord Argentine was found dead this morning by
+his valet under distressing circumstances.  It is stated that
+there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide,
+though no motive can be assigned for the act.  The deceased
+nobleman was widely known in society, and much liked for his
+genial manner and sumptuous hospitality.  He is succeeded by,"
+etc., etc.
+
+By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case
+still remained a mystery.  The chief witness at the inquest was
+the deceased's valet, who said that the night before his death
+Lord Argentine had dined with a lady of good position, whose
+named was suppressed in the newspaper reports.  At about eleven
+o'clock Lord Argentine had returned, and informed his man that
+he should not require his services till the next morning.  A
+little later the valet had occasion to cross the hall and was
+somewhat astonished to see his master quietly letting himself
+out at the front door.  He had taken off his evening clothes,
+and was dressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a
+low brown hat.  The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord
+Argentine had seen him, and though his master rarely kept late
+hours, thought little of the occurrence till the next morning,
+when he knocked at the bedroom door at a quarter to nine as
+usual.  He received no answer, and, after knocking two or three
+times, entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine's body leaning
+forward at an angle from the bottom of the bed.  He found that
+his master had tied a cord securely to one of the short
+bed-posts, and, after making a running noose and slipping it
+round his neck, the unfortunate man must have resolutely fallen
+forward, to die by slow strangulation.  He was dressed in the
+light suit in which the valet had seen him go out, and the
+doctor who was summoned pronounced that life had been extinct
+for more than four hours.  All papers, letters, and so forth
+seemed in perfect order, and nothing was discovered which
+pointed in the most remote way to any scandal either great or
+small.  Here the evidence ended; nothing more could be
+discovered.  Several persons had been present at the
+dinner-party at which Lord Augustine had assisted, and to all
+these he seemed in his usual genial spirits.  The valet, indeed,
+said he thought his master appeared a little excited when he
+came home, but confessed that the alteration in his manner was
+very slight, hardly noticeable, indeed.  It seemed hopeless to
+seek for any clue, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine had
+been suddenly attacked by acute suicidal mania was generally
+accepted.
+
+It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks,
+three more gentlemen, one of them a nobleman, and the two
+others men of good position and ample means, perished miserably
+in the almost precisely the same manner.  Lord Swanleigh was
+found one morning in his dressing-room, hanging from a peg
+affixed to the wall, and Mr. Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries had
+chosen to die as Lord Argentine.  There was no explanation in
+either case; a few bald facts; a living man in the evening, and
+a body with a black swollen face in the morning.  The police
+had been forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest or to
+explain the sordid murders of Whitechapel; but before the
+horrible suicides of Piccadilly and Mayfair they were
+dumbfoundered, for not even the mere ferocity which did duty as
+an explanation of the crimes of the East End, could be of
+service in the West. Each of these men who had resolved to die
+a tortured shameful death was rich, prosperous, and to all
+appearances in love with the world, and not the acutest
+research should ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in
+either case.  There was a horror in the air, and men looked at
+one another's faces when they met, each wondering whether the
+other was to be the victim of the fifth nameless tragedy.
+Journalists sought in vain for their scrapbooks for materials
+whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morning paper
+was unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knew
+when or where the next blow would light.
+
+A short while after the last of these terrible events,
+Austin came to see Mr. Villiers.  He was curious to know whether
+Villiers had succeeded in discovering any fresh traces of Mrs.
+Herbert, either through Clarke or by other sources, and he asked
+the question soon after he had sat down.
+
+"No," said Villiers, "I wrote to Clarke, but he remains
+obdurate, and I have tried other channels, but without any
+result.  I can't find out what became of Helen Vaughan after she
+left Paul Street, but I think she must have gone abroad.  But to
+tell the truth, Austin, I haven't paid much attention to the
+matter for the last few weeks; I knew poor Herries intimately,
+and his terrible death has been a great shock to me, a great
+shock."
+
+"I can well believe it," answered Austin gravely, "you
+know Argentine was a friend of mine.  If I remember rightly, we
+were speaking of him that day you came to my rooms."
+
+"Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley
+Street, Mrs. Beaumont's house.  You said something about
+Argentine's dining there."
+
+"Quite so.  Of course you know it was there Argentine
+dined the night before--before his death."
+
+"No, I had not heard that."
+
+"Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare
+Mrs. Beaumont.  Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it
+is said she was in a terrible state for sometime after."
+
+A curious look came over Villiers' face; he seemed
+undecided whether to speak or not.  Austin began again.
+
+"I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I
+read the account of Argentine's death.  I didn't understand it
+at the time, and I don't now.  I knew him well, and it
+completely passes my understanding for what possible cause he
+--or any of the others for the matter of that--could have
+resolved in cold blood to die in such an awful manner.  You
+know how men babble away each other's characters in London, you
+may be sure any buried scandal or hidden skeleton would have
+been brought to light in such a case as this; but nothing of the
+sort has taken place.  As for the theory of mania, that is very
+well, of course, for the coroner's jury, but everybody knows
+that it's all nonsense.  Suicidal mania is not small-pox."
+
+Austin relapsed into gloomy silence.  Villiers sat
+silent, also, watching his friend.  The expression of
+indecision still fleeted across his face; he seemed as if
+weighing his thoughts in the balance, and the considerations he
+was resolving left him still silent.  Austin tried to shake off
+the remembrance of tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as the
+labyrinth of Daedalus, and began to talk in an indifferent voice
+of the more pleasant incidents and adventures of the season.
+
+"That Mrs. Beaumont," he said, "of whom we were
+speaking, is a great success; she has taken London almost by
+storm.  I met her the other night at Fulham's; she is really a
+remarkable woman."
+
+"You have met Mrs. Beaumont?"
+
+"Yes; she had quite a court around her.  She would be
+called very handsome, I suppose, and yet there is something
+about her face which I didn't like.  The features are exquisite,
+but the expression is strange.  And all the time I was looking
+at her, and afterwards, when I was going home, I had a curious
+feeling that very expression was in some way or another
+familiar to me."
+
+"You must have seen her in the Row."
+
+"No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it
+is that which makes it puzzling.  And to the best of my belief I
+have never seen anyone like her; what I felt was a kind of dim
+far-off memory, vague but persistent.  The only sensation I can
+compare it to, is that odd feeling one sometimes has in a dream,
+when fantastic cities and wondrous lands and phantom personages
+appear familiar and accustomed."
+
+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!"
+
+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 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!"
+
+"Who is she?  In what way do you mean?"
+
+"I mean that you and I know her better under another
+name."
+
+"What name is that?"
+
+"Herbert."
+
+"Herbert!"  Austin repeated the word, dazed with
+astonishment.
+
+"Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of
+earlier adventures unknown to me.  You had reason to recognize
+the expression of her face; when you go home look at the face
+in Meyrick's book of horrors, and you will know the sources of
+your recollection."
+
+"And you have proof of this?"
+
+"Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or
+shall we say Mrs. Herbert?"
+
+"Where did you see her?"
+
+"Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady
+who lives in Ashley Street, Piccadilly.  I saw her entering a
+house in one of the meanest and most disreputable streets in
+Soho.  In fact, I had made an appointment, though not with her,
+and she was precise to both time and place."
+
+"All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it
+incredible.  You must remember, Villiers, that I have seen this
+woman, in the ordinary adventure of London society, talking and
+laughing, and sipping her coffee in a commonplace drawing-room
+with commonplace people.  But you know what you are saying."
+
+"I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises
+or fancies.  It was with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan
+that I searched for Mrs. Beaumont in the dark waters of the
+life of London, but such has been the issue."
+
+"You must have been in strange places, Villiers."
+
+"Yes, I have been in very strange places.  It would
+have been useless, you know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask
+Mrs. Beaumont to give me a short sketch of her previous
+history.  No; assuming, as I had to assume, that her record was
+not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain that at some
+previous time she must have moved in circles not quite so
+refined as her present ones.  If you see mud at the top of a
+stream, you may be sure that it was once at the bottom.  I went
+to the bottom.  I have always been fond of diving into Queer
+Street for my amusement, and I found my knowledge of that
+locality and its inhabitants very useful.  It is, perhaps,
+needless to say that my friends had never heard the name of
+Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite
+unable to describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect
+way.  The people there know me; I have been able to do some of
+them a service now and again, so they made no difficulty about
+giving their information; they were aware I had no
+communication direct or indirect with Scotland Yard.  I had to
+cast out a good many lines, though, before I got what I wanted,
+and when I landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose it
+was my fish.  But I listened to what I was told out of a
+constitutional liking for useless information, and I found
+myself in possession of a very curious story, though, as I
+imagined, not 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 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, as their bodies blacken under the electric current.
+Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be
+imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the most
+of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale.
+But you and I, at all events, have known something of the
+terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested
+under human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself
+a form.  Oh, Austin, how can it be?  How is it that the very
+sunlight does not turn to blackness before this thing, the hard
+earth melt and boil beneath such a burden?"
+
+Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads
+of sweat stood out on his forehead.  Austin sat silent for a
+while, but Villiers saw him make a sign upon his breast.
+
+"I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter
+such a house as that?  You would never pass out alive."
+
+"Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive--I, and Clarke
+with me."
+
+What do you mean?  You cannot, you would not dare..."
+
+"Wait a moment.  The air was very pleasant and fresh
+this morning; there was a breeze blowing, even through this dull
+street, and I thought I would take a walk.  Piccadilly stretched
+before me a clear, bright vista, and the sun flashed on the
+carriages and on the quivering leaves in the park.  It was a
+joyous morning, and men and women looked at the sky and smiled
+as they went about their work or their pleasure, and the wind
+blew as blithely as upon the meadows and the scented gorse.  But
+somehow or other I got out of the bustle and the gaiety, and
+found myself walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where
+there seemed to be no sunshine and no air, and where the few
+foot-passengers loitered as they walked, and hung indecisively
+about corners and archways.  I walked along, hardly knowing
+where I was going or what I did there, but feeling impelled, as
+one sometimes is, to explore still further, with a vague idea of
+reaching some unknown goal.  Thus I forged up the street, noting
+the small traffic of the milk-shop, and wondering at the
+incongruous medley of penny pipes, black tobacco, sweets,
+newspapers, and comic songs which here and there jostled one
+another in the short compass of a single window.  I think it was
+a cold shudder that suddenly passed through me that first told
+me that I had found what I wanted.  I looked up from the
+pavement and stopped before a dusty shop, above which the
+lettering had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred years
+ago had grimed to black; where the windows had gathered to
+themselves the dust of winters innumerable.  I saw what I
+required; but I think it was five minutes before I had steadied
+myself and could walk in and ask for it in a cool voice and with
+a calm face.  I think there must even then have been a tremor in
+my words, for the old man who came out of the back parlour, and
+fumbled slowly amongst his goods, looked oddly at me as he tied
+the parcel.  I paid what he asked, and stood leaning by the
+counter, with a strange reluctance to take up my goods and go.
+I asked about the business, and learnt that trade was bad and
+the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was not what it
+was before traffic had been diverted, but that was done forty
+years ago, 'just before my father died,' he said.  I got away at
+last, and walked along sharply; it was a dismal street indeed,
+and I was glad to return to the bustle and the noise.  Would you
+like to see my purchase?"
+
+Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he
+still looked white and sick.  Villiers pulled out a drawer in
+the bamboo table, and showed Austin a long coil of cord, hard
+and new; and at one end was a running noose.
+
+"It is the best hempen cord," said Villiers, "just as
+it used to be made for the old trade, the man told me.  Not an
+inch of jute from end to end."
+
+Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers,
+growing whiter as he looked.
+
+"You would not do it," he murmured at last. "You would
+not have blood on your hands.  My God!" he exclaimed, with
+sudden vehemence, "you cannot mean this, Villiers, that you will
+make yourself a hangman?"
+
+"No.  I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan
+alone with this cord in a locked room for fifteen minutes.  If
+when we go in it is not done, I shall call the nearest
+policeman.  That is all."
+
+"I must go now.  I cannot stay here any longer; I
+cannot bear this.  Good-night."
+
+"Good-night, Austin."
+
+The door shut, but in a moment it was open again, and
+Austin stood, white and ghastly, in the entrance.
+
+"I was forgetting," he said, "that I too have something
+to tell.  I have received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos
+Ayres.  He says that he attended Meyrick for three weeks before
+his death."
+
+"And does he say what carried him off in the prime of
+life?  It was not fever?"
+
+"No, it was not fever.  According to the doctor, it was
+an utter collapse of the whole system, probably caused by some
+severe shock.  But he states that the patient would tell him
+nothing, and that he was consequently at some disadvantage in
+treating the case."
+
+"Is there anything more?"
+
+"Yes.  Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: 'I think
+this is all the information I can give you about your poor
+friend.  He had not been long in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely
+any one, with the exception of a person who did not bear the
+best of characters, and has since left--a Mrs. Vaughan.'"
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE FRAGMENTS
+
+
+
+[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr.
+Robert Matheson, of Ashley Street, Piccadilly, who died
+suddenly, of apoplectic seizure, at the beginning of 1892, a
+leaf of manuscript paper was found, covered with pencil
+jottings.  These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated, and had
+evidently been made in great haste.  The MS. was only
+deciphered with difficulty, and some words have up to the
+present time evaded all the efforts of the expert employed.
+The date, "XXV Jul. 1888," is written on the right-hand
+corner of the MS.  The following is a translation of Dr.
+Matheson's manuscript.]
+
+"Whether science would benefit by these brief notes if
+they could be published, I do not know, but rather doubt.  But
+certainly I shall never take the responsibility of publishing or
+divulging one word of what is here written, not only on account
+of my oath given freely to those two persons who were present,
+but also because the details are too abominable.  It is probably
+that, upon mature consideration, and after weighting the good
+and evil, I shall one day destroy this paper, or at least leave
+it under seal to my friend D., trusting in his discretion, to
+use it or to burn it, as he may think fit.
+
+"As was befitting, I did all that my knowledge
+suggested to make sure that I was suffering under no delusion.
+At first astounded, I could hardly think, but in a minute's time
+I was sure that my pulse was steady and regular, and that I was
+in my real and true senses.  I then fixed my eyes quietly on
+what was before me.
+
+"Though horror and revolting nausea rose up within me,
+and an odour of corruption choked my breath, I remained firm.
+I was then privileged or accursed, I dare not say which, to see
+that which was on the bed, lying there black like ink,
+transformed before my eyes.  The skin, and the flesh, and the
+muscles, and the bones, and the firm structure of the human
+body that I had thought to be unchangeable, and permanent as
+adamant, began to melt and dissolve.
+
+"I know that the body may be separated into its
+elements by external agencies, but I should have refused to
+believe what I saw.  For here there was some internal force, of
+which I knew nothing, that caused dissolution and change.
+
+"Here too was all the work by which man had been made
+repeated before my eyes.  I saw the form waver from sex to sex,
+dividing itself from itself, and then again reunited.  Then I
+saw the body descend to the beasts whence it ascended, and that
+which was on the heights go down to the depths, even to the
+abyss of all being.  The principle of life, which makes
+organism, always remained, while the outward form changed.
+
+"The light within the room had turned to blackness, not
+the darkness of night, in which objects are seen dimly, for I
+could see clearly and without difficulty.  But it was the
+negation of light; objects were presented to my eyes, if I may
+say so, without any medium, in such a manner that if there had
+been a prism in the room I should have seen no colours
+represented in it.
+
+"I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance
+as jelly.  Then the ladder was ascended again... [here the MS.
+is illegible] ...for one instance I saw a Form, shaped in
+dimness before me, which I will not farther describe.  But the
+symbol of this form may be seen in ancient sculptures, and in
+paintings which survived beneath the lava, too foul to be spoken
+of... as a horrible and unspeakable shape, neither man nor
+beast, was changed into human form, there came finally death.
+
+"I who saw all this, not without great horror and
+loathing of soul, here write my name, declaring all that I have
+set on this paper to be true.
+
+"ROBERT MATHESON, Med. Dr."
+
+*       *       *
+
+...Such, Raymond, is the story of what I know and what
+I have seen.  The burden of it was too heavy for me to bear
+alone, and yet I could tell it to none but you.  Villiers, who
+was with me at the last, knows nothing of that awful secret of
+the wood, of how what we both saw die, lay upon the smooth,
+sweet turf amidst the summer flowers, half in sun and half in
+shadow, and holding the girl Rachel's hand, called and summoned
+those companions, and shaped in solid form, upon the earth we
+tread upon, the horror which we can but hint at, which we can
+only name under a figure.  I would not tell Villiers of this,
+nor of that resemblance, which struck me as with a blow upon my
+heart, when I saw the portrait, which filled the cup of terror
+at the end.  What this can mean I dare not guess.  I know that
+what I saw perish was not Mary, and yet in the last agony Mary's
+eyes looked into mine.  Whether there can be any one who can
+show the last link in this chain of awful mystery, I do not
+know, but if there be any one who can do this, you, Raymond, are
+the man.  And if you know the secret, it rests with you to tell
+it or not, as you please.
+
+I am writing this letter to you immediately on my
+getting back to town.  I have been in the country for the last
+few days; perhaps you may be able to guess in which part.  While
+the horror and wonder of London was at its height--for "Mrs.
+Beaumont," as I have told you, was well known in society--I
+wrote to my friend Dr. Phillips, giving some brief outline, or
+rather hint, of what happened, and asking him to tell me the
+name of the village where the events he had related to me
+occurred.  He gave me the name, as he said with the less
+hesitation, because Rachel's father and mother were dead, and
+the rest of the family had gone to a relative in the State of
+Washington six months before.  The parents, he said, had
+undoubtedly died of grief and horror caused by the terrible
+death of their daughter, and by what had gone before that death.
+On the evening of the day which I received Phillips' letter I was
+at Caermaen, and standing beneath the mouldering Roman walls,
+white with the winters of seventeen hundred years, I looked over
+the meadow where once had stood the older temple of the "God of
+the Deeps," and saw a house gleaming in the sunlight.  It was
+the house where Helen had lived.  I stayed at Caermaen for
+several days.  The people of the place, I found, knew little and
+had guessed less.  Those whom I spoke to on the matter seemed
+surprised that an antiquarian (as I professed myself to be)
+should trouble about a village tragedy, of which they gave a
+very commonplace version, and, as you may imagine, I told
+nothing of what I knew.  Most of my time was spent in the great
+wood that rises just above the village and climbs the hillside,
+and goes down to the river in the valley; such another long
+lovely valley, Raymond, as that on which we looked one summer
+night, walking to and fro before your house.  For many an hour I
+strayed through the maze of the forest, turning now to right and
+now to left, pacing slowly down long alleys of undergrowth,
+shadowy and chill, even under the midday sun, and halting
+beneath great oaks; lying on the short turf of a clearing where
+the faint sweet scent of wild roses came to me on the wind and
+mixed with the heavy perfume of the elder, whose mingled odour
+is like the odour of the room of the dead, a vapour of incense
+and corruption.  I stood at the edges of the wood, gazing at all
+the pomp and procession of the foxgloves towering amidst the
+bracken and shining red in the broad sunshine, and beyond them
+into deep thickets of close undergrowth where springs boil up
+from the rock and nourish the water-weeds, dank and evil.  But
+in all my wanderings I avoided one part of the wood; it was not
+till yesterday that I climbed to the summit of the hill, and
+stood upon the ancient Roman road that threads the highest ridge
+of the wood.  Here they had walked, Helen and Rachel, along this
+quiet causeway, upon the pavement of green turf, shut in on
+either side by high banks of red earth, and tall hedges of
+shining beech, and here I followed in their steps, looking out,
+now and again, through partings in the boughs, and seeing on one
+side the sweep of the wood stretching far to right and left,
+and sinking into the broad level, and beyond, the yellow sea,
+and the land over the sea.  On the other side was the valley and
+the river and hill following hill as wave on wave, and wood and
+meadow, and cornfield, and white houses gleaming, and a great
+wall of mountain, and far blue peaks in the north.  And so at
+least I came to the place.  The track went up a gentle slope,
+and widened out into an open space with a wall of thick
+undergrowth around it, and then, narrowing again, passed on into
+the distance and the faint blue mist of summer heat.  And into
+this pleasant summer glade Rachel passed a girl, and left it,
+who shall say what?  I did not stay long there.
+
+In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum,
+containing for the most part Roman remains which have been
+found in the neighbourhood at various times.  On the day after
+my arrival in Caermaen I walked over to the town in question,
+and took the opportunity of inspecting the museum.  After I had
+seen most of the sculptured stones, the coffins, rings, coins,
+and fragments of tessellated pavement which the place contains,
+I was shown a small square pillar of white stone, which had been
+recently discovered in the wood of which I have been speaking,
+and, as I found on inquiry, in that open space where the Roman
+road broadens out.  On one side of the pillar was an
+inscription, of which I took a note.  Some of the letters have
+been defaced, but I do not think there can be any doubt as to
+those which I supply.  The inscription is as follows:
+
+        DEVOMNODENTi
+        FLAvIVSSENILISPOSSvit
+        PROPTERNVPtias
+        quaSVIDITSVBVMra
+
+"To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or
+Abyss) Flavius Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the
+marriage which he saw beneath the shade."
+
+The custodian of the museum informed me that local
+antiquaries were much puzzled, not by the inscription, or by
+any difficulty in translating it, but as to the circumstance or
+rite to which allusion is made.
+
+*       *       *
+
+...And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me
+about Helen Vaughan, whom you say you saw die under
+circumstances of the utmost and almost incredible horror.  I
+was interested in your account, but a good deal, nay all, of
+what you told me I knew already.  I can understand the strange
+likeness you remarked in both the portrait and in the actual
+face; you have seen Helen's mother.  You remember that still
+summer night so many years ago, when I talked to you of the
+world beyond the shadows, and of the god Pan.  You remember
+Mary.  She was the mother of Helen Vaughan, who was born nine
+months after that night.
+
+Mary never recovered her reason.  She lay, as you saw
+her, all the while upon her bed, and a few days after the child
+was born she died.  I fancy that just at the last she knew me; I
+was standing by the bed, and the old look came into her eyes for
+a second, and then she shuddered and groaned and died.  It was
+an ill work I did that night when you were present; I broke open
+the door of the house of life, without knowing or caring what
+might pass forth or enter in.  I recollect your telling me at
+the time, sharply enough, and rightly too, in one sense, that I
+had ruined the reason of a human being by a foolish experiment,
+based on an absurd theory.  You did well to blame me, but my
+theory was not all absurdity.  What I said Mary would see she
+saw, but I forgot that no human eyes can look on such a sight
+with impunity.  And I forgot, as I have just said, that when the
+house of life is thus thrown open, there may enter in that for
+which we have no name, and human flesh may become the veil of a
+horror one dare not express.  I played with energies which I did
+not understand, you have seen the ending of it.  Helen Vaughan
+did well to bind the cord about her neck and die, though the
+death was horrible.  The blackened face, the hideous form upon
+the bed, changing and melting before your eyes from woman to
+man, from man to beast, and from beast to worse than beast, all
+the strange horror that you witness, surprises me but little.
+What you say the doctor whom you sent for saw and shuddered at I
+noticed long ago; I knew what I had done the moment the child
+was born, and when it was scarcely five years old I surprised
+it, not once or twice but several times with a playmate, you may
+guess of what kind.  It was for me a constant, an incarnate
+horror, and after a few years I felt I could bear it no more,
+and I sent Helen Vaughan away.  You know now what frightened the
+boy in the wood.  The rest of the strange story, and all else
+that you tell me, as discovered by your friend, I have contrived
+to learn from time to time, almost to the last chapter.  And now
+Helen is with her companions...
+
+End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Great God Pan
+
+
+
diff --git a/old/ggpan10.zip b/old/ggpan10.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..62be011
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/ggpan10.zip