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