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