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