"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."