"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