rose and fell. The window was open and the air seemed full of
noise and terror.

"Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible
epidemic of suicide which for the last month has prevailed in
the West End. Mr. Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and
King's Pomeroy, Devon, was found, after a prolonged search,
hanging dead from the branch of a tree in his garden at one
o'clock today. The deceased gentleman dined last night at the
Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits. He
left the club at about ten o'clock, and was seen walking
leisurely up St. James's Street a little later. Subsequent to
this his movements cannot be traced. On the discovery of the
body medical aid was at once summoned, but life had evidently
been long extinct. So far as is known, Mr. Crashaw had no
trouble or anxiety of any kind. This painful suicide, it will
be remembered, is the fifth of the kind in the last month. The
authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to suggest any
explanation of these terrible occurrences."

Austin put down the paper in mute horror.

"I shall leave London to-morrow," he said, "it is a
city of nightmares. How awful this is, Villiers!"

Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking
out into the street. He had listened to the newspaper report
attentively, and the hint of indecision was no longer on his
face.