Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke fell back with a groan, and let the paper drop from his hands.
'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"—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.'