26 September.Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week since I said Finis, and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised. Everyth

I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. To-day he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five oclock, and thrust last nights Westminster Gazette into my hand.

What do you think of that? he asked as he stood back and folded his arms. I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up. Well? he said. It is like poor Lucys. And what do you make of it? Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured her has injured them. I did not quite understand his answer: That is true indirectly, but not directly. How do you mean, Professor? I asked. I was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightlyfor, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore ones spiritsbut when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

Tell me! I said. I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture. Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me? Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood. And how the blood lost or waste? I shook my head. He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on: