I can see now his rather pallid¹ face, and the unfamiliar² sombre fire that had come into his eyes. I see him very vividly³ to-night. I sit recalling his words, his tones, and last evening’s Westminster Gazette still lies on my sofa, containing the notice of his death. At lunch to-day the club was busy with him and the strange riddle⁴ of his fate.  
They found his body very early yesterday morning in a deep excavation⁵ near East Kensington Station. It is one of two shafts⁶ that have been made in connection with an extension of the railway southward. It is protected from the intrusion of the public by a hoarding⁷ upon the high road, in which a small doorway⁸ has been cut for the convenience of some of the workmen who live in that direction. The doorway was left unfastened through a misunderstanding between two gangers, and through it he made his way . . . . .
 
My mind is darkened with questions and riddles⁹.
 
It would seem he walked all the way from the House that night—he has frequently walked home during the past Session—and so it is I figure his dark form coming along the late and empty streets, wrapped up, intent. And then did the pale electric lights near the station cheat the rough planking into a semblance¹⁰ of white? Did that fatal unfastened door awaken¹¹ some memory?
 
Was there, after all, ever any green door in the wall at all?
 
I do not know. I have told his story as he told it to me. There are times when I believe that Wallace was no more than the victim of the coincidence between a rare but not unprecedented¹² type of hallucination and a careless trap, but that indeed is not my profoundest belief. You may think me superstitious¹³ if you will, and foolish; but, indeed, I am more than half convinced that he had in truth, an abnormal gift, and a sense, something—I know not what—that in the guise¹⁴ of wall and door offered him an outlet¹⁵, a secret and peculiar¹⁶ passage of escape into another and altogether more beautiful world. At any rate, you will say, it betrayed him in the end. But did it betray him? There you touch the inmost mystery of these dreamers, these men of vision and the imagination. We see our world fair and common, the hoarding and the pit. By our daylight standard he walked out of security into darkness, danger and death. But did he see like that?