I felt sure that it must be an optical illusion wrought by my constant
thought of Arletta. I looked again and again, yet read ever the same
words, and, laboring under tremendous excitement, I hurriedly perused
the account of the murder. It stated that about eleven o'clock of the
previous night Arletta Fogg had arrived at the apartment house, and had
been taken to her rooms by the elevator attendant. A half hour later a
tall, smooth-faced, white-haired gentleman arrived, and was shown to her
apartments. This man was seen by the watchman to leave the place at
three o'clock in the morning, and the chambermaid discovered her at ten
o'clock in the morning, dead, and covered with blood from several stabs
in the body.
Cold perspiration oozed from every pore of my body as I read and re-read
this article, over and over again. I was puzzled, dumbfounded, horror-
stricken. The description given of the apparent murderer tallied exactly
with myself. Straining every nerve I endeavored to regain some
impression that might lead to a knowledge of my actions from the time
Arletta left me the night before until I had recovered my senses that
day. But try as I might, I could no more recall to memory the slightest
movement on my part during that time than I could recollect any event
which happened during the twenty-one years of which my life had been a
blank.
Like a man under the influence of liquor I arose and staggered hurriedly
forward until I reached the "L" station where I boarded a train and rode
up to Eighty-first street.
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