Tarlton Law Library
Jamail Center for Legal Research

         "Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
    And the first motion, all the interim is
    Like a phantasma or a hideous dream;
    The genius and the mortal instruments
    Are then in council; and the state of a man,
    Like to a little Kingdom, suffers then
    The nature of an insurrection."
                                           --Julius Caesar.

called me Dough-face again. In the store I entered soon after, I met
with even less appreciation. Regular at my work and exact in my
performance of it, they thought me a good machine and nothing more.
What heart, soul, and feeling could a man have who never sported, never
smoked, and never laughed? I could reckon up figures correctly, but
one scarcely needed heart or soul for that. I could even write day by
day and month by month without showing a flaw in my copy; but that
only argued I was no more than they intimated, a regular automaton. I
let them think so, with the certainty before me that they would one day
change their minds as others had done. The fact was, I loved nobody
well enough, not even myself, to care for any man's opinion. Life was
well-nigh a blank to me; a dead level plain that had to be traversed
whether I would or not. And such it might have continued to this day if
I had never met Mary Leavenworth. But when, some nine months since, I
left my desk in the counting-house for a seat in Mr. Leavenworth's
library, a blazing torch fell into my soul whose flame has never gone
out, and never will, till the doom before me is accomplished.
     She was so beautiful! When, on that first evening, I followed my new
employer into the parlor, and saw this woman standing up before me in
her half-alluring, half-appalling charm, I knew, as by a lightning
flash, what my future would be if I remained in that house. She was in
one of her haughty moods, and bestowed upon me little more than a
passing glance. But her indifference made slight impression upon me
then. It was enough that I was allowed to stand in her presence and
look unrebuked upon her loveliness. To be sure, it was like gazing into
the flower-wreathed crater of an awakening volcano. Fear and

fascination were in each moment I lingered there; but fear and
fascination made the moment what it was, and I could not have withdrawn
if I would.
     And so it was always. Unspeakable pain as well as pleasure was in
the emotion with which I regarded her. Yet for all that I did not
cease to study her hour by hour and day by day; her smiles, her
movement, her way of turning her head or lifting her eyelids. I had a
purpose in this. I wished to knit her beauty so firmly into the warp
and woof of my being that nothing could ever serve to tear it away. For
I saw then as plainly as now that, coquette though she was, she would
never stoop to me. No; I might lie down at her feet and let her
trample over me; she would not even turn to see what it was she had
stepped upon. I might spend days, months, years, learning the alphabet
of her wishes; she would not thank me for my pains or even raise the
lashes from her cheek to look at me as I passed. I was nothing to her,
could not be anything unless—and this thought came slowly—I could
in some way become her master.
     Meantime I wrote at Mr. Leavenworth's dictation and pleased him. My
methodical ways were just to his taste. As for the other member of the
family, Miss Eleanore Leavenworth—she treated me just as one of her
proud but sympathetic nature might be expected to do. Not familiarly,
but kindly; not as a friend, but as a member of the household whom she
met every day at table, and who, as she or any one else could see, was
none too happy or hopeful.
     Six months went by. I had learned two things; first, that Mary
Leavenworth loved her position as prospective heiress to a large
fortune above every other earthly consideration; and secondly, that

she was in the possession of a secret which endangered that position.
What this was, I had for some time no means of knowing. But when later
I became convinced it was one of love, I grew hopeful, strange as it
may seem. For by this time I had learned Mr. Leavenworth's disposition
almost as perfectly as that of his niece, and knew that in a matter of
this kind he would be uncompromising; and that in the clashing of
these two wills something might occur which would give me a hold upon
her. The only thing that troubled me was the fact that I did not know
the name of the man in whom she was interested. But chance soon favored
me here. One day—a month ago now—I sat down to open Mr.
Leavenworth's mail as usual. One letter—shall I ever forget it? ran
thus:

epistle itself was that of one who felt himself to be her master: a
position which, as you know, I was myself aspiring to occupy. For a few
minutes, then, I stood a prey to feelings of the bitterest wrath and
despair; then I grew calm, realizing that with this letter in my
possession I was virtually the arbitrator of her destiny. Some men
would have sought her there and then and, by threatening to place it in
her uncle's hand, won from her a look of entreaty, if no more; but I
—well, my plans went deeper than that. I knew she would have to be in
extremity before I could hope to win her. She must feel herself
slipping over the edge of the precipice before she would clutch at the
first thing offering succor. I decided to allow the letter to pass into
my employer's hands. But it had been opened! How could I manage to
give it to him in this condition without exciting his suspicion? I knew of
but one way; to let him see me open it for what he would consider the
first time. So, waiting till he came into the room, I approached him
with the letter, tearing off the end of the envelope as I came. Opening
it, I gave a cursory glance at its contents and tossed it down on the
table before him.
     "That appears to be of a private character," said I, "though there
is no sign to that effect on the envelope."
     He took it up while I stood there. At the first word he started,
looked at me, seemed satisfied from my expression that I had not read
far enough to realize its nature, and, whirling slowly around in his
chair, devoured the remainder in silence. I waited a moment, then
withdrew to my own desk. One minute, two minutes passed in silence; he
was evidently rereading the letter; then he hurriedly rose and left
the room. 

As he passed me I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. The
expression I saw there did not tend to lessen the hope that was
rising in my breast.
     By following him almost immediately up-stairs I ascertained that he
went directly to Mary's room, and when in a few hours later the family
collected around the dinner table, I perceived, almost without looking
up, that a great and insurmountable barrier had been raised between
him and his favorite niece.
     Two days passed; days that were for me one long and unrelieved
suspense. Had Mr. Leavenworth answered that letter? Would it all end
as it had begun, without the appearance of the mysterious Clavering on
the scene? I could not tell.
     Meanwhile my monotonous work went on, grinding my heart beneath
its relentless wheel. I wrote and wrote and wrote, till it seemed as if my
life blood went from me with every drop of ink I used. Always alert and
listening, I dared not lift my head or turn my eyes at any unusual
sound, lest I should seem to be watching. The third night I had a dream;
I have already told Mr. Raymond what it was, and hence will not
repeat it here. One correction, however, I wish to make in regard to
it. In my statement to him I declared that the face of the man whom I
saw lift his hand against my employer was that of Mr. Clavering. I lied
when I said this. The face seen by me in my dream was my own. It was
that fact which made it so horrible to me. In the crouching figure
stealing warily down-stairs, I saw as in a glass the vision of my own
form. Otherwise my account of the matter was true.
     This vision had a tremendous effect upon me. Was it a premonition?
a forewarning of the way in which I was to win this coveted creature for 

my own? Was the death of her uncle the bridge by which the
impassable gulf between us might be spanned? I began to think it might
be; to consider the possibilities which could make this the only path
to my elysium; even went so far as to picture her lovely face bending
gratefully towards me through the glare of a sudden release from some
emergency in which she stood. One thing was sure; if that was the way
I must go, I had at least been taught how to tread it; and all through
the dizzy, blurred day that followed, I saw, as I sat at my work,
repeated visions of that stealthy, purposeful figure stealing down the
stairs and entering with uplifted pistol into the unconscious presence
of my employer. I even found myself a dozen times that day turning my
eyes upon the door through which it was to come, wondering how long it
would be before my actual form would pause there. That the moment was
at hand I did not imagine. Even when I left him that night after
drinking with him the glass of sherry mentioned at the inquest, I had
no idea the hour of action was so near. But when, not three minutes
after going upstairs, I caught the sound of a lady's dress rustling
through the hall, and listening, heard Mary Leavenworth pass my door
on her way to the library, I realized that the fatal hour was come;
that something was going to be said or done in that room which would
make this deed necessary. What? I determined to ascertain. Casting
about in my mind for the means of doing so, I remembered that the
ventilator running up through the house opened first into the
passage-way connecting Mr. Leavenworth's bedroom and library, and,
secondly, into the closet of the large spare room adjoining mine.
Hastily unlocking the door of the communication between the rooms, I

took my position in the closet. Instantly the sound of voices reached
my ears; all was open below, and standing there, I was as much an
auditor of what went on between Mary and her uncle as if I were in the
library itself. And what did I hear? Enough to assure me my suspicions
were correct; that it was a moment of vital interest to her; that Mr.
Leavenworth, in pursuance of a threat evidently made some time since,
was in the act of taking steps to change his will, and that she had
come to make an appeal to be forgiven her fault and restored to his
favor. What that fault was, I did not learn. No mention was made of Mr.
Clavering as her husband. I only heard her declare that her action had
been the result of impulse, rather than love; that she regretted it,
and desired nothing more than to be free from all obligations to one
she would fain forget, and be again to her uncle what she was before
she ever saw this man. I thought, fool that I was, it was a mere
engagement she was alluding to, and took the insanest hope from these
words; and when, in a moment later I heard her uncle reply, in his
sternest tone, that she had irreparably forfeited her claims to his
regard and favor, I did not need her short and bitter cry of shame and
disappointment, or that low moan for some one to help her, for me to
sound his death-knell in my heart. Creeping back to my own room, I
waited till I heard her reascend, then I stole forth. Calm as I had
ever been in my life, I went down the stairs just as I had seen myself
do in my dream, and knocking lightly at the library door, went in. Mr.
Leavenworth was sitting in his usual place writing.
     "Excuse me," said I as he looked up, "I have lost my memorandum-
book, and think it possible I may have dropped it in the passage-way

when I went for the wine." He bowed, and I hurried past him
into the closet. Once there, I proceeded rapidly into the room beyond,
procured the pistol, returned, and almost before I realized what I was
doing, had taken up my position behind him, aimed, and fired. The
result was what you know. Without a groan his head fell forward on his
hands, and Mary Leavenworth was the virtual possessor of the thousands
she coveted.
     My first thought was to procure the letter he was writing.
Approaching the table, I tore it out from under his hands, looked at
it, saw that it was, as I expected, a summons to his lawyer, and thrust
it into my pocket, together with the letter from Mr. Clavering, which I
perceived lying spattered with blood on the table before me. Not till
this was done did I think of myself, or remember the echo which that
low, sharp report must have made in the house. Dropping the pistol at
the side of the murdered man, I stood ready to shriek to any one who
entered that Mr. Leavenworth had killed himself. But I was saved from
committing such a folly. The report had not been heard, or if so, had
evidently failed to create an alarm. No one came, and I was left to
contemplate my work undisturbed and decide upon the best course to be
taken to avoid detection. A moment's study of the wound made in his
head by the bullet convinced me of the impossibility of passing the
affair off as a suicide, or even the work of a burglar. To any one
versed in such matters it was manifestly a murder, and a most
deliberate one. My one hope, then, lay in making it as mysterious as it
was deliberate, by destroying all clue to the motive and manner of the
deed. Picking up the pistol, I carried it into the other room with the
intention of cleaning it, but finding nothing there to do it with, came

back for the handkerchief I had seen lying on the floor at Mr.
Leavenworth's feet. It was Miss Eleanore's, but I did not know it till
I had used it to clean the barrel; then the sight of her initials in
one corner so shocked me I forgot to clean the cylinder, and only
thought of how I could do away with this evidence of her handkerchief
having been employed for a purpose so suspicious. Not daring to carry
it from the room, I sought for means to destroy it; but finding none,
compromised the matter by thrusting it deep down behind the cushion of
one of the chairs, in the hope of being able to recover and burn it the
next day. This done, I reloaded the pistol, locked it up, and prepared
to leave the room. But here the horror which usually follows such deeds
struck me like a thunderbolt and made me for the first time uncertain
in my action. I locked the door on going out, something I should never
have done. Not till I reached the top of the stairs did I realize my
folly; and then it was too late, for there before me, candle in hand,
and surprise written on every feature of her face, stood Hannah, one of
the servants, looking at me.
     "Lor, sir, where have you been?" she cried, but strange to say,
in a low tone. "You look as if you had seen a ghost." And her eyes
turned suspiciously to the key which I held in my hand.
     I felt as if some one had clutched me round the throat. Thrusting
the key into my pocket, I took a step towards her. "I will tell you
what I have seen if you will come down-stairs," I whispered; "the
ladies will be disturbed if we talk here," and smoothing my brow as
best I could, I put out my hand and drew her towards me. What my mo-
tive was I hardly knew; the action was probably instinctive; but when I

saw the look which came into her face as I touched her, and the
alacrity with which she prepared to follow me, I took courage,
remembering the one or two previous tokens I had had of this girl's
unreasonable susceptibility to my influence; a susceptibility which I
now felt could be utilized and made to serve my purpose.
     Taking her down to the parlor floor, I drew her into the depths of
the great drawing-room, and there told her in the least alarming way
possible what had happened to Mr. Leavenworth. She was of course
intensely agitated, but she did not scream—the novelty of her
position evidently bewildering her—and, greatly relieved, I went on
to say that I did not know who committed the deed, but that folks would
declare it was I if they knew I had been seen by her on the stairs with
the library key in my hand. "But I won't tell," she whispered,
trembling violently in her fright and eagerness. "I will keep it to
myself. I will say I didn't see anybody." But I soon convinced her that
she could never keep her secret if the police once began to question
her, and, following up my argument with a little cajolery, succeeded
after a long while in winning her consent to leave the house till the
storm should be blown over. But that given, it was some little time
before I could make her comprehend that she must depart at once and
without going back after her things. Not till I brightened up her wits
by a promise to marry her some day if she only obeyed me now, did she
begin to look the thing in the face and show any evidence of the real
mother wit she evidently possessed. "Mrs. Belden would take me in,"
said she, "if I could only get to R—. She takes everybody in who
asks, her; and she would keep me, too, if I told her Miss Mary sent
me. But I can't get there to-night."

     I immediately set to work to convince her that she could. The
midnight train did not leave the city for a half-hour yet, and the
distance to the depot could be easily walked by her in fifteen minutes.
But she had no money! I easily supplied that. And she was afraid she
couldn't find her way! I entered into minutest directions. She still
hesitated, but at length consented to go, and with some further
understanding of the method I was to employ in communicating with her,
we went down-stairs. There we found a hat and shawl of the cook's which
I put on her, and in another moment we were in the carriage yard.
"Remember, you are to say nothing of what has occurred, no matter what
happens," I whispered in parting injunction as she turned to leave me.
"Remember, you are to come and marry me some day," she murmured in
reply, throwing her arms about my neck. The movement was sudden, and
it was probably at this time she dropped the candle she had unconsciously
held clenched in her hand till now. I promised her, and she glided out
of the gate.
     Of the dreadful agitation that followed the disappearance of this
girl I can give no better idea than by saying I not only committed the
additional error of locking up the house on my re-entrance, but omitted
to dispose of the key then in my pocket by flinging it into the street
or dropping it in the hall as I went up. The fact is, I was so absorbed
by the thought of the danger I stood in from this girl, I forgot
everything else. Hannah's pale face, Hannah's look of terror, as she
turned from my side and flitted down the street, were continually
before me. I could not escape them; the form of the dead man lying
below was less vivid. It was as though I were tied in fancy to this

woman of the white face fluttering down the midnight streets. That she
would fail in something—come back or be brought back—that I should
find her standing white and horror-stricken on the front steps when I
went down in the morning, was like a nightmare to me. I began to think
no other result possible; that she never would or could win her way
unchallenged to that little cottage in a distant village; that I had
but sent a trailing flag of danger out into the world with this
wretched girl;—danger that would come back to me with the first burst
of morning light!
     But even those thoughts faded after a while before the realization
of the peril I was in as long as the key and papers remained in my
possession. How to get rid of them! I dared not leave my room again,
or open my window. Some one might see me and remember it. Indeed I 
was afraid to move about in my room. Mr. Leavenworth might hear me. 
Yes, my morbid terror had reached that point—I was fearful of one
whose ears I myself had forever closed, imagined him in his bed beneath
and wakeful to the least sound.
     But the necessity of doing something with these evidences of guilt
finally overcame this morbid anxiety, and drawing the two letters from
my pocket—I had not yet undressed—I chose out the most dangerous of
the two, that written by Mr. Leavenworth himself, and, chewing it till
it was mere pulp, threw it into a corner; but the other had blood on
it, and nothing, not even the hope of safety, could induce me to put it
to my lips. I was forced to lie with it clenched in my hand, and the
flitting image of Hannah before my eyes, till the slow morning broke. I
have heard it said that a year in heaven seems like a day; I can
easily believe it. I know that an hour in hell seems an eternity!

     But with daylight came hope. Whether it was that the sunshine
glancing on the wall made me think of Mary and all I was ready to do
for her sake, or whether it was the mere return of my natural stoicism
in the presence of actual necessity, I cannot say. I only know that I
arose calm and master of myself. The problem of the letter and key had
solved itself also. Hide them? I would not try to! Instead of that I
would put them in plain sight, trusting to that very fact for their
being overlooked. Making the letter up into lighters, I carried them
into the spare room and placed them in a vase. Then, taking the key in
my hand, went down-stairs, intending to insert it in the lock of the
library door as I went by. But Miss Eleanore descending almost
immediately behind me made this impossible. I succeeded, however, in
thrusting it, without her knowledge, among the filagree work of the
gas-fixture in the second hall, and thus relieved, went down into the
breakfast room as self-possessed a man as ever crossed its threshold.
Mary was there, looking exceedingly pale and disheartened, and as I met
her eye, which for a wonder turned upon me as I entered, I could almost
have laughed, thinking of the deliverance that had come to her, and of
the time when I should proclaim myself to be the man who had
accomplished it.
     Of the alarm that speedily followed, and my action at that time and
afterwards, I need not speak in detail. I behaved just as I would have
done if I had had no hand in the murder. I even forbore to touch the
key or go to the spare room, or make any movement which I was not
willing all the world should see. For as things stood, there was not a
shadow of evidence against me in the house; neither was I, a
hard-working, uncomplaining secretary, whose passion for one of his

employer's nieces was not even mistrusted by the lady herself, a person
to be suspected of the crime which threw him out of a fair situation.
So I performed all the duties of my position, summoning the police, and
going for Mr. Veeley, just as I would have done if those hours between
me leaving Mr. Leavenworth for the first time and going down to
breakfast in the morning had been blotted from my consciousness.
     And this was the principle upon which I based my action at the
inquest. Leaving that half-hour and its occurrences out of the
question, I resolved to answer such questions as might be put me as
truthfully as I could; the great fault with men situated as I was
usually being that they lied too much, thus committing themselves on
unessential matters. But alas, in thus planning for my own safety, I
forgot one thing, and that was the dangerous position in which I should
thus place Mary Leavenworth as the one benefited by the crime. Not
till the inference was drawn by a juror, from the amount of wine found
in Mr. Leavenworth's glass in the morning, that he had come to his
death shortly after my leaving him, did I realize what an opening I had
made for suspicion in her direction by admitting that I had heard a
rustle on the stair a few minutes after going up. That all present
believed it to have been made by Eleanore, did not reassure me. She was
so completely disconnected with the crime I could not imagine suspicion
holding to her for an instant. But Mary — If a curtain had been let
down before me, pictured with the future as it has since developed, I
could not have seen more plainly what her position would be, if
attention were once directed towards her. So, in the vain endeavor to
cover up my blunder, I began to lie. Forced to admit that a shadow of
disagreement had been lately visible between 

Mr. Leavenworth and one of his nieces, I threw the burden of it upon 
Eleanore, as the one best able to bear it. The consequences were more 
serious than I anticipated. Direction had been given to suspicion which 
every additional evidence that now came up seemed by some strange 
fatality to strengthen. Not only was it proved that Mr. Leavenworth's own 
pistol had been used in the assassination, and that too by a person then in 
the house, but I myself was brought to acknowledge that Eleanore had 
learned from me, only a little while before, how to load, aim, and fire this 
very pistol — a coincidence mischievous enough to have been of the 
devil's own making.
     Seeing all this, my fear of what the ladies would admit when
questioned became very great. Let them in their innocence acknowledge
that, upon my ascent, Mary had gone to her uncle's room for the purpose
of persuading him not to carry into effect the action he contemplated,
and what consequences might not ensue! I was in a torment of
apprehension. But events of which I had at that time no knowledge had
occurred to influence them. Eleanore, with some show of reason, as it
seems, not only suspected her cousin of the crime, but had informed her
of the fact, and Mary, overcome with terror at finding there was more
or less circumstantial evidence supporting the suspicion, decided to
deny whatever told against herself, trusting to Eleanore's generosity
not to be contradicted. Nor was her confidence misplaced. Though, by
the course she took, Eleanore was forced to deepen the prejudice
already rife against herself, she not only forbore to contradict her
cousin, but when a true answer would have injured her, actually refused
to return any, a lie being something she could not utter, even to save
one especially endeared to her.

     This conduct of hers had one effect upon me. It aroused my
admiration and made me feel that here was a woman worth helping if
assistance could be given without danger to myself. Yet I doubt if my
sympathy would have led me into doing anything, if I had not perceived,
by the stress laid upon certain well-known matters, that actual danger
hovered about us all while the letter and key remained in the house.
Even before the handkerchief was produced, I had made up my mind to
attempt their destruction; but when that was brought up and shown, I
became so alarmed I immediately rose and, making my way under some
pretence or other to the floors above, snatched the key from the
gas-fixture, the lighters from the vase, and hastening with them down
the hall to Mary Leavenworth's room, went in under the expectation of
finding a fire there in which to destroy them. But, to my heavy
disappointment, there were only a few smoldering ashes in the grate,
and, thwarted in my design, I stood hesitating what to do, when I heard
some one coming up-stairs. Alive to the consequences of being found in
that room at that time, I cast the lighters into the grate and started
for the door. But in the quick move I made, the key flew from my hand
and slid under a chair. Aghast at the mischance, I paused, but the
sound of approaching steps increasing, I lost all control over myself
and fled from the room. And indeed I had no time to lose. I had barely
reached my own door when Eleanore Leavenworth, followed by two
servants, appeared at the top of the staircase and proceeded towards
the room I had just left. The sight reassured me; she would see the
key, and take some means of disposing of it; and indeed I always
supposed her to have done so, for no further word of key or letter ever
came to my ears. 

    This may explain why the questionable position in which Eleanore soon
found herself awakened in me no greater anxiety. I thought the suspicions 
of the police rested upon nothing more tangible than the peculiarity of 
her manner at the inquest and the discovery of her handkerchief on 
the scene of the tragedy. I did not know they possessed what 
might be called absolute proof of her connection with
the crime. But if I had, I doubt if my course would have been any
different. Mary's peril was the one thing capable of influencing me,
and she did not appear to be in peril. On the contrary, every one, by
common consent, seemed to ignore all appearance of guilt on her part.
If Mr. Gryce, whom I soon learned to fear, had given one sign of
suspicion, or Mr. Raymond, whom I speedily recognized as my most
persistent though unconscious foe, had betrayed the least distrust of
her, I should have taken warning. But they did not, and, lulled into a
false security by their manner, I let the days go by without suffering
any fears on her account. But not without many anxieties for myself.
Hannah's existence precluded all sense of personal security. Knowing
the determination of the police to find her, I trod the verge of an
awful suspense continually.
     Meantime the wretched certainty was forcing itself upon me that I
had lost, instead of gained, a hold on Mary Leavenworth. Not only did
she evince the utmost horror of the deed which had made her mistress of
her uncle's wealth, but, owing, as I believed, to the influence of Mr.
Raymond, soon gave evidence that she was losing, to a certain extent,
the characteristics of mind and heart which had made me hopeful of
winning her by this deed of blood. This revelation drove me almost
insane. Under the terrible restraint forced upon me, I walked my weary

round in a state of mind bordering on frenzy. Many and many a time have
I stopped in my work, wiped my pen and laid it down with the idea that
I could not repress myself another moment, but I have always taken it
up again and gone on with my task. Mr. Raymond has sometimes shown 
his wonder at my sitting in my dead employer's chair. Great heaven! it was
my only safeguard. By keeping the murder constantly before my mind, I
was enabled to restrain myself from any inconsiderate action.
     At last there came a time when my agony could be no longer
suppressed. Going down the stairs one evening with Mr. Raymond, I
saw a strange gentleman standing in the reception room, looking at Mary
Leavenworth in a way that would have made my blood boil, even if I had
not heard him whisper these words: "But you are my wife, and know it,
whatever you may say or do!"
     It was the lightning-stroke of my life. After what I had done to
make her mine, to hear another claim her as already his own, was
stunning, maddening! It forced a demonstration from me. I had either
to yell in my fury or deal the man beneath some tremendous blow in my
hatred. I did not dare to shriek, so I struck the blow. Demanding his
name from Mr. Raymond, and hearing that it was, as I expected,
Clavering, I flung caution, reason, common sense, all to the winds, and
in a moment of fury denounced him as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth.
     The next instant I would have given worlds to recall my words. What
had I done but drawn attention to myself in thus accusing a man against
whom nothing could of course be proved! But recall now was impossible.
So, after a night of thought, I did the next best thing: gave a

superstitious reason for my action, and so restored myself to my former
position without eradicating from the mind of Mr. Raymond that vague
doubt of the man which my own safety demanded. But I had no intention
of going any further, nor should I have done so if I had not observed
that for some reason Mr. Raymond was willing to suspect Mr. Clavering.
But that once seen, revenge took possession of me, and I asked myself
if the burden of this crime could be thrown on this man. Still I do not
believe that any active results would have followed this
self-questioning if I had not overheard a whispered conversation
between two of the servants, in which I learned that Mr. Clavering had
been seen to enter the house on the night of the murder, but was not
seen to leave it. That determined me. With such a fact for a
starting-point, what might I not hope to accomplish? Hannah alone
stood in my way. While she remained alive I saw nothing but ruin before
me. I made up my mind to destroy her and satisfy my hatred of Mr.
Clavering at one blow. But how? By what means could I reach her
without deserting my post, or make away with her without exciting fresh
suspicion? The problem seemed insolvable; but Trueman Harwell had not
played the part of a machine so long without result. Before I had
studied the question a day, light broke upon it, and I saw that the
only way to accomplish my plans was to inveigle her into destroying
herself.
     No sooner had this thought matured than I hastened to act upon it.
Knowing the tremendous risk I ran, I took every precaution. Locking
myself up in my room, I wrote her a letter in printed characters—she
having distinctly told me she could not read writing—in which I played
upon her ignorance, foolish fondness, and Irish superstition, by

telling her I dreamed of her every night and wondered if she did of me;
was afraid she didn't, so enclosed her a little charm, which,
if she would use according to directions, would give her the most
beautiful visions. These directions were for her first to destroy my
letter by burning it, next to take in her hand the packet I was careful
to enclose, swallow the powder accompanying it, and go to bed. The
powder was a deadly dose of poison and the packet was, as you know, a
forged confession falsely criminating Henry Clavering. Enclosing all
these in an envelope in the corner of which I had marked a cross, I
directed it, according to agreement, to Mrs. Belden, and sent it.
     Then followed the greatest period of suspense I had yet endured.
Though I had purposely refrained from putting my name to the letter, I
felt that the chances of detection were very great. Let her depart in
the least particular from the course I had marked out for her, and
fatal results must ensue. If she opened the enclosed packet, mistrusted
the powder, took Mrs. Belden into her confidence, or even failed to
burn my letter, all would be lost. I could not be sure of her or know
the result of my scheme except through the newspapers. Do you think I
kept watch of the countenances about me? devoured the telegraphic
news, or started when the bell rang? And when, a few days since, I
read that short paragraph in the paper which assured me that my efforts
had at least produced the death of the woman I feared, do you think I
experienced any sense of relief?
     But of that why speak? In six hours had come the summons from Mr.
Gryce, and—let these prison walls, this confession itself, tell the
rest. I am no longer capable of speech or action.