of mental pain he wrestled on the edge of the abyss with
some unknown danger.

He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask.
But it was just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our help
and strength could have availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whose
confidential secretary he was--nay, well-nigh adopted son and full
business partner--he no longer came among us. Not, as I now know, that
our company was distasteful to him, but because his trouble had so grown
that he could not respond to our happiness nor find surcease with us.
Why this should be so we could not at the time understand, for when Eben
Hale's will was probated, the world learned that he was sole heir to
his employer's many millions, and it was expressly stipulated that this
great inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, or
hindrance in the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a penny
of cash, was bequeathed to the dead man's relatives. As for his direct
family, one astounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to
dispense to Eben Hale's wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his
judgement dictated, at whatever times he deemed advisable. Had there
been any scandal in the dead man's family, or had his sons been wild
or undutiful, then there might have been a glimmering of reason in
this most unusual action; but Eben Hale's domestic happiness had been
proverbial in the community, and one would have to travel far and wide
to discover a cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sons and daughters.
While his wife--well, by those who knew her best she was endearingly
termed "The Mother of the Gracchi." Needless to state, this inexplicable
will was a nine day's wonder; but the expectant public was disappointed
in that no contest was made.

It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately
marble mausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed
in this morning's paper. I have just received through the mail a letter
from him, posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himself
into eternity. This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative in
his own handwriting, linking together numerous newspaper clippings and
facsimiles of letters. The original correspondence, he has told me,
is in the hands of the police. He has begged me, also, as a warning to
society against a most frightful and diabolical danger which threatens
its very existence, to make public the