before my smile.

"Yes, it is the weeping one who causes me the most trouble. A reluctant
worshipper who annoys me. He clings like another phantom. A meddlesome
imbecile who keeps buttonholing me and pouring out tales of woe. And who
keeps my name on his lips. I can see it moving on his lips. But he is
dumb. I have his secret though. This dumb one came to me in the snow. I
was faint. Hunger had thrown me to the ground. When I stood up he was
beside me. His lips moved excitedly but they made no sound. And we
walked home together.

"'Who is this pathetic intruder?' I thought. 'He walks beside me
gesturing with his lips and weeping, weeping. He falls on my neck and
embraces me. His eyes roll with panic. What new variant of madness is
this?'

"It is curious that of all the Mallares he alone is speechless. The
others keep up their incessant babbling and screaming--true citizens of
Bedlam. But this dumb one who attached himself to me in the snow, even
his lips have stopped moving now, except to form my name slowly as he
blubbers on my shoulder.

"I am kind to him and forgiving. I smile. I even coax him to speak, to
move his lips once more. In the snow when he followed me home I was able
to detect words his silence spoke.

"'Blood on your hands,' he repeated. 'Think, think, Mallare.'

"I humored him and looked at my hands. They were clean. And I answered
him soothingly.

"'You are an interesting quirk,' I said. 'My senses that fancy they have
killed a woman have given birth to an illusion of guilt. And you are
that illusion. My madness dresses itself in logic like a fishwife
hanging rhinestones in her hair.

"'Be calm,' I said, 'Mallare has slain only a phantom, and the murder of
illusions is a highly respectable privilege whose exercise is rewarded
on earth as well as in heaven.'

"But this creature was not to be diverted from himself.

"'He is another one of them,' I thought. 'He walks and implores and
wrings his hand and babbles, 'blood, blood that was real.' And there is
nothing to be done with him. Another pathologic symptom asks the
hospitality of Mallare, and I must make the proper pretense of
graciousness and cordiality.

"'But first I must identify my guest. Take his measure out of the corner
of my eye and understand him. Very well, I have been the victim of a
hallucination which my senses accepted as real. And which I was able to
murder only by pretending I too believed it real. Therefore, having
commi