rty years of age, smooth of face and
slightly built. Nerve was in every line of face and body. He was
faultlessly dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore no jewelry, not
even a watch; but within the pocket of his vest was found a small
jewel-case containing two beautiful white diamonds, each of more than
a carat weight. One was unset, the other mounted in a lady's ring.
There was money in plenty upon his person, but not an article that
would give the slightest clue to his identity.

One peculiar thing about him I noticed, and could not account for:
upon the palm of each hand was a row of irregular abrasions, but
slightly healed, and which looked as though made by some dull
instrument.

The book with which he entrusted me had begun as a journal, but with
the passage of events it had outgrown its original plan. Being
expansible, fresh sheets had been added as it grew, and at the back of
the book, on one of these blanks, had been hastily scratched, in
pencil, the message of which he spoke:

"You will find sufficient money in my pockets to cover all expenses.
Do not take my trinkets, please! Associations make them dear to me.
Any attempt to discover my friends will be useless."

Notwithstanding the last sentence the body was embalmed and the death
advertised; but no response came, and after three days the body and
the tokens he loved were quietly buried here in the city.

Meantime I had read the book, beginning from a sense of duty that grew
into a passing interest, and ended by making me unaware of both time
and place. I give you the journal as it stands, word for word and date
for date. Would that I could show you the handwriting in the original
as well. No printed page can tell the story of mood as can the lines
of this journal. There were moments of passion when words slurred and
overtook each other, as thought moved more rapidly than the characters
which recorded; and again, periods of uncertainty when the hand
tarried and busied itself with forming meaningless figures, while the
conscious mind roamed far away.

* * * * *

_March 17._ Why do I begin a journal now, a thing I have never done
before? Had another asked the question, I could have turned it off
with a laugh, but with myself it will not do. I must answer it, and
honestly. Know then, my ego who catechises, I have things to tell,
feelings to describe that are new to me and which I cannot tell to
another. The exc