tinued rest, but did not oppose me
too violently when I declared that such a thing was out of the question
until the ten remaining ledgers have been checked.

Jan. 17.--For three nights I have had no experiences--my day of rest has
borne fruit. Only a quarter of my task is left, but I must make a forced
march, for the lawyers are clamouring for their material. I will give
them enough and to spare. I have him fast on a hundred counts. When they
realize what a slippery, cunning rascal he is, I should gain some credit
from the case. False trading accounts, false balance-sheets, dividends
drawn from capital, losses written down as profits, suppression of
working expenses, manipulation of petty cash--it is a fine record!

Jan. 18.--Headaches, nervous twitches, mistiness, fullness of the
temples--all the premonitions of trouble, and the trouble came sure
enough. And yet my real sorrow is not so much that the vision should
come as that it should cease before all is revealed.

But I saw more tonight. The crouching man was as visible as the
lady whose gown he clutched. He is a little swarthy fellow, with a
black-pointed beard. He has a loose gown of damask trimmed with fur. The
prevailing tints of his dress are red. What a fright the fellow is in,
to be sure! He cowers and shivers and glares back over his shoulder.
There is a small knife in his other hand, but he is far too tremulous
and cowed to use it. Dimly now I begin to see the figures in the
background. Fierce faces, bearded and dark, shape themselves out of the
mist. There is one terrible creature, a skeleton of a man, with hollow
cheeks and eyes sunk in his head. He also has a knife in his hand. On
the right of the woman stands a tall man, very young, with flaxen hair,
his face sullen and dour. The beautiful woman looks up at him in appeal.
So does the man on the ground. This youth seems to be the arbiter of
their fate. The crouching man draws closer and hides himself in the
woman's skirts. The tall youth bends and tries to drag her away from
him. So much I saw last night before the mirror cleared. Shall I never
know what it leads to and whence it comes? It is not a mere imagination,
of that I am very sure. Somewhere, some time, this scene has been acted,
and this old mirror has reflected it. But when--where?

Jan. 20.--My work draws to a close, and it is time. I feel a tenseness
within my brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which warns me that
something must give.