The next impression my memory has any record of was a huge ocean
steamer, floating away upon the deep. Great volumes of smoke were
pouring forth from its smoke-stacks as it majestically glided over the
water. Upon its many decks were hundreds of human beings, scattered
about in little groups, gaily chatting and enjoying to the fullest
extent the delight experienced by an ocean voyage. Among all of the
happy faces, however, there was one that appeared sad and forlorn. It
was the face of a beautiful young woman, standing alone against the
railing of the promenade deck, who was weeping in silence. As she raised
her eyes and looked in my direction, I instantly recognized the girl
Arletta, and realized that she was leaving me forever. And then, like
one in a dream, I held out my hands and mutely implored her to return.
She appeared to be within a short distance and looking straight at me,
but still made no sign of recognition. I could not understand the reason
for such coldness on her part, and in astonishment rubbed my eyes and
looked again, when lo and behold, she had vanished from sight. But far
out into the distance, almost to the horizon, I could plainly see a
large steamer headed toward the vast ocean beyond. I looked around in a
confused sort of a way, and discovered, to my surprise, that I was
standing almost at the water's edge on one of the docks near Battery
Place. It was daylight, and the sun was shining overhead. I then
concluded that I must have been out of my head for some time, and
questioning a stranger, who stood nearby, I learned that just fourteen
hours had elapsed since I had bade Arletta good-bye, and I could form no
recollection of the slightest incident that happened since then.
After watching the steamer until it had disappeared from view, I slowly
walked to a bench in Battery Park and sat down, in the depths of
despair, to reflect upon the strange occurrence. I must have sat there
for about an hour in deep meditation, when my attention was attracted by
a newspaper urchin, shouting at the top of his voice: "Paper! Extra! All
about the great murder." At the same time he rushed up to me, pushed a
paper into my hand, took the penny I offered him mechanically, and
scampered along.
"Another murder," mused I; "what a pity human beings cannot dwell
together without taking each other's lives."
Glancing over the headlines, I learned from the big black type that a
beautiful young woman had been murdered in cold blood. Reading further,
I was horrified to find that the young woman's name was Arletta Fogg,
and that she was murdered in her own rooms, at the Seraglio Apartments,
Central Park West. I could hardly believe my eyes saw the thing aright.
I felt sure that it must be an optical illusion wrought by my constant
thought of Arletta. I looked again and again, yet read ever the same
words, and, laboring under tremendous excitement, I hurriedly perused
the account of the murder. It stated that about eleven o'clock of the
previous night Arletta Fogg had arrived at the apartment house, and had
been taken to her rooms by the elevator attendant. A half hour later a
tall, smooth-faced, white-haired gentleman arrived, and was shown to her
apartments. This man was seen by the watchman to leave the place at
three o'clock in the morning, and the chambermaid discovered her at ten
o'clock in the morning, dead, and covered with blood from several stabs
in the body.
Cold perspiration oozed from every pore of my body as I read and re-read
this article, over and over again. I was puzzled, dumbfounded, horror-
stricken. The description given of the apparent murderer tallied exactly
with myself. Straining every nerve I endeavored to regain some
impression that might lead to a knowledge of my actions from the time
Arletta left me the night before until I had recovered my senses that
day. But try as I might, I could no more recall to memory the slightest
movement on my part during that time than I could recollect any event
which happened during the twenty-one years of which my life had been a
blank.
Like a man under the influence of liquor I arose and staggered hurriedly
forward until I reached the "L" station where I boarded a train and rode
up to Eighty-first street. Here I alighted and walked rapidly over to
the Seraglio Apartments. A vast crowd of curious people was collected
about the place, and as I approached, all eyes were apparently turned
upon me.
Hastening forward I bounded up the entrance steps and almost flew into
the vestibule. There were little knots of people standing about the
hallway, talking in low tones. Even their voices hushed as I hurried
into the elevator and told the attendant to take me up to the eighth
floor. The operator appeared to be almost frightened out of his wits at
the sight of me, but after a momentary pause he ran the elevator to the
eighth floor, peering at me all the time as he might have eyed a wild
beast who was about to devour him. Many people were in the upper hall-
way, but looking neither to the right nor to the left, I went straight
to the door of the room I had entered the night I had taken Arletta
home. Finding it locked, without a moment's hesitation I threw against
it, all of the force my gigantic frame could command which caused it to
give way and fly open before me. I then observed that there were several
men in the room, in different positions and groups, as if making a study
of the surroundings. Lying upon the bed, in the room adjoining, was the
form of a woman partly covered by a spread, and being examined by a man
who might have been the coroner. As I rushed forward like a madman,
every one there became frightened and made way for me to pass.
Approaching the bed I eagerly scanned her features, and being positive
of her identity I took the inanimate form of Arletta in my arms and
kissing her tenderly, was overcome by emotion.