There was at Auburn an old, abandoned cemetery. It was nearly in the
heart of the town, yet by night it was as gruesome a place as the most
dismal of human moods could crave. The railings about the plats were
prostrate, decayed, or altogether gone. Many of the graves were sunken,
from others grew sturdy pines, whose roots had committed unspeakable sin.
The headstones were fallen and broken across; brambles overran the
ground; the fence was mostly gone, and cows and pigs wandered there at
will; the place was a dishonor to the living, a calumny on the dead, a
blasphemy against God.
The evening of the day on which I had taken my madman’s resolution to
depart in anger from all that was dear to me found me in that congenial
spot. The light of the half moon fell ghostly through the foliage of
trees in spots and patches, revealing much that was unsightly, and the
black shadows seemed conspiracies withholding to the proper time
revelations of darker import. Passing along what had been a gravel path,
I saw emerging from shadow the figure of Dr. Dorrimore. I was myself in
shadow, and stood still with clenched hands and set teeth, trying to
control the impulse to leap upon and strangle him. A moment later a
second figure joined him and clung to his arm. It was Margaret Corray!
I cannot rightly relate what occurred. I know that I sprang forward,
bent upon murder; I know that I was found in the gray of the morning,
bruised and bloody, with finger marks upon my throat. I was taken to the
Putnam House, where for days I lay in a delirium. All this I know, for I
have been told. And of my own knowledge I know that when consciousness
returned with convalescence I sent for the clerk of the hotel.
“Are Mrs. Corray and her daughter still here?” I asked.
“What name did you say?”
“Corray.”
“Nobody of that name has been here.”
“I beg you will not trifle with me,” I said petulantly. “You see that I
am all right now; tell me the truth.”
“I give you my word,” he replied with evident sincerity, “we have had no
guests of that name.”
His words stupefied me. I lay for a few moments in silence; then I
asked: “Where is Dr. Dorrimore?”
“He left on the morning of your fight and has not been heard of since.
It was a rough deal he gave you.”
V
Such are the facts of this case. Margaret Corray is now my wife. She
has never seen Auburn, and during the weeks whose history as it shaped
itself in my brain I have endeavored to relate, was living at her home in
Oakland, wondering where her lover was and why he did not write. The
other day I saw in the Baltimore _Sun_ the following paragraph:
“Professor Valentine Dorrimore, the hypnotist, had a large audience last
night. The lecturer, who has lived most of his life in India, gave some
marvelous exhibitions of his power, hypnotizing anyone who chose to
submit himself to the experiment, by merely looking at him. In fact, he
twice hypnotized the entire audience (reporters alone exempted), making
all entertain the most extraordinary illusions. The most valuable
feature of the lecture was the disclosure of the methods of the Hindu
jugglers in their famous performances, familiar in the mouths of
travelers. The professor declares that these thaumaturgists have
acquired such skill in the art which he learned at their feet that they
perform their miracles by simply throwing the ‘spectators’ into a state
of hypnosis and telling them what to see and hear. His assertion that a
peculiarly susceptible subject may be kept in the realm of the unreal for
weeks, months, and even years, dominated by whatever delusions and
hallucinations the operator may from time to time suggest, is a trifle
disquieting.”