“Mrs. Johnston is dying, they say, from grief. Lessman chuckles over it,
thinking it a huge joke. When I am with him, I laugh, too. Away from
him, I can see the horror—the devilish horror of it all.
“Lessman is richer by thousands of dollars. Mrs. Johnston, if she lives,
will be almost a pauper. The sum of which she was filched represented
practically their all—the savings of a lifetime. For Lessman presented
a forged will in which almost everything, except a small amount for the
widow, was left to charity _with Lessman as the administrator_.”
_CHAPTER XIII._
_Following the above, my diary is filled for several pages with
meaningless, childlike scrawls. I seem to have tried to write, but
evidently my brain and hand failed to co-ordinate. Here and there I
can make out a curse against The Bodymaster, but nothing else can be
read. From this I take it that several weeks passed between the time
the last entry was written and that which now follows. During that
time I was probably in one of my trancelike states, so deeply under
Lessman’s influence that I had no control over my actions. At the same
time the fact that I even attempted to write shows that, deep within my
subconscious brain, there was ever that desire to give the horrible truth
to the world._