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Page 24
April 29. Our sleepy little town has had a small
sensation. The only knowledge of crime which we ever
have is when a rowdy undergraduate breaks a few lamps
or comes to blows with a policeman. Last night,
however, there was an attempt made to break-into the
branch of the Bank of England, and we are all in a
flutter in consequence.
Parkenson, the manager, is an intimate friend of mine,
and I found him very much excited when I walked round
there after breakfast. Had the thieves broken into the
counting-house, they would still have had the safes to
reckon with, so that the defence was considerably
stronger than the attack. Indeed, the latter does not
appear to have ever been very formidable. Two of the
lower windows have marks as if a chisel or some such
instrument had been pushed under them to force them
open. The police should have a good clue, for the
wood-work had been done with green paint only the day
before, and from the smears it is evident that some of
it has found its way on to the criminal's hands or
clothes.
4.30 P. M. Ah, that accursed woman! That thrice
accursed woman! Never mind! She shall not beat me!
No, she shall not! But, oh, the she-devil! She has
taken my professorship. Now she would take my honor.
Is there nothing I can do against her, nothing save----
Ah, but, hard pushed as I am, I cannot bring myself to
think of that!
It was about an hour ago that I went into my bedroom,
and was brushing my hair before the glass, when
suddenly my eyes lit upon something which left me so
sick and cold that I sat down upon the edge of the bed
and began to cry. It is many a long year since I shed
tears, but all my nerve was gone, and I could but sob
and sob in impotent grief and anger. There was my
house jacket, the coat I usually wear after dinner,
hanging on its peg by the wardrobe, with the right
sleeve thickly crusted from wrist to elbow with daubs
of green paint.
So this was what she meant by another turn of the
screw! She had made a public imbecile of me. Now she
would brand me as a criminal. This time she has
failed. But how about the next? I dare not think of
it--and of Agatha and my poor old mother! I wish that
I were dead!
Yes, this is the other turn of the screw. And this is
also what she meant, no doubt, when she said that I had
not realized yet the power she has over me. I look
back at my account of my conversation with her, and I
see how she declared that with a slight exertion of her
will her subject would be conscious, and with a
stronger one unconscious. Last night I was
unconscious. I could have sworn that I slept soundly
in my bed without so much as a dream. And yet those
stains tell me that I dressed, made my way out,
attempted to open the bank windows, and returned. Was
I observed? Is it possible that some one saw me do it
and followed me home? Ah, what a hell my life has
become! I have no peace, no rest. But my patience is
nearing its end.
10 P. M. I have cleaned my coat with turpentine. I do
not think that any one could have seen me. It was with
my screw-driver that I made the marks. I found it all
crusted with paint, and I have cleaned it. My head
aches as if it would burst, and I have taken five
grains of antipyrine. If it were not for Agatha, I
should have taken fifty and had an end of it.
May 3. Three quiet days. This hell fiend is like a
cat with a mouse. She lets me loose only to pounce
upon me again. I am never so frightened as when every
thing is still. My physical state is deplorable--
perpetual hiccough and ptosis of the left eyelid.
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