murmured, when he had read the first lines.
"Young, in easy circumstances, happy and contented."

These first pages told of pleasure trips, of visits from and to good
friends, of many little events of every-day life. Then came some
accounts, written in pencil, of shopping expeditions to the city. Costly
laces and jewels had been bought, and linen garments for children by the
dozen. "She is rich, generous, and charitable," thought the detective,
for the book showed that the considerable sums which had been spent here
had not been for the writer herself. The laces bore the mark, "For our
church"; behind the account for the linen stood the words, "For the
charity school."

Muller began to feel a strong sympathy for the writer of these notices.
She showed an orderly, almost pedantic, character, mingled with
generosity of heart. He turned leaf after leaf until he finally came to
the words, written in intentionally heavy letters, "How I was murdered."

Muller's head sank down lower over these mysterious words, and his eyes
flew through the writing that followed. It was quite a different writing
here. The hand that penned these words must have trembled in deadly
terror. Was it terror of coming death, foreseen and not to be escaped?
or was it the trembling and the terror of an overthrown brain? It was
undoubtedly, in spite of the difference, the same hand that had penned
the first pages of the book. A few characteristic turns of the writing
were plainly to be seen in both parts of the story. But the ink was
quite different also. The first pages had been written with a delicate
violet ink, the later leaves were penned with a black ink of uneven
quality, of the kind used by poor people who write very seldom. The
words of this later portion of the book were blurred in many places, as
if the writer had not been able to dry them properly before she turned
the leaves. She therefore had had neither blotting paper nor sand at her
disposal.

And then the weird title!

Was it written at the dictation of insanity? or did A. L. know, while
she wrote it, that it was too late for any help to reach her? Did she
see her doom approaching so clearly that she knew there was no escape?

Muller breathed a deep breath before he continued his reading. Later
on his breath came more quickly still, and he clinched his fist several
times, as if deeply moved. He was not a cold man, only thoroughly
self-controlled. In his breast there lived an unque