a man's bold hand, the
words "Poor fool!"

This sudden revelation of poor Julia's death and dying thoughts unnerved
me quite. I grew colder in my whole frame than ever.

"Take it!" said her voice. I took the book, pushed back the cabinet into
its place against the wall, and, leaving that fearful room, stole down
the stairs with trembling limbs, and left the house with all the
feelings of a guilty thief.

For some days I perused my poor lost Julia's diary again and again. The
whole revelation of her sad life and sudden death led but to one
conclusion,--she had died of poison by the hands of her unworthy
husband. He had insured her life, and then----

It seemed evident to me that Mary Simms had vaguely shared suspicions of
the same foul deed. On my own mind came conviction. But what could I do
next? how bring this evil man to justice? what proof would be deemed to
exist in those writings? I was bewildered, weak, irresolute. Like
Hamlet, I shrank back and temporized. But I was not feigning madness; my
madness seemed but all too real for me. During all this period the
wailing of that wretched voice in my ear was almost incessant. O, I must
have been mad!

I wandered about restlessly, like the haunted thing I had become. One
day I had come unconsciously and without purpose into Oxford Street. My
troubled thoughts were suddenly broken in upon by the solicitations of a
beggar. With a heart hardened against begging impostors, and under the
influence of the shock rudely given to my absorbing dreams, I answered
more hardly than was my wont. The man heaved a heavy sigh, and sobbed
forth, "Then Heaven help me!" I caught sight of him before he turned
away. He was a ghastly object, with fever in his hollow eyes and sunken
cheeks, and fever on his dry, chapped lips. But I knew, or fancied I
knew, the tricks of the trade, and I was obdurate. Why, I asked myself,
should the cold shudder come over me at such a moment? But it was so
strong on me as to make me shake all over. It came--that maddening
voice. "Succor!" it said now. I had become so accustomed already to
address the ghostly voice that I cried aloud, "Why, Julia, why?" I saw
people laughing in my face at this strange cry, and I turned in the
direction in which the beggar had gone. I just caught sight of him as he
was tottering down a street toward Soho. I determined to have pity for
this once, and followed the poor man. He led me on through I know not
what streets. His ste