no improvement mentally, though I did gain physically, I was taken to a
private sanatorium. My destination was frankly disclosed to me. But my
habit of disbelief had now become fixed, and I thought myself on the
way to a trial in New York City, for some one of the many crimes with
which I stood charged.

My emotions on leaving New Haven were, I imagine, much the same as
those of a condemned but penitent criminal who looks upon the world for
the last time. The day was hot, and, as we drove to the railway
station, the blinds on most of the houses in the streets through which
we passed were seen to be closed. The reason for this was not then
apparent to me. I thought I saw an unbroken line of deserted houses,
and I imagined that their desertion had been deliberately planned as a
sign of displeasure on the part of their former occupants. As citizens
of New Haven, I supposed them bitterly ashamed of such a despicable
townsman as myself. Because of the early hour, the streets were
practically deserted. This fact, too, I interpreted to my own
disadvantage. As the carriage crossed the main business thoroughfare, I
took what I believed to be my last look at that part of my native city.

From the carriage I was carried to the train and placed in the smoking
car in the last seat on the right-hand side. The back of the seat next
in front was reversed so that my legs might be placed in a comfortable
position, and one of the boards used by card-playing travelers was
placed beneath them as a support. With a consistent degree of suspicion
I paid particular attention to a blue mark on the face of the railroad
ticket held by my custodian. I took it to be a means of identification
for use in court.

That one's memory may perform its function in the grip of Unreason