The sanatorium to which I was going was in the country. When a certain
station was reached, I was carried from the train to a carriage. At
that moment I caught sight of a former college acquaintance, whose
appearance I thought was designed to let me know that Yale, which I
believed I had disgraced, was one of the powers behind my throne of
torture.

Soon after I reached my room in the sanatorium, the supervisor entered.
Drawing a table close to the bed, he placed upon it a slip of paper
which he asked me to sign. I looked upon this as a trick of the
detectives to get a specimen of my handwriting. I now know that the
signing of the slip is a legal requirement, with which every patient is
supposed to comply upon entering such an institution--private in
character--unless he has been committed by some court. The exact
wording of this "voluntary commitment" I do not now recall; but, it
was, in substance, an agreement to abide by the rules of the
institution--whatever _they_ were--and to submit to such restraint as
might be deemed necessary. Had I not felt the weight of the world on my
shoulders, I believe my sense of humor would have caused me to laugh
outright; for the signing of such an agreement by one so situated was,
even to my mind, a farce. After much coaxing I was induced to go so far
as to take the pen in my hand. There I again hesitated. The supervisor
apparently thought I might write with more ease if the paper were
placed on a book. And so I might, had he selected a book of a different
title. One more likely to arouse suspicions in my mind could not have
been found in a search of the Congressional Library. I had left New
York on June 15th, and it was in the direction of that city that my
present trip had taken me. I considered this but the first step of my
return under the auspices of its Police Department. "Called Back" was