and the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said. It is always
the way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake they are
sorry, but it is too late--the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, you see.
So I said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run away until
it blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then I escaped in the
night and went a long way off in the mountains somewhere, and lived
disguised and had a false name.

I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made me see
spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear on any
subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up, because my
head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits and more
voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the night,
then in the day too. They were always whispering around my bed and
plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged out,
because I got no good rest.

And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, "We'll never
manage, because we can't see him, and so can't point him out to the
people."

They sighed; then one said: "We must bring Sherlock Holmes. He can be
here in twelve days."

They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my heart
broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would be to have
him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and tireless energies.

The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the middle of
the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag that had my