of the force which pounced upon me. I clawed at the
coverlet. I clung to the wood-work. I believe that I
screamed out in my frenzy. It was all useless,
hopeless. I MUST go. There was no way out of it. It
was only at the outset that I resisted. The force soon
became too overmastering for that. I thank goodness
that there were no watchers there to interfere with me.
I could not have answered for myself if there had been.
And, besides the determination to get out, there came
to me, also, the keenest and coolest judgment in
choosing my means. I lit a candle and endeavored,
kneeling in front of the door, to pull the key through
with the feather-end of a quill pen. It was just too
short and pushed it further away. Then with quiet
persistence I got a paper-knife out of one of the
drawers, and with that I managed to draw the key back.
I opened the door, stepped into my study, took a
photograph of myself from the bureau, wrote something
across it, placed it in the inside pocket of my coat,
and then started off for Wilson's.

It was all wonderfully clear, and yet disassociated
from the rest of my life, as the incidents of even the
most vivid dream might be. A peculiar double
consciousness possessed me. There was the predominant
alien will, which was bent upon drawing me to the side
of its owner, and there was the feebler protesting
personality, which I recognized as being myself,
tugging feebly at the overmastering impulse as a led
terrier might at its chain. I can remember recognizing