lover. Or I must endure such persecutions as she can
inflict upon me. Even if none come, I shall live in a
hell of apprehension. But she may torture me, she may
drive me mad, she may kill me: I will never, never,
never give in. What can she inflict which would be
worse than the loss of Agatha, and the knowledge that I
am a perjured liar, and have forfeited the name of
gentleman?

Pratt-Haldane was most amiable, and listened with all
politeness to my story. But when I looked at his heavy
set features, his slow eyes, and the ponderous study
furniture which surrounded him, I could hardly tell him
what I had come to say. It was all so substantial, so
material. And, besides, what would I myself have said
a short month ago if one of my colleagues had come to
me with a story of demonic possession? Perhaps. I
should have been less patient than he was. As it was,
he took notes of my statement, asked me how much tea I
drank, how many hours I slept, whether I had been
overworking much, had I had sudden pains in the head,
evil dreams, singing in the ears, flashes before the
eyes--all questions which pointed to his belief that
brain congestion was at the bottom of my trouble.
Finally he dismissed me with a great many platitudes
about open-air exercise, and avoidance of nervous
excitement. His prescription, which was for chloral
and bromide, I rolled up and threw into the gutter.

No, I can look for no help from any human being. If I