Master in my own house, I
contrived a device by which the man who held my fate in his hands
fell on my library hearth with no one near and no sign by which
to associate me with the act. Does this seem like the assertion
of a madman? Go to the old chamber familiarly called "The Colonel's
Own." Enter its closet, pull out its two drawers, and in the
opening thus made seek for the loophole at the back, through which,
if you stoop low enough, you can catch a glimpse of the library
hearth and its great settle. With these in view, slip your finger
along the wall on your right and when it touches an obstruction
- pass it if it is a handle, for that is only used to rewind the
apparatus and must be turned from you until it can be turned no
farther; but if it is a depression you encounter, press, and press
hard on the knob concealed within it. But beware when any one you
love is seated in that corner of the settle where the cushion
invites rest, lest it be your fate to mourn and wail as it is mine
to curse the hour when I sought to clear my way by murder. For
the doom of the man of blood is upon me. The hindrance is gone
from my life, but a horror has entered it beyond the conception
of any soul that has not yielded itself to the unimaginable
influences emanating from an accomplished crime.
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