that Elvesham kept the name of his solicitor secret from all his household.  I can ascertain nothing.  Elvesham was, of course, a profound student of mental science, and all my declarations of the facts of the case merely confirm the theory that my insanity is the outcome of overmuch brooding upon psychology.  Dreams of the personal identity indeed!  Two days ago I was a healthy youngster, with all life before me; now I am a furious old man, unkempt, and desperate, and miserable, prowling about a great, luxurious, strange house, watched, feared, and avoided as a lunatic by everyone about me.  And in London is Elvesham beginning life again in a vigorous body, and with all the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of threescore and ten.  He has stolen my life.

What has happened I do not clearly know.  In the study are volumes of manuscript notes referring chiefly to the psychology of memory, and parts of what may be either calculations or ciphers in symbols absolutely strange to me.  In some passages there are indications that he was also occupied with the philosophy of mathematics.  I take it he has transferred the whole of his memories, the accumulation that makes up his personality, from this old withered brain of his to mine, and, similarly, that he has transferred mine to his discarded tenement.  Practically, that is, he has changed bodies.  But how such a change may be possible is without the range of my philosophy.  I have been a materialist for all my thinking life, but here, suddenly, is a clear case of man’s detachability from matter.

One desperate experiment I am about to try.  I sit writing here before putting the matter to issue.  This morning, with the help of a table-knife that I had secreted at breakfast, I succeeded in breaking open a fairly obvious secret drawer in this wrecked writing-desk.  I discovered nothing save a little green glass phial containing a white powder.  Round the neck of the phial was a label, and thereon was written this one word, “Release.”  This may be—­is most probably—­poison.  I can understand Elvesham placing poison in my way, and I should be sure that it was his intention so to get rid of the only living witness against him, were it not for this careful concealment.  The man has practically solved the problem of immortality.  Save for the spite of chance, he will live in my body until it has aged, and then, again, throwing that aside, he will assume some other victim’s youth and strength.  When one remembers his heartlessness, it is terrible to think of the ever-growing experience that...  How long has he been leaping from body to body?...  But I tire of writing.  The powder appears to be soluble in water.  The taste is not unpleasant.

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