By them he was evidently held in favor.  What could I say?  I knew absolutely nothing to his discredit.  His manners were those of a cultivated and considerate gentleman; and to women a man’s manner is the man.  On one or two occasions when I saw Miss Corray walking with him I was furious, and once had the indiscretion to protest.  Asked for reasons, I had none to give and fancied I saw in her expression a shade of contempt for the vagaries of a jealous mind.  In time I grew morose and consciously disagreeable, and resolved in my madness to return to San Francisco the next day.  Of this, however, I said nothing.

IV

There was at Auburn an old, abandoned cemetery.  It was nearly in the heart of the town, yet by night it was as gruesome a place as the most dismal of human moods could crave.  The railings about the plats were prostrate, decayed, or altogether gone.  Many of the graves were sunken, from others grew sturdy pines, whose roots had committed unspeakable sin.  The headstones were fallen and broken across; brambles overran the ground; the fence was mostly gone, and cows and pigs wandered there at will; the place was a dishonor to the living, a calumny on the dead, a blasphemy against God.

The evening of the day on which I had taken my madman’s resolution to depart in anger from all that was dear to me found me in that congenial spot.  The light of the half moon fell ghostly through the foliage of trees in spots and patches, revealing much that was unsightly, and the black shadows seemed conspiracies withholding to the proper time revelations of darker import.  Passing along what had been a gravel path, I saw emerging from shadow the figure of Dr. Dorrimore.  I was myself in shadow, and stood still with clenched hands and set teeth, trying to control the impulse to leap upon and strangle him.  A moment later a second figure joined him and clung to his arm.  It was Margaret Corray!

I cannot rightly relate what occurred.  I know that I sprang forward, bent upon murder; I know that I was found in the gray of the morning, bruised and bloody, with finger marks upon my throat.  I was taken to the Putnam House, where for days I lay in a delirium.  All this I know, for I have been told.  And of my own knowledge I know that when consciousness returned with convalescence I sent for the clerk of the hotel.

“Are Mrs. Corray and her daughter still here?” I asked.

“What name did you say?”

“Corray.”

“Nobody of that name has been here.”

“I beg you will not trifle with me,” I said petulantly.  “You see that I am all right now; tell me the truth.”

“I give you my word,” he replied with evident sincerity, “we have had no guests of that name.”

His words stupefied me.  I lay for a few moments in silence; then I asked:  “Where is Dr. Dorrimore?”

“He left on the morning of your fight and has not been heard of since.  It was a rough deal he gave you.”