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CHAPTER XXXII The next impression my memory has any record of was a huge ocean steamer, floating away upon the deep. Great volumes of smoke were pouring forth from its smoke-stacks as it majestically glided over the water. Upon its many decks were hundreds of human beings, scattered about in little groups, gaily chatting and enjoying to the fullest extent the delight experienced by an ocean voyage. Among all of the happy faces, however, there was one that appeared sad and forlorn. It was the face of a beautiful young woman, standing alone against the railing of the promenade deck, who was weeping in silence. As she raised her eyes and looked in my direction, I instantly recognized the girl Arletta, and realized that she was leaving me forever. And then, like one in a dream, I held out my hands and mutely implored her to return. She appeared to be within a short distance and looking straight at me, but still made no sign of recognition. I could not understand the reason for such coldness on her part, and in astonishment rubbed my eyes and looked again, when lo and behold, she had vanished from sight. But far out into the distance, almost to the horizon, I could plainly see a large steamer headed toward the vast ocean beyond. I looked around in a confused sort of a way, and discovered, to my surprise, that I was standing almost at the water's edge on one of the docks near Battery Place. It was daylight, and the sun was shining overhead. I then concluded that I must have been out of my head for some time, and questioning a stranger, who stood nearby, I learned that just fourteen hours had elapsed since I had bade Arletta good-bye, and I could form no recollection of the slightest incident that happened since then. After watching the steamer until it had disappeared from view, I slowly walked to a bench in Battery Park and sat down, in the depths of despair, to reflect upon the strange occurrence. I must have sat there for about an hour in deep meditation, when my attention was attracted by a newspaper urchin, shouting at the top of his voice: "Paper! Extra! All about the great murder." At the same time he rushed up to me, pushed a paper into my hand, took the penny I offered him mechanically, and scampered along. "Another murder," mused I; "what a pity human beings cannot dwell together without taking each other's lives." Glancing over the headlines, I learned from the big black type that a beautiful young woman had been murdered in cold blood. Reading further, I was horrified to find that the young woman's name was Arletta Fogg, and that she was murdered in her own rooms, at the Seraglio Apartments, Central Park West. I could hardly believe my eyes saw the thing aright. I felt sure that it must be an optical illusion wrought by my constant thought of Arletta. I looked again and again, yet read ever the same words, and, laboring under tremendous excitement, I hurriedly perused the account of the murder. It stated that about eleven o'clock of the previous night Arletta Fogg had arrived at the apartment house, and had been taken to her rooms by the elevator attendant. A half hour later a tall, smooth-faced, white-haired gentleman arrived, and was shown to her apartments. This man was seen by the watchman to leave the place at three o'clock in the morning, and the chambermaid discovered her at ten o'clock in the morning, dead, and covered with blood from several stabs in the body. Cold perspiration oozed from every pore of my body as I read and re-read this article, over and over again. I was puzzled, dumbfounded, horror- stricken. The description given of the apparent murderer tallied exactly with myself. Straining every nerve I endeavored to regain some impression that might lead to a knowledge of my actions from the time Arletta left me the night before until I had recovered my senses that day. But try as I might, I could no more recall to memory the slightest movement on my part during that time than I could recollect any event which happened during the twenty-one years of which my life had been a blank. Like a man under the influence of liquor I arose and staggered hurriedly forward until I reached the "L" station where I boarded a train and rode up to Eighty-first street. Here I alighted and walked rapidly over to the Seraglio Apartments. A vast crowd of curious people was collected about the place, and as I approached, all eyes were apparently turned upon me. Hastening forward I bounded up the entrance steps and almost flew into the vestibule. There were little knots of people standing about the hallway, talking in low tones. Even their voices hushed as I hurried into the elevator and told the attendant to take me up to the eighth floor. The operator appeared to be almost frightened out of his wits at the sight of me, but after a momentary pause he ran the elevator to the eighth floor, peering at me all the time as he might have eyed a wild beast who was about to devour him. Many people were in the upper hall- way, but looking neither to the right nor to the left, I went straight to the door of the room I had entered the night I had taken Arletta home. Finding it locked, without a moment's hesitation I threw against it, all of the force my gigantic frame could command which caused it to give way and fly open before me. I then observed that there were several men in the room, in different positions and groups, as if making a study of the surroundings. Lying upon the bed, in the room adjoining, was the form of a woman partly covered by a spread, and being examined by a man who might have been the coroner. As I rushed forward like a madman, every one there became frightened and made way for me to pass. Approaching the bed I eagerly scanned her features, and being positive of her identity I took the inanimate form of Arletta in my arms and kissing her tenderly, was overcome by emotion. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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