It is at this point of my story that I cannot entirely trust my memory. I am, however, sufficiently clear-minded as to the course of events up to the moment when, in a street, the name of which is unknown to me, an attack was made upon my life. That a watch had been kept upon my movements, and that the attack was premeditated, I have no reason to doubt; but it is almost incredible that hatred could be so far-seeing and vindictive.

As I have said, the snow was falling heavily. It was the first time I had been in Liverpool, and I was therefore not familiar with its thoroughfares. So inclement was the weather, and so thickly did the snow lay upon the ground, that I could not obtain a vehicle to take me to the railway station, the two or three cabs which were available being snapped up before I could reach them. I had no alternative but to walk to Lime Street. There was ample time to get to the station, and I was proof against much more serious obstacles than a snowstorm and a gale of wind.

I was in joyous spirits at the prospect of soon embracing Ellen and my boy, and I walked along (after inquiring my way at the docks) with buoyant steps and a song on my lips. It may have been that this preoccupation of mind made me absent-minded, or that I had been misdirected, for in the midst of my pleasant musings a doubt arose as to whether I was on the right road. I remember stopping by a lamp-post to look at my watch, which I had purchased before I left Melbourne; I remember the time, five minutes to eleven, and my feeling of satisfaction that I had nearly an hour to get to the station. But which was the right way? There was not a person in sight of whom I could make inquiries, and at hap-hazard I turned down the street to which I have referred. It was a narrow, ill-lighted street, and I did not notice whether the houses in it were places of business or private residences.

Suddenly, either from one of the houses or from some dark courtway, a man rushed out and attacked me with such violence that had I been less powerful than I am his first onslaught would have accomplished his purpose. As it was, I grappled with him at the moment of his attack, and a furious struggle began—a struggle for life. Maddened by the attempt to dash the cup of happiness from my lips I put forth all my strength.

And here it is that memory fails me. The recollection of the salient features of this desperate encounter may doubtless be depended upon as correct, but I can go no further in my recountal of the issue of it. One maddening thought, I know, was dominant throughout—the thought that I was fighting for Ellen and love.

The struggle must have lasted a considerable time.

I could not see the face of my assailant, and it is my impression that he strove to avoid recognition; nor did he speak. We struck at each other savagely and in silence. From first to last, so far as I am aware, not a word passed between us. We swayed this way and that, each man's hand at the other's throat; then I felt myself lifted from my feet—a wrestling trick—and flung into the air. But I was up like lightning, and as I seized him again I was dimly conscious of the sight of blood dropping on the snow—whether his blood or mine I cannot say. It seemed to be his purpose to drag me into a house, the door of which was open, and in this he succeeded.

Grappling and raining blows upon each other in the dark passage, we fell upon the stairs, and struggling to our feet without losing our hold, continued the contest. The only weapon I had about me was a fossicking knife in its sheath, and this I must have drawn, as was proved by the result, though I am unable to say whether I drew it in the street or in the house. I cannot account for the fatal use I made of this weapon except upon the supposition that a weapon of some kind was being used against me, and that I was prompted by a savage instinct of self-preservation. In such an emergency a man has no time to reflect upon the consequences of his acts; reason is lost, instinct rules. My aim was to escape into the street, his to drag me from it—and he prevailed. At what period of the brutal conflict we gained the landing of the first floor, at what period we stumbled into a room, and when I dealt the fatal stroke which gave me a frightful victory—all this is hidden from me.

Scores of times since that night have I said to myself, "Let me think, let me think!" and vainly endeavored to follow the progress of the awful struggle. In the moment of victory I must have received a blow which might have proved deadly, for darkness fell upon me, and I sank to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.

When I came to my senses I found myself in an apartment lighted up by two lamps and half-a-dozen candles. The oil in the lamps was almost exhausted. The candles were guttering down. The scattered furniture denoted the savage nature of the struggle in which I had been engaged. Chairs had been flung here and there, a large table was upset; had the candles or lamps been upon it the house would have been set on fire. Against the wall, in front of me, was a sideboard garnished with bottles and glasses, among them a syphon of mineral water.

This was all I discerned in the first few moments of returning consciousness.

I put my hand to my face, and drawing it away found blood upon it; my other hand and my clothes were also stained with blood.

This caused me to think of my assailant, whose condition could have been scarcely worse than my own. What had become of him? Why had he left me here without finishing his work? Was he so badly wounded that he had no strength to kill me?

All was silent in the house. Not a sound of its being inhabited reached my ears. I must fly from it directly my own strength returned, thankful that I had come with life out of the desperate encounter.

Gradually my sight grew clearer, and I rose to my feet. My throat was parched. I went to the sideboard, and pouring out a glass of mineral water, raised it to my lips. In the act of doing this, I turned mechanically, and brought into view that part of the room which I had not yet seen. The glass dropped from my trembling hand, the water untasted.

On the floor, close to the opposite wall, lay the motionless form of a man. This was he, then, who had sought my life, this still form, struck down by my own hand. What I could distinguish of his clothing proclaimed him to belong to the well-to-do classes; a silk hat and gloves, which I had not previously observed, were on a small side table. A nameless horror stole upon me. With slow, stealthy steps I approached and knelt by his side, unconscious at the moment that I was kneeling in a pool of blood. There, gazing with terrified eyes upon him, I waited for a sign which did not come. Not a breath, not the vibration of a pulse. His arm lay across his face. Tremblingly I lifted it aside, and let it fall with a cry of terror on my lips. The face I had uncovered was that of my half-brother Louis! He was dead, and I had killed him! The scar on his forehead was blood-red, and though I was guiltless of causing it, seemed to accuse me; blood was on his face and clothes, there was a wound in his breast—his death-blow—delivered by me whom he hated, by me, who had hated him in life. Oh, cruel fate that made me his murderer!

The shock of the discovery overwhelmed me. I knew what his death meant for me. It did not dawn upon my mind; it came in one sudden, blasting flash. All that had gone before was light in comparison with this mortal blow, which dealt by my own hand, destroyed beyond redemption the newly-born hopes which had filled my heart with gladness. My dream was over. Ellen and I were forever parted.

Oh, God!

I can hear again the echo of the cry of anguish to which I gave in voluntary utterance.

Oh, God! Oh, God!

But of what use appeal to Him? Rather appeal to man, by whom I should be judged; relate my story to the earthly judge before whom I should be arraigned; hide nothing from first to last; expose the remorseless persecution, the vile cunning, the unspeakable degradation which had made my home a hell upon earth; state how I had only landed this night; how, passing through the street I was suddenly attacked and had simply defended myself, as any man would have done under similar circumstances——

Pshaw! Who would believe such a tale? It would be scouted with derision.

If an angel were to come down to testify to the truth of my story he would not be believed. How, then, could I expect to be believed when human witnesses would testify to the hate I bore the man whose spirit was now before God's Judgment Seat? To hope that I could break the chain of evidence that would be brought against me was the hope of a madman.

One by one the candles had gone out; the room was now in semi-darkness. I stood in thought.

Whoso sheddeth his brother's blood—yes, but I was innocent of murderous design. Why, then, should I declare myself a murderer and bring despair upon Ellen, bring ignominy and shame upon her and our child? Life-long despair, life-long ignominy. Every man's finger would be pointed at her. In my child's ears would ring the words, "Your father is a murderer!" Better for him never to have been born.

I had not myself alone to think of, to act for, Ellen could never now be my wife, the delights of home would never be mine. But for her, a lesser evil, though she would never realize it, was to be found in my concealment of my crime. It would be necessary for me to keep apart from her, for in her presence I should be continually confronted by the temptation to betray myself, to make confession, and to do this would be to inflict upon her frightful suffering. Sweet and patient as she was, and implicit as was her faith in me, the duplicities I should be compelled to practice in order to prevent any meeting between us, could not but injure me in her eyes. Setting love aside—an inconceivable hypothesis, for I never loved her as I did in this despairing hour—honor and honest dealings called upon me to give her the name of wife. She would grieve that I did not make amends to her for the sacrifices she had made for me; but far better that I should sink in her esteem than inflict upon her the crushing horror of seeing me condemned for murder. For her sake, then, silence and secrecy, if they could be compassed.

There had been no witnesses of the tragic incidents of the night. I was alone with the dead. The silence that reigned in the house favored my design of secret flight. If any persons resided there they must have heard the sounds of the struggle, the stumbling on the stairs, the dashing into the room, the upsetting of the furniture. I would make sure, however, that the house was uninhabited.

The oil in the lamps was nearly exhausted; but I had matches in a box which Ellen had given me before my departure for Australia. I crept into the passage and listened above, below. No sound. Striking matches as I proceeded I went all over the house from basement to attic, and saw no signs of habitation. The rooms on the ground floor had been partially dismantled, and presented the appearance of having been used for offices, while those on the upper floors had served for private residence, the most completely furnished apartment being that in which Louis lay dead. I made my investigations cautiously and quietly, and kept myself prepared for a possible attack. Once, when I was taking a match out of the box it slipped from my hand, and though I groped for it in all directions I could not find it. There was no time to waste; every moment that I remained in the house was charged with danger, and I was so beset by terrors springing from the perturbed state of my mind that the flapping of a door, the wind tearing through the street, even the slightest sound which fell unexpectedly on my ears, set all my nerves quivering.

The storm had increased in violence. Through an uncurtained window on the top floor I saw the snow descending thick and fast, the wind whirling it furiously onward and upward. A wild night, but I had reason to be thankful for it. The conflict of the elements lessened my chances of being caught red-handed.

Standing by the uncurtained window I felt for my watch; it had not occurred to me before to ascertain the time. The watch was gone, the chain hung loose; but the pocket-book in which I kept my money was safe. The loss of my watch did not induce the suspicion that robbery was the motive for the attack; it must have been jerked out of my pocket in the course of the struggle. It was dangerous to leave it in the house; it was more dangerous to remain. I consoled myself with the thought that I might have lost it in the street, and that it would be found by some person who would be satisfied to retain it without making inquiries. In any circumstances there was no name engraved on it to prove that I was the owner.

A faint scratching on the wainscot at this point of my reflections drove my heart into my mouth. So harmless a creature as a mouse was sufficient to inspire terror. I felt my way down to the fatal room, having no means of obtaining a light. It was quite dark now, and my footsteps were dogged by phantoms created by the fever of my blood. I saw the forms of struggling men, watched by glaring eyes and haunted by formless shadows; incidents of the struggle which remained in my memory repeated themselves with monstrous exaggeration; my brain teemed with startling images. I must get from this house of terror quickly; in the white snow the phantoms would fade away.

These imaginings did not cause me to lose sight of my purpose to avoid the consequences of my unpremeditated crime. A dual process of thought was going on within me, one belonging to the real, the other to the unreal world. Reason cautioned me to arm myself against the chances of detection. Such as lay in the stains of blood on my hands and face. The snow would serve me here. From my blood-bespattered clothes the stains could not be removed so easily. I should not have returned to the death-room had I not noticed an ulster coat thrown across a chair which, in the open air, would render me reasonably safe from observation. I groped for the chair, found it, thrust my arms into the ulster, and buttoned it up.

All was still as death—and death itself, a muffled figure, my father's son, lay outlined near the opposite wall. The deep darkness did not shut it from my sight.

As I made my way to the street door my foot touched an object on the stairs. I stooped and picked up a watch, which I put into my pocket with a feeling of relief at a danger averted. I had a little difficulty in opening the door, and when this was accomplished and I closed it behind me, I did not linger a moment. Every step I took from it added to my chance of safety. Turning into another street I bathed my hands and face in snow, and removed all traces of the bloody conflict. The storm was now a gale; the wind tore and shrieked through the streets, the snow, whirling furiously into my face, almost blinded me. Not a soul was about, and I walked on unobserved, with no idea in which direction I was proceeding. Chance favored me, for my hap-hazard wanderings led me to the Lime Street station. I looked up at the clock—two minutes past four. I took a first-class single to Euston, it being safer, I thought, to travel first-class than third. My fingers were numbed, and I was rather slow in picking up my change.

"You had better hurry, sir," said the clerk, "if you want to catch the 4:5."

I hurried off, followed by a porter.

"Any luggage, sir?"

"No."

"What class, sir?"

"First."

"Not that way, sir," said the porter; "the train goes from this platform."

He showed me to the carriage and thanked me for the tip. I had barely time to take my seat before the train started.

Being the only passenger in the carriage I could, without fear of interruption, deliver myself up wholly to my reflections. Needless to say, they were of the most melancholy nature. The incidents in my life which were in some way connected with my present position, rose to my memory with fatal clearness, and formed a chain of events which might have been forged by a spiritual agency bent upon my destruction. An inexorable fatality had attended all my actions, and used them as weapons against myself. In every instance the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming; my own bare, valueless word was the only testimony of my innocence. Additional support of this fatalistic theory was supplied in the course of my reflections. Taking out the watch I picked up on the stairs, I discovered that it was not my own. There was an inscription on the case: "To Louis from his Loving Mother." In the struggle Louis' watch had been torn from his pocket as well as my own, and it was now in my possession.

I argued out my position to a possible and logical point. As thus: The body of a murdered man having been found in the house an hour or so after my departure, the attention of the police was immediately directed to the early morning trains for London. At four o'clock, a gentleman, looking flurried and anxious, had presented himself at the ticket-office and paid a first-class fare to Euston. He was so agitated that it was with difficulty he gathered his change. He wore a long gray ulster coat and had no luggage—not even a bag, a most unusual circumstance. He betrayed his ignorance of the platform from which the London train started by proceeding in a wrong direction, and was set right by the porter; presumably, therefore, he was a stranger in Liverpool. Telegrams were at once dispatched to the stations en route, and to Euston, to detain the passenger unless he could give a satisfactory account of himself. His explanation affording grounds for suspicion, he was searched, and there was found upon him a watch with the inscription: "To Louis, from his Loving Mother." By his own previous admission, his name was not Louis. Questioned as to how he came into possession of the watch, he gave no answer. There was also found upon his person a leather sheath, into which a gold-digger's knife with which the fatal wound had been inflicted exactly fitted.

When this damning piece of evidence presented itself to my mind,' I felt for the knife. I had left it behind me. The sheath was empty.

What now was left to me to do? Leave matters to chance, and in the event of the worst not happening, protect myself by every possible means, or give myself up to the authorities? The deed I had done was beyond recall, and would ever stand as a black mark against me. If I could have harbored a hope of proving that it was done in self-defense I should not have hesitated, but this was impossible. For Ellen's sake I would adhere, as far and as long as lay in my power, to my plan of silence and secrecy.

Tortured as I was, I felt relieved when I came to this final decision, and I began to consider how to provide for my safety. To attempt to get rid of the watch and the ulster coat would be attended with danger, inasmuch as there were at present no other means of ridding myself of them than by flinging them out of the window or leaving them in the carriage, and thus courting the attention I desired to avoid. Until a safer course presented itself I must therefore retain them.

But brain and body were exhausted, and I could not continue my deliberations. Lifting the dividing arms between the seats I sank upon the cushions, and closed my eyes in sleep.