"Ramda Das sprang into the room, a drawn knife in his hand."
THESE are the last words I, Henry Reeves Grayson, shall ever pen.
Physically, I am in almost perfect condition. I could pass an army service examination with colors flying. Yet within a few short hours I shall die. Nor shall I commit suicide, though I'm afraid the coroner will believe this the explanation. But I shall not kill myself; I am to be murdered. Yet were all the law machinery thoroughly greased and set into action, my murderer would still escape justice.
Probably not many people will credit my story; yet hoping a few analytical, level-headed citizens will grasp the facts and understand, I will write the tale. As soon as I have finished, I shall be killed.
Although six years have elapsed since the following events took place, yet they are still indelibly impressed upon my memory.
Late one afternoon my friends, John Sparling and Robert Comstock, prominent businessmen of our native Redvale, were walking with me along a country lane not far from town. Comstock was a little ahead of Sparling and me.
Suddenly a dark figure slipped from back of a hedge, and flourishing a heavy walking stick, rushed up behind our unsuspecting friend.
"Look out, Comstock!"
"Take care, old fellow!"
