CHAPTER I
I know that in writing the following pages I am divulging the great secret of my life, the secret which for some years I have guarded far more carefully than any of my earthly possessions; and it is a curious study to me to analyze the motives which prompt me to do it. I feel that I am led by the same impulse which forces the unfound-out criminal to take somebody into his confidence, although he knows that the act is liable, even almost certain, to lead to his undoing. I know that I am playing with fire, and I feel the thrill which accompanies that most fascinating pastime; and, back of it all, I think I find a sort of savage and diabolical desire to gather up all the little tragedies of my life, and turn them into a practical joke on society.
And, too, I suffer a vague feeling of un-satisfaction, of regret, of almost remorse from which I am seeking relief, and of which I shall speak in the last paragraph of this account.
I was born in a little town of Georgia a few years after the close of the Civil War. I shall not mention the name of the town, because there
