A Dream-Tale of Crime
THE WHITE SCAR
AM I crazy? I do not think so—but I do not know. Anyhow, I am in an asylum for the hopelessly insane. I was sent here a long time ago, weeks or months or years, I cannot say. Time has lost its meaning for me as far as calendars are concerned: the interminable days, the intolerable nights, are all merged into chaos. Out of it but one thought, one hope, comes clear: the longing for death.
Only dimly do I recall my last experience among sane men—when I was on trial for the murder of Buck Gordon, a man whom I had never known, had never even seen until the moment my hands closed about his throat. I am glad I killed him, unutterably glad; the one joy of my wretched existence is the memory of those bulging, bloodshot eyes, that rasping death-gurgle as the breath went out of Gordon's body.
I was stunned by the verdict the jury brought in, by the judge's words that followed it. I had hoped and prayed for the chair; my mission had been accomplished and I was prepared to face my Creator. I shall never forget the sick desolation that swept over me when I learned that I was not to die after all. And so I exist on and on—a thing: a living dead creature among scores of other living dead creatures, yet certain in my heart that I am absolutely sane. You, who may read this, shall decide!
This is my story. . . .
At twenty-eight I married Dorothy Wayne. I had adored her for years. Ours was an ideal union; we were not only lovers; we were friends—pals. I suppose our happiness was almost too perfect to last in a hard, ruthless world. We shall find it again—in heaven; nothing can cheat me of this belief.
Just a year after our wedding day, a telegram announcing the serious illness of my wife's mother, down in Louisiana, came to me. I dreaded to convey these tidings to Dorothy in her frail condition. But I had no right to withhold such information, and so I hurried home at once with the message. She was very composed, very brave, but equally determined in her purpose to start south at once. It was impossible for me to accompany her, owing to important deals pending; and with a heavy heart I drove her to the station and kissed her goodbye, little dreaming that I was never to see her again.
For the first few weeks Dorothy wrote daily the bright, loving letters that were so much a part of her happy, radiant self. Then suddenly the letters ceased. Days passed. She had written that her mother was improving, that she would be able to start for home soon and would advise me by wire. Yet a week went by and no wire came. Restless at first, I grew anxious, and finally downright alarmed. Unable to bear the suspense, but trying to laugh at my own fears. I dispatched a message myself to the Louisiana address. An answer came late in the afternoon of the same day, announcing that Dorothy had left Gretna for New York almost a week before.
I was like a wild man. What was
