And now, oh reader, I am going to tell you something which I am sure you will not believe; I can hardly believe it myself, but, as I so lie, despite the tumult of my mind--despite the chilly terror which seems to be numbing my feelings--in the midst of it all a drowsiness keeps stealing over me. I am now convinced either that vile potion must have been of extraordinary strength, or that I, through the shaking of the carriage, or the unsteadiness of my hand, carried more to my mouth, and swallowed more--I did not _mean_ to swallow any--than I intended, for--you will hardly credit it, but--I _fell asleep_! * * * * * When I awake,--awake with a bewildered mixed sense of having been a long time asleep,--of not knowing where I am--and of having some great dread and horror on my mind--awake and look round, the dawn is breaking. I shiver, with the chilly sensation that the coming of even a warm day brings, and look round, still half unconsciously, in a misty way. But what has happened? how empty the carriage is! the dressing-case is gone! the clock is gone! the man who sat nearly opposite me is gone! _Watson is gone!_ but the man in the cloak and the wax hands still sits beside me! Still the hands are holding the paper; still the fur is touching me! Good God! I am tête-à-tête with him! A feeling of the most appalling desolation and despair comes over me--vanquishes me utterly. I clasp my hands together frantically, and, still looking at the dim form beside me, groan out--“Well! I did not think that Watson would have forsaken me!” Instantly, a sort of movement and shiver runs through the figure: the newspaper drops from the hands, which however continue to be still held out in the same position as if still grasping it; and behind the newspaper, I see by the dim morning light and the dim lamp-gleams that there is no real face but a mask. A sort of choked sound is coming from behind the mask. Shivers of cold fear are running over me. Never to this day shall I know what gave me the despairing courage to do it, but before I know what I am doing, I find myself tearing at the cloak,--tearing away the mask--tearing away the hands. It would be better to find _anything_ underneath--Satan himself,--a horrible dead body--anything--sooner than submit any longer to this hideous mystery. And I am rewarded. When the cloak lies at the bottom of the carriage--when the mask, and the false hands and false feet--(there are false _feet_ too)--are also cast away, in different directions, what do you think I find underneath?