“I’m not well; I can’t be; I wish I were. It is as if I were two persons, and each keeps losing the other. Can there be two persons in one body? My brain seems blurred--as if it were in two parts. When I am using one part, the other--the other’s all confused. It’s not as it should be. I feel sure that I haven’t always been like this; something must have happened to make me so. When I try to think what it is, I’m afraid; and yet I can’t help trying. I know--I know it was in this room it happened; but what could it have been? What brought me to this room at all? When was it that I came? “There’s something in my head that I can’t catch hold of--it keeps eluding me. If I only could get hold of it, I’d understand--I’m sure I should.--What would it be that I should understand? I’m afraid to think! It’s awful that I should be afraid of what would come to me if understanding came, especially as I want it so much to come. I seem to be haunted; is it by a vision, or by something which really happened? I wish I could sit down and quietly think it out. If I could put the pieces of the puzzle together I might know what it means. But I can’t; I’m all restless; I can’t keep still. “Why is it that I am always seeing this man lying dead upon the floor? Why do I seem to be striking at his back? It is so strange. It is not a knife I’m striking with, not a common knife; it is something different--and worse. It comes out of nothing; and, all the time, there’s the noise. It is not I who make the noise, no, I don’t speak--I can’t--I daren’t--it’s It. But it keeps on strike, strike, striking, and the blood all comes upon my cloak. I know I had a cloak on, I remember how it kept getting in my way. And then--he falls. And that’s all--until it begins all over again, and I am standing in a room, in the moonlight, and he sits up in bed and looks at me--he, my friend.” She held out her hands in front of her, with a pleasant inflection on the final word. “And I can’t think of what took place before. I feel that I ought to know who I am, and what brought me here; but I can’t quite lay my hand on it. The people are there, but I can’t quite make out their faces, or who they are, or what they want with me. They all look at me, and I can hear them clapping. Then it all comes back to the man lying dead upon the floor; that’s where it all seems to begin and end. I wonder if I killed him. I wish I knew. It is so strange that I may have killed him and yet not know. I know that he deserved to be killed, but did I do it?” Glancing round, her eyes rested on the door in the opposite corner which led into Lawrence’s bedroom. She crossed to it. “What’s in here?”