“Subjective or objective?” That is the old, old question on these occasions. In the first case I was mad, subject to hallucinations, in the second--well, then, a mystery of a different sort. There was little to choose between the alternatives. I certainly felt as sane as ever, but perhaps murder itself is a symptom of deep-rooted mental disease which could break out in other ways. My whole being rejected this hypothesis. But I had a dreadful certainty that in either case my doom had been spoken. This certainly must have branded itself upon my face, for Margaret was only half persuaded there was nothing wrong when I went in again. I had three days’ respite. Margaret tolerated broadcasting, and our set was in use on most evenings. I used to stop work and come in to hear the news. On this occasion, after the usual ponderous catalogue of minutiæ, listeners, as usual, were promised a “Little Piano Music” as a reward for their patience. Instead--as far as I was concerned, a voice suddenly cried out, “Sir Arthur Paradown murdered me, his wife, on March 9th.” I gripped my chair and glanced at Margaret, but she was placidly reading. “It’s very clear to-night,” she said. It was ridiculous and yet dreadful. I felt a deep horror of myself, an awful sense of isolation and distress. The question was--could I face this persecution? But then, I might be mad! I’d see a specialist the next day. In any case I was involved in something foul. My loathing for Ethel was such that, had she been with me, I would have strangled her in cold blood. The specialist found nothing the matter, and was obviously puzzled at my visit. I told him I fancied I heard sounds which were imperceptible to others. It sounded vague and lame. He made a few obvious remarks about possible over-work, which were so nauseatingly inadequate to my trouble that I hurried away. Of course I’d only gone to him in panic, it was a witch-doctor I needed. Margaret, as arranged, rang me up at the club at lunch-time. Just as she had finished reciting a list of things she wanted me to do for her, her voice went blurred, and through it came another: “Are you beginning to be sorry you murdered me? You can tell me when I come to you at Paradown.” In the agonised daze which from then on always ensued on these occasions, I drove back home. “When I come to you.” What had she meant by that? When Margaret came out to greet me, I took her in my arms and kissed her, and let the small, clean fraction of my soul sink into her. “What’s the matter, my darling?” she asked, looking anxiously into my eyes. “Sweetest,” I replied, “if I should die, think only this of me. I adored you. There might have been a time for such a word.” I felt unstrung, diseased, clinging to her, yet forced from her by that deadly secret she never could nor should share. “What is it, Arthur, my dearest? You’ve suddenly changed. Something has happened. Tell me! Tell me! Whatever it is you can tell _me_.”