To be told that the murderer of Arthur Mountjoy had been seen
in London--to be prepared to trace him by his paltry assumed name of
Carrigeen--to wait vainly for the next discovery which might bring him
within reach of retribution at my hands--and then to be overwhelmed by
the news of his illness, his recovery, and his disappearance: these are
the blows which have stupefied me. Only think of it! He has escaped me
for the second time. Fever that kills thousands of harmless creatures
has spared the assassin. He may yet die in his bed, and be buried, with
the guiltless dead around him, in a quiet churchyard. I can't get over
it; I shall never get over it.
Add to this, anxieties about my wife, and maddening letters from
creditors--and don't expect me to write reasonably.
What I want to know is whether your art (or whatever you call it) can
get at my diseased mind, through my healthy body. You have more than
once told me that medicine can do this. The time has come for doing it.
I am in a bad way, and a bad end may follow. My only medical friend,
deliver me from myself.
In any case, let me beg you to keep your temper while you read what
follows.
I have to confess that the devil whose name is Jealousy has entered
into me, and is threatening the tranquillity of my married life.
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