stood in the same house, and this time too, by the bedside of a dying person. Now it was the man who lay there broken, where the wheels of a heavy van had crossed him. The tortured creature cried to the priest, "Confession! confession!"
"I am here," the priest answered. He bent his head nearer the pillow.
"You see that book—that book?" whispered the man.
"I see no book."
"There, upon the table—De Quincey's Essay."
"Yes, Murder as One of the Fine Arts; what of it?"
"I read it—and I thought of murder as a fine art. No poisons, or knives, of stifling for me. I planned a murder that no one could hang me for, or prove against me. A fine art! Oh, I had found the art! Hear me! hear me!"
"I hear you."
"Shall I ever be forgiven? Nobody ever suspected me—she did not suspect."
"She?"
"A woman; I will tell you the story. Come
