The Pocket Diary Found in the Snow | Page 9

writing that followed. It was quite a different
writing here. The hand that penned these words must have trembled in
deadly terror. Was it terror of coming death, foreseen and not to be
escaped? or was it the trembling and the terror of an overthrown brain?
It was undoubtedly, in spite of the difference, the same hand that had
penned the first pages of the book. A few characteristic turns of the
writing were plainly to be seen in both parts of the story. But the ink
was quite different also. The first pages had been written with a delicate
violet ink, the later leaves were penned with a black ink of uneven
quality, of the kind used by poor people who write very seldom. The
words of this later portion of the book were blurred in many places, as
if the writer had not been able to dry them properly before she turned
the leaves. She therefore had had neither blotting paper nor sand at her
disposal.
And then the weird title!
Was it written at the dictation of insanity? or did A. L. know, while she
wrote it, that it was too late for any help to reach her? Did she see her
doom approaching so clearly that she knew there was no escape?
Muller breathed a deep breath before he continued his reading. Later on
his breath came more quickly still, and he clinched his fist several
times, as if deeply moved. He was not a cold man, only thoroughly
self-controlled. In his breast there lived an unquenchable hatred of all
evil. It was this that awakened the talents which made him the
celebrated detective he had become.
"I fear that it will be impossible for any one to save me now, but
perhaps I may be avenged. Therefore I will write down here all that has
happened to me since I set out on my journey." These were the first
words that were written under the mysterious title. Muller had just read
them when the commissioner entered.

"Will you speak to Amster; he has just returned?" he asked.
Muller rose at once. "Certainly. Did you telegraph to all the railway
stations?"
"Yes," answered the commissioner, "and also to the other police
stations."
"And to the hospitals? - asylums?"
"No, I did not do that." Commissioner von Mayringen blushed, a blush
that was as becoming to him as was his frank acknowledgment of his
mistake. He went out to remedy it at once, while Muller heard Amster's
short and not particularly important report. The workingman was
evidently shivering, and the detective handed him a glass of tea with a
good portion of rum in it.
"Here, drink this; you are cold. Are you ill?" Amster smiled sadly. "No,
I am not ill, but I was discharged to-day and am out of work now -
that's almost as bad."
"Are you married?"
"No, but I have an old mother to support."
"Leave your address with the commissioner. He may be able to find
work for you; we can always use good men here. But now drink your
tea." Amster drank the glass in one gulp. "Well, now we have lost the
trail in both directions," said Muller calmly. "But we will find it again.
You can help, as you are free now anyway. If you have the talent for
that sort of thing, you may find permanent work here."
A gesture and a look from the workingman showed the detective that
the former did not think very highly of such occupation. Muller laid his
hand on the other's shoulder and said gravely: "You wouldn't care to
take service with us? This sort of thing doesn't rate very high, I know.
But I tell you that if we have our hearts in the right place, and our
brains are worth anything, we are of more good to humanity than many

an honest citizen who wouldn't shake hands with us. There - and now I
am busy. Goodnight."
With these words Muller pushed the astonished man out of the room,
shut the door, and sat down again with his little book. This is what he
read:
"Wednesday - is it Wednesday? They brought me a newspaper to-day
which had the date of Wednesday, the 20th of November. The ink still
smells fresh, but it is so damp here, the paper may have been older. I do
not know surely on what day it is that I begin to write this narrative. I
do not know either whether I may not have been ill for days and weeks;
I do not know what may have been the matter with me - I know only
that I was unconscious, and that when I came to myself again, I was
here in this gloomy room.