In the contents-bill of a
local news sheet I read the announcement of my own murder at the
hands of some person unknown; on buying a copy of the paper for a
detailed account of the tragedy, which at first had aroused in me a
certain grim amusement, I found that the deed ascribed to a
wandering Salvationist of doubtful antecedents, who had been seen
lurking in the roadway near the scene of the crime. I was no longer
amused. The matter promised to be embarrassing. What I had
mistaken for a motor accident was evidently a case of savage assault
and murder, and, until the real culprit was found, I should have
much difficulty in explaining my intrusion into the affair. Of
course I could establish my own identity; but how, without
disagreeably involving the doctor's wife, could I give any adequate
reason for changing clothes with the murdered man? While my brain
worked feverishly at this problem, I subconsciously obeyed a
secondary instinct--to get as far away as possible from the scene of
the crime, and to get rid at all costs of my incriminating uniform.
There I found a difficulty. I tried two or three obscure clothes
shops, but my entrance invariably aroused an attitude of hostile
suspicion in the proprietors, and on one excuse or another they
avoided serving me with the now ardently desired change of clothing.
The uniform that I had so thoughtlessly donned seemed as difficult
to get out of as the fatal shirt of--You know, I forget the
creature's name.
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