About two hours after my return home, as I was sitting by myself in my chamber, having requested my wife to leave me alone, a messenger came from the Eagle tavern, to beg me to go thither where a gentleman was waiting anxiously to see me. I went immediately, and was shown into a private parlour.

On entering the room, I perceived nobody, but only a table-lamp with a moon-shade: as soon, however, as the waiter closed the door, Mr. Bell came from behind it.

I was greatly agitated at the sight of him; but without speaking he walked round to the far-side of the table on which the lamp was standing, and looked at me with a strange but steady stare.

Being a tall man, the light was cast in a very awful manner on his countenance, the shadows were thrown upwards, and the dark hollows of his eyes made his visage as dismal as a memento mori.

I waited to hear what he had to say, resolved that my words should be few, and, if possible, well chosen: at last he broke silence in these strong terms:—

“So, you think me capable of committing murder.”

“You have told me so yourself, Mr. Bell,” was my answer; “be thankful you have been preserved from the guilt of so great a crime. What have I done to exasperate the sin within you to an issue so terrible?”

He looked at me for some time with a solemn eye and a resolute serenity of countenance; it was superhuman: he then said,—

“You have done me many kind favours, and yet I have been constrained to hate you.”

“Constrained, Mr. Bell! What do you mean? By what have you been constrained?”

“By Satan,” replied he: “my reason, my will, are at war within me, against the foul phantasy by which I am possessed.”