And of my own knowledge I know that when
consciousness returned with convalescence I sent
for the clerk of the hotel.
'Are Mrs. Corray and her daughter still here?' I
asked.
'What name did you say?'
'Corray.'
'Nobody of that name has been here.'
'I beg you will not trifle with me,' I said petu-
lantly. 'You see that I am all right now; tell me
the truth.'
'I give you my word,' he replied with evident sin-
cerity, 'we have had no guests of that name.'
His words stupefied me. I lay for a few moments
in silence; then I asked: 'Where is Dr. Dorrimore?'
'He left on the morning of your fight and has
not been heard of since. It was a rough deal he
gave you.'
5
Such are the facts of this case. Margaret Corray
is now my wife. She has never seen Auburn, and dur-
ing the weeks whose history as it shaped itself in
my brain I have endeavoured to relate, was living
at her home in Oakland, wondering where her lover
was and why he did not write. The other day I saw
in the Baltimore Sun the following paragraph:
'Professor Valentine Dorrimore, the hypnotist,
had a large audience last night. The lecturer, who
has lived most of his life in India, gave some mar-
vellous exhibitions of his power, hypnotizing anyone
who chose to submit himself to the experiment, by
merely looking at him. In fact, he twice hypnotized
the entire audience (reporters alone exempted),
making all entertain the most extraordinary illusions.
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