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44 stone! What had I done to him? Wouldn't he find his body in jail—about to be hung for murder?

When I opened my eyes, at the work house, I found two doctors and several nurses working over me, while the workhouse officials looked on. It was believed that I had attempted suicide, and the interesting problem was, what had I taken that brought me so near to death's door, yet gave none of the usual indications of poisoning? They questioned me in vain. What would they have said had I informed them that I had not located my body until it was almost too late to save it! Since I could not tell the truth, it seemed better to keep still.

"What he needs," said one of the doctors, severely, "is plenty of hard work."

"We'll see that he gets it," replied the man in charge.

He kept his word.

Eighty-nine days left in which to pound rocks. Nothing I could say would convince the wooden-headed superintendent that I did not deserve all that and as much more. I was taken under guard to meet Angeline, my dear wife, in the divorce court.

Oh, the agony of that moment! My hands, which had been soft and white when last they clasped hers, were now rough and bleeding. A bit of flying stone had hit me on one cheek, leaving a cruel cut and closing one eye. One front tooth was missing—a result of a hand-to-hand scrimmage in which Jack Walsh had come off second best, and the suit I wore also bore mute evidence of the way my poor body must have been dragged around a very dirty floor.

The court room was crowded. It was proved by many who had once called me friend that I had struck my wife, swore at her in the presence of our friends, shown no concern when she lay ill as a result of my behavior. Finally, it was stated that I was now serving a term in the work house for drunkenness.

My attorney had advised me not to make any attempt to defend myself. "Better let your wife have her divorce," he said. "You and she could never be happy together, after all that has happened between you and public feeling is so strong against you that the quieter you keep the better it will be for you."

He was right. I should have listened to him, and kept out of that court room. But I could not do it. I had to see Angeline. I could not believe she would allow the divorce proceedings to continue, when she saw me there before her.

I should have kept silence, no matter what they said against me—but I could not. I felt impelled to try to defend myself. I must. But what could I say? I obtained permission to speak—I stood up—I fixed my eyes—my one good eye—on my wife.

"Angeline," I said, "you know I did not do all that has been charged against me, here today. Your heart tells you that I couldn't possibly have done it—that I was never like that "

"Not before you became a drunkard," sobbed Angeline. "I'll admit that it was drink that changed you."

"I do not drink," I protested. "I loathe the taste of liquor—just as I always have. I persuaded my jailers to tempt me—they will tell you I never touched a drop of the best Scotch procurable, although it remained in my cell for forty-eight hours."

"He really seems to have reformed," ventured my attorney.

"Reform nothing!" I retorted with very natural indignation. "I tell you, I never did drink. I never swore. I never struck my wife—"

"May I ask who did strike her?" inquired Angeline's attorney, in a tone that rasped like a file.

Then it all came back, and things went black before me. For a moment I had forgotten that I had not lived in my own body as continuously as I should have done.

"I will tell you who struck my wife," I said, desperately, as I faced my tormentor. "To understand, you must believe me when I tell you that I know how to astralize myself. You must believe me when I tell you that I left my body for a little while and another astral took possession."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Angeline's attorney, "what an alibi!"

"Can you beat that?" said Angeline's father, who, for the moment looked too dazed to be indignant.

I turned to Angeline, and held out my hands, imploringly. "Try to believe me," I said, "You know I have never lied to you. Dearest, it was not I who struck you—"

"Who was it, then?" snapped the attorney.

"He is named Jack Walsh," I replied, steadily. "His home is in England, where the court officials claim he is Jack the Ripper. He has been convicted of murder. He has a poor, unfortunate, slatternly ill-used wife named Liz—"

I was interrupted by a roar of laughter. Even the Judge laughed. I tried to elaborate my explanation—but no one would hear me—could hear me, as a matter of fact. I was simply a joke. There were some formalities that I was too indignant to follow, and then my wife was assured that she was no longer related to me, and I was escorted back to the work house.

SENSATIONAL newspaper took up my story. A reporter was allowed to visit me. He was sympathetic, and I bared my very soul. He promised to help me, and left me feeling greatly comforted.

Time passed slowly. Nothing happened, and I believed myself forgotten. And then a Sunday edition of that sensational paper was allowed to reach me. There were pictures of my home, Angeline, myself; the Saunders home, Helen and her husband; Jack Walsh, Liz and Jane, and the sordid place they called home. There was confession from Jack Walsh, and attention was called to the fact that he was hung on the "Friday before this paper goes to press." Jack told with convincing detail many episodes of his life with Angeline; and how, after swearing at her the first time he returned to the room intending to kiss and make up; but he found her face daubed with mud, which made him so infernally mad that he hit her with a boot jack instead of kissing her, "and by thunder," he added, "wouldn't any red-blooded man have did that same?"

That newspaper article made a tremendous sensation. It completely alienated Colonel Saunders and Helen, both of whom fled to parts unknown—but not together. The city rocked with laughter. They could not bear it. The only mitigating circumstance in that tragedy was that Helen was saved from the trepanning ordeal. She now had the bitter knowledge that her husband no longer cared whether she needed it, or not.

My time at the work house had expired. It had been shortened by my excellent behavior.

I waited only long enough to scrub my toil-worn hands before hastening to my home and my wife. That Sunday supplement had been shocking, but I figured that it must, at least, have given me the benefit of the doubt in the mind of Angeline. She must know, now, that it was Jack Walsh, not I, who had caused her so much misery. Of course she would still have much to forgive, but when she realized how I had suffered—how penitent I was—

My father-in-law met me at the door of my home. He placed himself so that I could not enter without difficulty.

"We expected you," he said, grimly. "My daughter wishes you to be advised that your personal effects have been