There is only a dull and almost contemptuous memory of the religious ecstasies of the night before. My dreams, my confession, have not the slightest influence upon me. I don't fall again into ruining habits—I continue them, without restraint, without sorrow.
I will write no more. I am adding another Fear to all the other Fears. I have been making a true picture of what I am, and it is so awful that even my blinded eyes cannot bear to look upon it.
Thus these notes, in varying handwriting, indicating the ebb and flow of poison within the brain, cease and say no more.
At the bottom of the last page—which was but half filled by the concluding words of the Confession—there is something most terribly significant, most horrible to look at in the light of after events.
There is a greenish splash upon the glossy paper, obviously whiskey was spilt there.
Beginning in the area of the splashed circle, the ink running, a word of four letters is written.
Two letters are cloudy, the others sharp and clear.
The word is "Rita."
A little lower down, and now right at the bottom of the page, the word is repeated again in large tremulous handwriting, three times. "Rita, Rita, Rita!"