In that instant Gilmour knew that he would never see his girl again. The world was mad and he was mad!

With the cry of a homicidal maniac, he seized the microscope and crashed it upon Neville's head, and before the younger Neville was aware of what had happened, her skull was crushed to pulp. Then Gilmour turned with the sound of an animal' to deal with the youth. The madman hurled the instrument at him, striking him upon the head, and as the youth fell to the floor, Gilmour dashed from the room.

Down the sweet country lanes he went with wild eyes, talking to himself, the specks of foam at the corners of his twisted mouth sticking in little bubbles on the bristles of his five-day-old beard.

It was in this state that he arrived at the village, and to the horror of the inhabitants, wandering into the best room of a little cottage that was the local police station, babbling childishly that he had killed a man.

And that, patient reader, solves the mystery of the Mount Murders and eases my soul.

Are there any more questions you wish answered? Stop, I anticipate you. Who am I? How do I know this? How are you to believe that it is the truth?

Ah well, you will dig to the roots.

I am James Hazlewood, the established, I flatter myself again, physiologist, and if it is relevant, happily married, the father of two fine children . . . . I was once Jeanette Neville.

THE END

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