It is the tale of a crime committed in one of the large cities of this country, and which, baffling the authorities at the time, still remains a mystery to all but myself and one other. Even now, at this late day, in deference to a plea that bore the seal of death, I shall only write of it with such changes of scene and names as I hope may prevent identification. To me the history of this tragedy has always seemed convincing proof of the insufficiency of circumstantial evidence, except where such evidence is conclusive.

On a Monday evening in January, 1883, I had returned comparatively late from work in the District Attorney's office in New York, and was in my rooms at the Crescent Club on Madison Square, corner of Twenty-sixth Street, making a leisurely toilet for dinner, when a note was brought me from Arthur White. In it he asked me to join a few mutual friends at his rooms on West Nineteenth Street off Fifth Avenue later in the evening for supper.