For twenty-four hours I have been planning it.
Last night I walked on the Embankment while the hansoms jogged by and the lights of the tramcars danced on Westminster Bridge just as the fireflies used to in the garden back of our house in Kansas.

While I walked I planned.

To-day, shut up in my rooms, I was also planning.

And yet now, when I sit down to write, I am still confused; still at a loss where to begin and what to say, once I have begun.
At the close of my last letter I confessed to you that it was I who murdered Captain Fraser-Freer.

That is the truth.