Two years later a letter came from my father. My little brother William had been found strangled in the woods near Geneva, and a locket he had worn was missing. I travelled home through a storm, and on the mountain above the lake I saw, in a flash of lightning, the gigantic figure of the thing I had created. From that instant I knew who the murderer was. But the locket had been discovered in the pocket of Justine Moritz, the gentle girl who had lived with us since childhood, and she was tried for the murder. She confessed falsely to a priest out of terror and was hanged. I could say nothing that anyone would believe, and so I said nothing at all. Two people were dead by my hand, and I had not touched either of them.