soldiers commissioned by the Anti-War Association. None of my so-called Symphonies in Black were wrought by my hand — but I can tell you what became of the models who were unfortunate enough to pose for me! My real work is perhaps no better than that of a rank novice, although up to that fatal afternoon I had honestly be- lieved myself capable of great work as a sculptor some day. But I am an impostor. You want a statue of me, you say in your cablegram, done in the mysterious black stone which has made me so famous? Ah, gentle- men, you shall have that statue! I am writing this confession aboard the S. S. Madrigal, and I shall leave it with a steward to be mailed to you at our next port of call. Tonight I shall take out of my state- room the hideous thing in its black box which has never left my side. Such a creature, contrary to all nature on this earth of ours, should be exterminated. As soon as darkness falls I shall stand on deck and balance the box on the rail so that it will fall into the sea after my hand has touched what is inside. I wonder if the process of being turned into that black rock is painful, or if it is accompanied only by a feeling of leth- argy? And McCrea, Paul Kennicott, and those unfortunate models whom I have passed off as "my work" — are they dead, as we know death, or are their statues sentient and possessed of nerves? How does that jelly creature feel to the touch? Does it impart a violent electrical shock or a subtle emanation of some force be- yond our ken, changing the atom-struc- ture of the flesh it turns into stone? Many such questions have occurred to me often in the small hours when I lie awake, tortured by remorse for what I have done. But tonight, gentlemen, I shall know all the answers.