THE AUTHOR TAKES THE BLAME

 At the very outset I am going to make it clear to the reader
that I will not bear an undivided responsibility for writing this
book. The ideas, the words, the sentences are mine. I am willing
to accept responsibility for this portion of the work, but I
cannot be held accountable for the original conception.
 I had no desire to be an author; I swear nothing was further
from my thoughts before the matter was broached to me by the two
gentlemen who were the real instigators of my venture into the
world of letters. As in law, the doer of the deed does not stand
alone if it is provable that another inspired or suggested the
act; and I can prove it. The other offender is considered an
accessory, and, in the eyes of the law, is equally guilty.
 It was a dull, rainy afternoon. I was busily engaged in some
experimental work in the laboratory when the doorman announced
that a Mr. McCandless and a Mr. Krows were calling. I had known
Mr. McCandless for many years as an instructor in the Department
of the Drama at Yale University. I had counted him one of my
personal friends. I trusted him.
 Therefore, it was with a feeling of great personal pleasure that
I welcomed him and his friend Mr. Krows. The latter proved a
bland, courteous gentleman, with a friendly twinkle in his eye,
and a lavish knowledge of theatrical matters. As our conversation
progressed I began to enjoy his acquaintance immensely. I mention
this to show how the master mind assumes control of the unwary
before leading the victim to his doom.
 Deftly my visitors led me on to talk of my hobby-stage lighting.
Soon I was rattling on like an elderly Ford trying to do ninety
miles an hour. Mr. Krows kept nodding in approval, slyly slipping
in a word here and there to make me continue my monologue. As
unsuspecting as the sacrificial lambkin I went bleating down the
pathway of doom.
 Then, fixing me with a hypnotic eye, this suave Svengali said:
"This is most interesting, Mr. Hartmann. It will prove of
enormous interest to others, and I want you to promise here and
now to write it in a book!"
 My resistance was down to a minimum; my chest was out like that
of a pouter pigeon. The man's honeyed words had betrayed me, and
I answered: "I will!"
 The next day I faced cold, stern reality. The mesmeric Mr. Krows
and the corroborative Mr. McCandless were gone. I write a book?
Bosh! As well promise to bridge the Hudson River. Write! The last
thing I wanted to do; the thing for which I pitied those who made
it their profession. I was terrorized. I had pledged myself to do
a thing I loathed in prospect.
 But I had given my promise before a witness. Nothing remained
but to proceed.
 In my own dumb way I have kept my word. What lies on these
printed pages represents what I truly know and believe through
experience--or that part in which it would seem the greater
number may be interested.
 But again, my readers, I point to Messrs. McCandless and Krows
as accessories. Whatever blame attaches to me is theirs in equal
measure.

                      Louis Hartmann.
New York.