Ten days later.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

"James Walker" is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow morning.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: Keep this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb his mind and check his improvement: "the ancient crime he spoke of was really committed; and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the real criminal the other day; the unhappiest man that has lived in a century; Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There, mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave. Let him rest.