nt to a local publishing house
where directories of important cities throughout the country could be
consulted. Shortly after he went upon this errand, my conservator
appeared. He found me walking about the lawn. At his suggestion we sat
down. Bold in the assurance that I could kill myself before the crisis
came, I talked with him freely, replying to many of his questions and
asking several. My conservator, who did not know that I doubted his
identity, commented with manifest pleasure on my new-found readiness to
talk. He would have been less pleased, however, had he been able to
read my mind.

Shortly after my conservator's departure, my fellow-patient returned
and informed me that the latest New Haven Directory contained the names
and addresses I had given him. This information, though it did not
prove that my morning caller was no detective, did convince me that my
real brother still lived where he did when I left New Haven, two years
earlier. Now that my delusions were growing weaker, my returning reason
enabled me to construct the ingenious scheme which, I believe, saved my
life; for, had I not largely regained my reason _when I did_, I am
inclined to believe that my distraught mind would have destroyed itself
and me, before it could have been restored by the slow process of
returning health.

A few hours after my own private detective had given me the information
I so much desired, I wrote the first letter I had written in twenty-six
months. As letters go, it is in a class by itself. I dared not ask for
ink, so I wrote with a lead pencil. Another fellow-patient in whom I
had confidence, at my request, addressed the envelope; but he was not
in the secret of its contents. This was an added precaution, for I
thought the Secret Service men might have found out that I had a
detective of my own and would confiscate any letters addressed by him
or me. The next morning, _my_ "detective" mailed the letter. That
letter I still have, and I treasure it as any innocent man condemned to
death would treasure a pardon. It should convince the reader that
sometimes a mentally disordered person, even one suffering from many
delusions, can think and write clearly. An exact copy of this--the most
important letter I ever expect to be called upon to write--is here
presented:

AUGUST 29, 1902.

DEAR GEORGE:

On last Wednesday morning a person who claimed to be George M.
Beers of New Haven, Ct., clerk in the Directo