"But ain't it the strangest thing you ever heard of?"

"Yes, it is strange, and yet not so strange to me. It is simply the
sequel to a well-known story. In the streets of New Orleans, years
ago, when I could scarcely carry a bundle of newspapers, I cried your
name. The story was getting old then, for I remember that the people
paid but little attention to it."

They sat for a time in silence. Young Witherspoon spoke, but DeGolyer
did not answer him. They heard a guitar and a Spanish love song.

"Yes, it is strange," said DeGolyer, coming hack from a wandering
reverie. "It is strange that I should be here with you;" and under a
quickening of his newspaper instincts, he added, "and I shall have the
writing of it."

"But wait awhile before you let your mind ran on on that, Hank. I
don't want to be described and talked about so much. I know it can't
be kept out of the papers, but we'll discuss that after a while. Now,
let me tell you what I've done. I wrote to--to--father--don't that
sound strange? I wrote to him and sent him a copy of uncle's paper--I
would have sent the original, but I wanted to show that to you. I also
sent a note that mother--there it is again--wrote to uncle a long time
ago, and a lock of hair and some other little tricks. I told him to
write to me, and here's his letter. It came nearly four weeks ago. And
think, Hank, I've got a sister--grown and handsome, too, I'll bet."

Ecstasy had almost made the letter incoherent. It was written first by
one and then another hand, with frequent interchanges; and DeGolyer;