Still, it would be best if Mr. Fontesque was thought to be alive, at least until I was safely out of town.

There was no trouble on that score. I changed into his clothes, packed my own with his belongings, and waited until the last moment before leaving the room to settle his account. The desk clerk was more concerned with the faces on the crisp bills than that of a departing guest, and so I escaped undue notice. I did not want to be recognized while waiting at the station, so I timed my appearance on the platform just as the seven o’clock train pulled in with a loud whistle and a squeal of brakes, bellowing cinder-filled smoke from its stack. As the noise of its arrival subsided, I heard a paper boy calling out a headline: “Hardwick Factory Fire Kills Owner!” I kept my head lowered, purchased a paper and tucked it beneath my arm.

I boarded the train, praying that no one who knew me or Fontesque would be riding in the coach cars. The train was not crowded, and I set the cases on the seat next to me to discourage unwanted company. Oh, for a private car as I was used to! But no one molested me.

That no man greeted me as Fontesque could not surprise me. He had been a surly man, and of no importance to our community. I, on the other hand, felt sure that I might be recognized at any moment, even in Fontesque’s sorry raiment. Imagine my feelings, then, when I opened the newspaper to hide my face behind it and was greeted with what was meant to be my own likeness on the front page!

It was, to be sure, a rather poor engraving copied from an old photograph. (You remember the one in the small wooden frame which stood above the mantle in the library? Perhaps you would be so kind as to discover if some Johnny Lightfingers from the Clarion stole it from my home?) As I calmed myself, I decided that the too thin lips and enlarged nose in this depiction would be of help; perhaps I would benefit from the artist’s lack of attention to detail.

I am sure you saw the headline:

J. Hardwick Killed in Fire

Aside from my growing disliked of the engraving itself, the two articles on the front page were all I could want them to be. I studied the article on the fire first. Although the pumping crew had arrived in time to douse the fire before much damage was done to the factory itself, the laboratory was destroyed. The fire was thought to have been the result of some experiment gone awry. The body found within the laboratory was burned nearly beyond recognition. (More thoroughly than I had hoped.) My coat had been found in the undamaged entry, still hanging on the hall tree. On the body, an object believed to be my watch was also found. But the prime piece of identifying evidence was supplied by Higgins, who indeed remembered that I had counted out $1.53-exactly the amount of heat-damaged coins found on the deceased.

Blessing Higgins, I moved to the other article; a touching tribute to my achievements that nearly had me weeping over the loss of myself.

And so I went on to San Francisco, and booked a room at this establishment, the Linworth Hotel, which is neither mean nor luxurious. For the better part of two days, I slept, exhausted by events and emotions.

Last night I went out to obtain a simple dinner, and as I made my way back to the hotel, I purchased a newspaper. This I took to my room, and feeling much alone, began to read.

The article which prompted this letter to you was on page ten.

The story of a fire in a northern city might not have been worthy of the attention of the San Francisco paper, but in this case, there were large insurance premiums which might have been paid upon Jenkin Hardwick’s death. Might have been paid, except for one curious problem-the body of Mr. Jenkin Hardwick was two inches shorter than it should be.

Two inches shorter? But Fontesque had stood next to me in that saloon, walked next to me, and always at my exact height! Our boots, though of a different quality, did not differ in the size of their heels. What had gone wrong?

I frantically searched my mind for some explanation, and found myself staring at Hardwick’s satchel. I opened it and spilled the contents onto the bed.

The two strange wooden objects clattered together like castanets. They were easily identified now: lifts. The damnable man wore lifts in his shoes!

To be undone by something so small as a vain man’s attempt to hide his lack of stature is more than I can bear at this point, Augustus. Sooner or later, even a man like Fontesque will be missed, and when accusations of fraud are raised and his likeness to me is recalled by the patrons of that saloon, the truth will be known. Emma’s nature will not allow her to lie to the police; neither is there any wiliness in her-I cannot hope she will think to mislead them by saying that I, too, wore lifts.

And Augustus, although others may not believe it, Emma was at the heart of this, as she owns my own heart. Please, I beg of you, do all you can to shield her from what is to come.

I, for my part, will have made better use of my knowledge of chemistry by the time you receive this. In my room, an effective potion awaits me, a strong poison-one which will not allow me to fall short of my current goal.

Farewell, Gussie, from the world’s biggest fool.

Miscalculation

“All set?” Ada asked. “Of course you are. There isn’t a Girl Scout in the world who took ‘be prepared’ as seriously as you did, Sarah.”

“From the size of that trunk I saw poor Mr. Parsons carrying out of here, I’d say you’re the one who’s over-prepared,” Sarah Milington replied. “Really, Grandmother, we’re only staying on the Queen Mary overnight.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” her adoptive grandmother said, embracing her as she reached her. “And it’s likely I still haven’t brought half of what I really need. You’re the one who’s best at details. If you would come to live with me again-”

“Grandmother…” Sarah warned.

“Never mind, I won’t pester you about that now. I think a trunk makes it seem so much more like a real cruise-Oh, here’s Robert,” she said, seeming so pleased that Sarah had to tamp down an annoying little flair of jealousy. More irritating, she was fairly sure Robert Parsons had noted her discomposure.

Although he was always polite to her, Sarah had yet to feel completely at ease around Parsons. Some of this unease was undoubtedly due to her grandmother’s delight in surrounding both Parsons’s background and his position in her household with an air of intrigue, but Sarah knew this was only part of why she felt self-conscious when Parsons was near.

For all his own quietness, his presence in this house caused of a great deal of talk. He was the inspiration for plenty of local gossip-gossip that undoubtedly pleased Ada Milington. Robert Parsons-good-looking, broad-shouldered and not more than thirty years old, had been part of Ada ’s household for nearly a year now.

At first, Sarah had believed that the rest of the staff, all much older than Parsons and notoriously protective of her grandmother, would rebel at his presence. In this she was mistaken. Parsons, she now reflected-recalling that he had just carried the largest trunk she had ever seen out to the van-was undoubtedly a godsend to the aging servants. He seemed more than willing to do heavy lifting and to take on any task, no matter how arduous. And, she was forced to admit, he gave every sign of being sincerely devoted to her grandmother.

Sarah knew she had no real personal complaint to make of him. Long accustomed to her grandmother’s love of outrageous behavior, she decided that it was not her place to interfere. Ada had survived four husbands, and if she now wanted to have a fling with a man almost fifty years her junior, Sarah would not be the one to object.