"Alas, how many years and hours have pass’d since human forms have round this table sat, or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleamed! Methinks I hear the sound of time long pass’d still murmuring o’er us, in the lofty void of these dark arches, like the ling’ring voices Of those who long within their graves have slept."- Orra: a Tragedy

 In the month of August, 1858, there came to Yale a young man and his wife.  The couple were genteel-looking, had evidently been accustomed to good society and spoke like people of culture, and, what was better than all in some eyes, they had much  money.  They had with them a girl of about seven-sweet, pretty ad petite, a perfect fairy, with lovely blue eyes and light hair, and such winsome ways!  The mother was a most engaging conversationalist,  She had traveled in Europe with her father and mother and had a wealth of old Country anecdotes and scenery to tell and describe.  They gave the name of Gregory, and claimed to have come from a small city in the interior of New York State.  Gregory bought a cane on the second bench back of Yale which belonged to Mr. McRoberts, a Scotch gentleman, who, with his wife, occupied a larger and better cottage near the Court House.  The Gregories furnished their home neatly and comfortably with such articles as they were able to procure at the Hudson’s Bay store, then managed by Mr. Allard, chief trader.  He was a French-Canadian and one of the best friends I ever had.  John Kurtz, Hugh Nelson, Walter Gladwin and myself, all former San Franciscans, had naturally crystallized and formed a little club or set of our own, to which we admitted Mr. Kelly, the lawyer from Australia, and a few other kindred spirits.  

The Gregories, when they first came to the camp, were reserved and "offish" in manner, and seemed to shrink from observation.I became acquainted with them in rather an odd manner.  The water supply of the inhabitants was conveyed from the river to the houses and stores in buckets.  The Indians were found very useful as water carriers, and every morning and evening a bucket-brigade of natives was engaged in packing water from the river to the people who lived on the benches.One morning, very early, I was busy outside my place when I saw Mrs. Gregory, in a loose wrapper and without her crinoline, carrying a huge pitcher in her hands, pass down towards the river brink. With no object save the gratification of a natural interest which a pretty woman usually arouses in a young fellow just out of his teens, I watched her as she carefully picked her way over and around the boulders on the bar, and when she had filled the pitcher and started back I still kept her in view. Now,I would gladly have asked her permission to get the water for her, but as we were not acquainted I feared that the offer might be regarded as an impertinence.The lady was threading her way along the rock-beset path when suddenly her foot slipped and down she went on her knees, the pitcher breaking and the water splashing over her.  I ran into the tent and, seizing a towel and a bucket, flew down the trail to where the lady, who had risen to her feet, stood drenched and looking very woebegone as she gazed at the wreck of the pitcher and ruefully surveyed her drenched form. I handed her the towel as I passed, and running on to the river filled the bucket.  When I returned she had used the towel to some effect, but the dress of thin material, wet through and through, clung closely to and set off her shapely figure. She blushed like a red, red rose, and as I approached she stammered forth a few words of thankfulness adding, "What shall I do for some water?  Charley is too sick to come himself for it, and the Indian carrier did not call last night."

  "Why," I said, "I filled this bucket for you, and if you will permit me and will walk behind me (I did not think she would be pleased, with the wet dress hanging closely to her form, to walk in front) I will carry it to your house."  

"Oh!  thank you," she said; "I am more than obliged for your kindness."  

At the time of which I write a lady who should have appeared in public in a habit that fitted closely to her figure and a shirt waist would have been looked upon with suspicion, at least.  The aim of fashion was to hide as much of the female "form divine" as possible.  The women of that period actually walked about in wire cages, which hung suspended from their waists and concealed the outlines of their bodies and limbs.  Remove the pan of a circular birdcage and retain the wire part and you will have a very fair idea of the article our mothers and sweethearts moved about in 1858.  To-day the object would seem to be to show as much of the figure as possible by drawing the skirts closely about the hips and wearing a waist or short jacket.  I never took kindly to the crinoline-you had to take too much on trust.  Give me the close-fitting garments and the short jacket or waist in preference.  Had the present style prevailed when the charming Mrs. Gregory upset the water over herself she would have had no reason to blush or walk behind me up the slope.  Fashion’s dictates would have silenced Mrs. Grundy.  I often wonder what the old lady has to say now.  

In a few minutes we reached the cabin.  The little girl, with her hair in curl-papers, was in the kitchen and immediately came up and put her hand confidently in mine.  We were friends in an instant.  I inquired if I could do anything else to assist, but Mrs. Gregory declined any further aid and I withdrew.

  That afternoon the little girl came to my cabin with a note from her mother asking me if I would summon a doctor, as her husband seemed very ill.  I called in Dr. Fifer, a near neighbor, and in a day or two the patient was about again, apparently as well as ever.  When the couple called with the little girl to thank me for my assistance, we had a good laugh over the broken pitcher incident.  

Of course, the Gregorys joined our little club and, equally of course, they proved to be among its most valuable and interesting  members.  Both could recite very well.  Kurtz could sing and play the violin.  Nelson was the poetaster, and got off some very clever things.  Kelly and the few remaining members did little parts, while I was expected to contribute the Joe Millerisms.  When winter evenings set in and snow lay on the ground, and the cold blasts roared through the deep recesses of the canyons and moaned and shrieked about our frail habitations like a thousand demons loosed from the infernal regions bent on devouring us, we only piled higher the logs in the fire-place, and, as the ruddy flames cast  a warm glow over the little party of friends, we bade defiance to the fuming and raging of the Storm King.  Ah!  those were pleasant evenings.  They were not the pleasantest I ever spent, for there was in store for me almost a lifetime of sweet companionship with one who, though gone before, is not lost, and who only passed from earth to heaven a brief while ago.  

The winter of 1858-59 slipped rapidly away, and the spring found us all alive and as happy as possible under the circumstances of remoteness from the outer world and a sometimes short supply of wholesome food.  The Gregorys had become the most popular people in the village, and the little girl-Mae Judith-was welcomed everywhere.  I named one of my claims "Little Judy" in her honor.

  One evening Nelson and I were seated on a rude bench in front of the Gregory cabin, conversing upon some topic of local interest-perhaps it was the latest murder, or the last robbery, or the most recent gold "find".  Whatever the subject may have been matters nothing now, but as we talked I observed an old gentleman advancing up the bank.  When he reached the top he halted for a moment to gaze upon the magnificent panorama of snow clad hills which stretched far away into space on all sides.  Then he strolled along until he came opposite to us.  Addressing Mr. Nelson, he asked if he would direct him to Yale Creek.  Mr. Nelson pointed in the direction and the old gentleman, bowing politely, passed on.  The next day I met him on the main street walking listlessly along,  gazing at the stores, the cabins and the rushing river alternately.  An hour or so afterwards I found myself seated at the same table with him at Wm. Power’s hotel.  We soon struck up an acquaintance, and my vis-à-vis told me that his name was Merrill, that he was a resident of Philadelphia, and sufficiently well-to-do to travel for pleasure.  "I am not rich," he added, "but I have enough."  

Let me describe Mr. Merrill for a moment.  He was tall and apparently sixty years of age.  His hair was snow-white and he ware a full white beard close cut.  He was dressed as a gentleman of the period in clothes of fashionable make.  Taken all in all, he was ladies would call "a nice-looking gentleman."  He explained that he was traveling for his health, and being an ardent fisherman had already made a slight acquaintance with the trout in Yale Creek.  The following afternoon found us both casting the fly in the creek.  Merrill caught two fish to one, and when the shades of evening began to gather we counted our catch and found that we had a dozen plump trout.  On our way in I proposed that we should present Mrs. Gregory with the catch, and the proposition was unanimously adopted.  Merrill was not acquainted with the Gregorys, but when I made the presentation Mr. Gregory invited us inside, and the ice being thus broken the newcomer was immediately accepted as a welcome guest.  From that time on the intimacy grew, and it was an almost daily occurrence for the couple to receive a few trout or a brace of grouse from Mr. Merill or myself.  Our little club continued to meet at the different homes and had a good time generally.  Mr. Merrill, having joined us, added much to our enjoyment and pleasure by his exquisite playing on the flute and his rendition of some of the old songs in a low and sweet tenor voice.  We became very much attached to him, and although each week he would announce that next week he would leave for home, he lingered on and on and became more and more intimate at the Gregorys’.  

"Can’t you see what’s the matter?"  asked Kurtz one day, as we were discussing Merrill’s prolonged stay.  

"I’m sure I can’t," said I.  

"Well, I’ll tell you, then.  He’s gone on Mrs. Gregory."

  "Nonsense," I returned.  "He’s gone on her," insisted Kurtz.

  In a day or two I became convinced that the dainty little lady had really captivated Mr. Merrill, and that, perhaps all unconsciously to herself, he was being drawn more and more to her side.  In fact, he did not seem happy except when loitering about the Gregory house, where he was now a daily guest and almost appeared to have established himself as one of the family.  

I didn’t like the aspect of things at all.  Really, it was none of my business; but I felt somewhat indignant at the turn affairs had taken-indignant to think that Merrill, whom I had introduced to the family, had displaced me, as it were, in their regard.  Ella Wheeler Wilcox has written "that the chivalry of a man consists in protecting a woman from every other man but himself."  Was that the brand of chivalry that had awakened my indignation?  

About this time I noticed that a great change had come over my lawyer friend Kelly.  He seldom went to the Gregorys now and he seldom attended the club meetings.  When I met him he seemed to wish to avoid me, grew abstracted and moody in his manner, and took to walking by himself.  Was he, too, the least bit jealous?  Once I encountered Kelly and Merrill engaged in deep conversation at Power’s, but I thought nothing of that.  And so the weeks wore on and Merrill remained, without giving any sign, except the oft repeated assertion, that he intended ever to go away.  The club gradually became demoralized;  its meetings fell off and then ceased altogether.  

"Do you know," I said to Nelson one day, "I believe that that man Merrill is no good?  Who knows anything about him?  Why, he may be the biggest rascal unhung for all we know.  What’s he doing here, anyhow?"

  Nelson just laughed loud and long.  "Don’t be a fool," he said.  "The old man’s too many for young chaps, and that’s all there is about it.  You’re jealous and so is Kurtz, and so are all the rest.  What business is it of ours if the Gregorys like him?"

  Next I tried Kelly.  He said nothing, but shook his head and walked off with a pensive and dejected air.  So I discontinued my visits to the Gregorys and ceased to talk about them and Merrill, although whenever I met them the lady and gentleman urged me to call and evidently wondered at my continued absence.

  One afternoon the Gregorys left Yale by the trail for Texas Bar, a few miles down the river.  They announced that they would return late the same evening.  Merrill was much concerned at their proposed absence and accompanied them some two miles on their journey.  He got back late in the afternoon and after dining went to his room.  After dark a light was seen in their cabin.  The next morning Gregory complained that during their absence the cabin had been entered and although everything had been entered and although everything had been turned topsy-turvy, nothing had been taken except a few papers.  The affair created a little interest for a day or two, and was then forgotten.  

One dismal, stormy night I sat at my desk indicting a letter for a San Francisco newspaper.  The candle had burned low in its socket, so I blew the flickering light out and rose to procure a fresh candle.  As I groped towards the box I became aware, by a gentle tapping on the window-pane, of the presence of someone on the outside who wished to come in.  

"Who’s there?"  I demanded.  

The deep voice of Lawyer Kelly responded in a hoarse whisper, "Let me come in, quick, by the back door."  

I didn’t like the proposition a bit.  There had been several murderous assaults and robberies in town quite recently.  I wasn’t afraid of Kelly, of course; but suppose the person now seeking admittance should prove not to be Kelly?  What if one of the many desperadoes with whom Yale was infested at that time had assumed his voice and under that guise should gain admittance, and finding me unarmed and off my guard should slay and rob me?  I lighted a match and searched till I found a "black-jack," with which a New Zealand miner had presented me a while before, and then groped my way to the back door and opened it.  In the gloom, which was slightly relieved by the light of the stars, I beheld the substantial outlines of the Kelly figure.  The lawyer stumbled rather than walked inside, closed and bolted the door and took me by the hand.  I noticed that the hand he placed in mine trembled like an aspen-leaf, and his breath came and went in great puffs like that of a man who had ascended a pair of stairs rapidly and was exhausted when he reached the top.

"Look here, H.," he exclaimed, "I come to you for advice.  I’m in a devil of a fix.  I’ve done a most despicable thing.  For money I have consented to betray a man who never did me any harm, whose hospitality I have enjoyed and whom I love like a brother.  The Eastern matron who drove the nail into the head of a fugitive ally, who had just fed at her board and who was sleeping beneath the shadow of her tent, was no meaner than I feel myself to be.  I was tempted and I fell- fell like Lucifer."  I was shocked; frightened by his agitation and his words.  Was I the friend whom he had consented to betray?  By a strong effort I controlled my feelings and managed to ask:

"Kelly, what in the name of all that is good and great and holy do you mean?"

  "I mean that I’m a villain-that I have taken a retainer of $100 in gold to entrap and betray a friend.  I’m a Judas, the only difference between me and Iscariot being that where he took silver I took gold.  The principle-or rather the want of it-is the same.  I wish I had died before I ever saw Yale.  I’ve taken blood-money--blood-money!"

"Come now," I said, soothingly, "tell me all about it-that’s a good chap."

"Oh!" he groaned, "how can I tell the story of my shame, my disgrace, my fall."

"If you don’t tell me," I urged, "how can I help and advise you."

"That’s right," he said.  "I must tell you.  Well, that Merrill’s a devil."

Instantly it occurred to me that there had been trouble at the Gregory household and that the old man had either flown with the pretty little woman or had insulted her, and that Kelly had been retained to defend Merrill, and now repented of having taken the fee.  

"I knew it, I knew it!"  I eagerly exclaimed.  "He’s no good, and I said so weeks ago."

"Oh!" broke in Kelly, "you’re wrong-at least it’s not in the way you think.  Gregory is a defaulter.  He was cashier in a New York bank, and was short in his accounts to an enormous amount.  He came here to hide.  Merrill is a great detective-the greatest in America-and he followed him here and has stayed ever since, accepting his hospitality, eating his salt, and awaiting an opportunity to take him back.  But the extradition treaty is so lame and faulty that it does not cover this case, and Merrill had been awaiting a chance for months to induce Gregory to set his foot on American soil where he can be seized.  The detective consulted me and I told him he could not take his quarry back legally, but that if he could get him across the line he might kidnap him.  I consented to act as a spy on my friend and entrap him, and leave his dear wife and that sweet little Mae unprotected.  My God!"  (beating his brow with his clenched fist) "I am the most miserable wretch in Yale tonight.  I have been most wretched ever since I yielded to temptation.  The meanest hanger-on about the faro-bank and Bennett’s is a moral king to me.  What shall I do?"

"Pay back the money and retire from the case," I cried.

"Oh! but the worst is not yet told.  Tomorrow morning Gregory and Merrill will leave for Point Roberts, where, the detective has told him, he has a gold mine, but where the defaulter will be laid hold of as a criminal.  A canoe with an Indian crew has been engaged and the supplies are on board.  It lies on the river bank and at daybreak they will be off.  At the last moment I have come to you.  My conscience is awakened.  Just think of my aiding a scheme to rob that woman and her child of their protector and send him to prison.  I have eaten of his salt.  An Arab of the desert would never betray a man whose salt he had eaten.  What can be done to save him and make me a decent white man again?"  I thought for a few moments and then said, " We must tell others and get their assistance to counteract this infamous scheme."

"But," said Kelly, "what becomes of my honor, my sworn pledge as a barrister?  How can I save my friend without betraying my client?  and if I betray my client Begbie will strike me off the rolls."

"The detective has no right to ask you to assist him in an infamous transaction, and it is not professional in you to retain a fee for doing dirty work.  Throw the fee back and  let me tell Kartz and Nelson all about the plot."

"You are right," said Kelly, after a pause.  "Do as you wish."

"Wait here till I return," I said, and I opened the door cautiously and peered out.  No one was in sight, and I soon found myself in the room with John Kurtz and Hugh Nelson.

  Seated in a chair was Frank Way, who conducted the Spuzzum ferry, where the Trutch Suspension Bridge was afterwards erected and where it still spas the Fraser.  Frank was a doll character.  He was an American and not a man of much education; but he was as bright as a new sovereign, and as keen-witted as a Fox razor.  To this day old Yaleites relate stories of his pranks and practical jokes.  Some of these were not nice, and could not be safely printed or told to ears polite, but he was the soul of wit and humor.  He was a man of great resource and bodily and mental activity.  During the gold rush he made barrels of money by ferrying miners and their effects across the Fraser River at fifty cents a head.  He told me that one day he earned in fares a tin bucket full of silver and gold.  Once, he said, he started across with ten men in his boat.  The craft ran into a riffle and was upset.  All were precipitated into the water, and all were crowned save him.

"You were out their fares," I said.

"No, I wasn’t," he answered.  "I always collected in advance for fear of just such an accident."

"And how were you saved?" I asked.

"By diving and swimming under the rough surface of the water as long as I could hold my breath.  When I came up all my late companions had disappeared; but I found myself in an eddy and so got ashore.  Whenever you are in business trouble, young fellow," he continued, "and see no road open for escape, just risk a little more-take a header- and in nine cases out of ten you’ll come up all right."

Some of my business readers will be able to say if this is sound philosophy or not.

I laid Kelly’s trouble before the three friends, and we all agreed that the situation was a serious one and that if Gregory was to be saved immediate action must be taken.  Several plans were suggested and abandoned, because they involved the telling to the woman the story of her husband’s shame, for we assumed that she did not know of it, and we wished to spare her that trial.

At last Frank Way asked: "Where did Kelly say the canoe is moored?"

"In front of the bar, and the supplies are already on board.  The party will leave at the first glimmer of daylight."

"Humph!" said Frank, thoughtfully.  Then rising and yawning as if weary of the whole business, he beckoned to me and we took our leave.  Way remained outside of my house while I went in and told Kelly that all were of the opinion that the retainer should be returned, and that if at daybreak no other solution could be found, Mrs. Gregory must be told and the plot exposed.  The lawyer eagerly accepted the proposition to return the fee, but he shrank from the publicity that would attach to the transaction, and as there was bad blood between himself and Chief Justice Begbie, he dreaded the outcome should the matter reach the Chief Justice’s ears.

  Aurora’s rosy fingers had just pinned back the sable curtains of night, and the eastern sky sowed signs of the approach of another day, when Gregory left his cabin and threaded his way towards the beach.  As he walked on the unsuspecting man hummed a popular air, happy in the anticipation of sudden wealth ad assured prosperity.  As he neared the river he saw the tall form of Merrill running excitedly up and down in the dim light, as he berated the crew of Indians who had been employed to navigate the boat to the mouth of the river.  When he saw Gregory, Merrill cried:

  "Come here, quick!"

  Gregory hastened his steps and soon saw the cause of Merrill’s anger.  During the light some one with a ax had cut and hacked the canoe until it was practically destroyed, and the supplies that were laid in overnight must have been thrown into the river, for they were nowhere to be seen.

Merrill was in a fearful rage.  All his gentlemanly reserve was gone and his mouth emitted the most frightful profanity and vulgarity.  He called down the curses of Heaven on the perpetrators of the deed and consigned them to the infernal regions.  He abused the Indian crew and fiercely turned on Gregory and accused him of being in the plot t destroy the canoe.

  Gregory denied all knowledge of the affair.

  "I never knew a thief who was not a liar," exclaimed Merrill.

"What do you mean?" hotly asked Gregory.

"I mean that you are a thief-and you know it, and I know it!"

Gregory fell back as if struck by a hard blow.

"Yes," screamed the detective, his anger growing hotter and hotter; "you robbed the Bank in New York City.  Your name is no more Gregory than my name’s Merrill, and if you were on the American side I would arrest you as a common thief.  You are safe here, but I’ll get you yet, you!"

Gregory, crushed and broken by the tirade of abuse and the knowledge of his crime so unexpectedly launched at him by the detective, whom up to that morning he had regarded as a gentleman and a warm personal friend, walked slowly away in one direction, while Merrill started to walk rapidly off in another.  In his excitement the detective had not remembered the Indian crew.  They, four in number, and armed with paddles, ran after him and demanded pay for their wrecked vessel.  He tried to pass on, but they obstructed his path and loudly demanded compensation, which at last he reluctantly gave them.

When Merrill and Gregory had passed out of sight two heads were raised above the level of a great boulder.  After a careful survey the heads were followed by the bodies of two young white men, who walked to the beach and gazed at the wreck and expressed sympathy for the owners of the craft.  Then the two walked slowly back to town, chuckling and laughing as they went, and sought their respective couches.  They had been out all night and needed a little rest.

At noon hour Merrill, Kurtz and I met at Power’s.  Merrill had calmed down by this time, and his manner was as placid and serene as usual.  He had no reason to think that we knew aught of the affair of the early morning.

"Mr. Merrill," Kurtz said, "I am commissioned by a gentleman who says he is indebted to you to give you one hundred dollars in gold."

Merrill started slightly and then said, "I was not aware I had a debtor in the camp.  What is his name?"

"Kelly," I broke in, excitedly.  "He says you employed him to do some legal business for you, but instead you tried to convert him into a detective.  He declines to degrade the legal profession in that manner and returns your retainer."

Merrill, who saw that his disguise had been penetrated and his designs were known, took the money without another word and gave a receipt.  In the body of the receipt I was careful to introduce words which made it clear that Kelly had taken the retainer under a misapprehension, so, should Begbie hear of the affair (which he never did), no harm could have resulted to my friend.  Merrill, unable to secure his prey, the following day left the river and Yale knew him no more.  The papers stolen from Gregory’s house were never recovered.  The Gregorys were at Yale when I came away early in 1860.

In the month of July, 1868, I found myself walking along an up-town street in New York City.  I had landed two days before from a steamer from Central America, and the rush and crush and bustle of the metropolis of the New World confused and almost stunned me.  As I strolled on I gazed like a hayseed or cheechako at the people, the noisy vehicles and the displays in the store windows.  I had just made a sale of $4,000 in gold coin, for which I received the sum of $5,600 in greenbacks, gold being at a premium of 40, and I felt both rich and generous.  "An easy way to make money,"  I exclaimed to myself.  "Why, it’s like a touch of Aladdin’s lamp; I shall spend the $1,600 and take back the same amount with which I started out.  My trip won’t cost me a cent." But in a short time I found out my error.  I had to pay double and treble prices for everything.  For a fifty cent pair of braces I was asked two dollars, and for two suits of underwear of poor quality I paid nine dollars.  Everything else was equally high, so that when, six months later, I was again in Victoria I found that not only had the $1,600 premium vanished, but a good part of the $4,000 besides.

But to return to that particular July morning in 1868.  As I walked along I suddenly became conscious that my name had been called by some person behind me.  I turned and there saw a lady and gentleman, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and at their side was a tall, elegant-looking young lady of about eighteen years.

"How do you do?" asked the lady.

"I’m well, thank you," I replied suspiciously, for I had heard of the confidence men and women of New York who pick up and swindle greenies by pretending to have known them in other parts.

"Do you not recognize us?" asked the gentleman.

"I certainly do not," I rejoined, still suspicious.

"Do you not remember the Gregorys at Yale?"

"Yes, indeed I do," and then a light dawned upon me.  These were my old-time friends.  We shook hands, but the Gregory’s grasp was anything but cordial.  Their hands lay in mine like dead fish.  then the maiden came forward and bowed distantly.

  "And this, I suppose, is my dear little friend, Mae Judith-little Judy," I exclaimed joyously.

"I am Miss Gregory," she said, with an emphasis on the Miss.

Yes, she was the same girl whom I often held on my knee, and for whom I had invented appalling stories of fire and shipwreck and fairies and hobgoblins in the days of old, the days of gold; grown tall and graceful, with the same lovely eyes and the fair hair turned a little darker, but still a beautiful sun-kissed blonde.  How many, many we two had ridden the cockhorse to Banbury Cross, gone fishing with Simple Simon in a bucket of water, recited "Ba-ba, Black Sheep," and pitied Mother Hubbard with an empty cupboard and her hungry dog.

"I remember you very well," she continued.  "I shall never forget the nice trout you used to bring us." "And I," said Mrs. Gregory, "always recall the pitcher of water that splashed over me when I think of you."

  "Yes," I said, "those were occasions to be remembered."

I turned to Gregory.  I wondered if he could recall anything more substantial that I had done for him and his.  All he had to say was, "What could I get for my two lots at Yale?"  Not a word of gratitude or thanks for the man who, with Frank Way, had imperiled his own safety and committed an offense under the law to prevent him falling into the hands of justice.   I told them the latest news about their former neighbors and then with a sort of cold-storage air we parted forever.  I was disenchanted.  To be remembered only for a few trout and a broken pitcher, after the tremendous sacrifice I had made for them, was too much for my sensitive nature, and I dropped the curtain on the episode only to raise it again today after a lapse of thirty-six years.  What Gregory’s right name was, or how the man got out of the financial stress, I did not know, nor did I care to inquire.  I never heard of them again, and have managed to survive the estrangement.    

 THE END

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