"Was the name Archibald Ferriss? That was the name of
the man who died in the Denver lazaretto--"
But Max was stopped by Breffny, who almost shouted in excitement:
"And the name of the son of McKeown & Ferriss, of Glasgow, in whose
shipyard was employed as timekeeper the Donald Wilson--"
"Donald Wilson was the name of the man who met his wife that night in front
of the Midnight Mission," said I, in further confirmation.
It was remarkable. One of the three chapters of this tragic story had
entered into the experience of each of us three who sat there emptying
stone mugs. Now, for the first time, was the story complete to each of us.
"But what became of the man?" asked Breffny.
"When the police lieutenant spoke of having her body interred in Potter's
Field, the husband spoke up indignantly. He brought forth two gold pieces,
saying:
"'I have the money for her grave. I saved this through all my wanderings,
because I thought that when I should find her she might be homeless and
hungry and in need.'
"So he had her buried respectably in the suburbs somewhere, and I was too
busy at that time to follow up his subsequent movements.
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