This letter stiffened Mr. Tescheron considerably in his purpose to remain in Hoboken. The following from Bridget to Mrs. Tescheron added corroboration, which tended to brace that purpose still more, and it was quite sufficient to keep the family under Mr. Staffer's roof for six weeks: "A man from the corner was here wid a bit of paper, an' sed he shud see yer. I ast him which corner, and he sed it was Flanigans the sayloon is Finnegans do yer no any Flanigan on our corner the Parrit is lookin well the cakes is dun. "Respectably yours, "BRIDGET." I am not surprised, realizing Mr. Tescheron's mental condition, that these letters convinced him the place of safety was beyond the borders of New York State. "It is a very cosy spot here, Marie," said Mr. Tescheron, after he had read the letters to his wife and Gabrielle, who made it a point to be with her mother early every evening. During the day she spent most of her time at the hospital ministering to Jim. Mr. Tescheron's admiration of the Stuffer House intensified as time wore on and he found he was safe there. His sagacity in the matter encouraged him, and he soon took risks by venturing into the heart of New York dressed in a suit which made him appear like a City Hall Park hobo, with slouch hat and long ulster, such as market men wear loosely belted like great aprons. Under these coverings he dared to go as far as Fulton Market about three times a week, taking the most circuitous route around the lower edge of New York, via the slow but sure Belt Line horse car along West and South streets. To be sure, he put in most of his time traveling, but the coroner did not catch him, and this fact demonstrated the cleverness of the tactics. The shabby disguise might have saved him, it seems to me, even if the entire police force of the city had been after him, for normally Mr. Tescheron was one of the tidiest little men. He usually shined like a new hat out of a bandbox. He was patent-leathered, smooth-jowled, rosy, crisp, pretty-nailed, creased, stick-pinned and embossed on the vest. Nothing that a steam laundry and the latest machinery for man-embellishing, from custom tailoring to Staten Island and hair dyeing, could do to obliterate the fish business from his personality had been omitted in compiling this _de luxe_, numbered and signed copy of a man. But my investigations lead me to believe that Mr. Tescheron was not exceptional in this respect at the market. Like Napoleon, the wholesale fish dealers all fit circumstances to obstacles. A man who slips and skids around all day in a wholesale fish market is usually rich and, I find, makes up his average on pulchritude after business hours.