To begin with the editor. I never had a chance of the position at Rockaway, although the editor once said casually that he would try and find me some similar position. I lied to you all through in that, for I wished you to think I had prospects of paying work in view. When you used to come down with me to Franklin Street (Harper’s) I waited about upstairs and looked at books, etc., and then came down and concocted some lies about what I had said and done. I once borrowed $15 from him (Richard Harding Davis, Editor “Harper’s Weekly”) and said they were for you. My dealings with Sothern were that he from time to time lent me money, some $50 in all, and gave me a position at ten dollars a week. I told him when borrowing that the money was for your doctor, and when borrowing more I said you had wasted it in drink. I asked him to cash several of the cheques I forged, but he would never do this. I was paid up in full by the manager and also for the extra performances of the “Disreputable Mr. Reagen.” I little thought when I was playing Merivale’s part that I should act it true to life. With Mr. Beattie I lied all through. He never had any money of mine or knew my mother or ever heard from her. He never bailed me out, and I never used to see him as I said I did. You and Palmer thought that I spent some time in jail this summer, but I would rather not say anything in writing about that. My dealings with Palmer were that I borrowed money from him and said it was for you. I also went to your banker acquaintance and borrowed twenty-five dollars for a specialist, saying it was at your request. I did pawn the overcoat you gave me to post to Kay, and that time you forgave me for stealing your money I had in my pocket the proceeds of three stories of yours I had given the _Sun_, and they had paid for. But, even in the face of your forgiveness, I wanted this money so much for my indulgences that I could not face the privation of handing it over to you. I lied in the face of your kindness and generosity, and when you even needed food I was going about drinking and womanizing and spending freely. When my funds were exhausted I came back to you, for I knew you would always forgive me. It is awful. No wonder you want to see me go to prison. I am as wicked a man as ever lived, I believe. I wonder what caused me to tell such lies. Am I a natural born liar? It seems like it. You wrong me in one thing--in thinking my sorrow is sham and prompted by fear and the hope of getting off. I cannot find words to express my contrition. Believe me, I would do anything in my power, and will do, when my term is up, to make reparation. I submit to the inevitable. I can imagine something now of what you must have suffered when I left you alone without food or money those four days and nights. I think, however, the worst thing I did was telling the pastor’s