Mooney was painfully writing something on the blank sheet of a letter pad with a stump of a pencil. The officers covered him with weapons. Mooney looked at them with a queer, ghastly smile: “You are in time,” he said, “to witness my will.” He extended his arm with the sheet of paper in his fingers. The astonished officers took the paper to the window and read it in amazement. It ran as follows: “I, John Mooney, being at the end of life, do hereby make this my last will and testament. “Inasmuch as the United States Government, with a tender regard beyond that of friend or relative, has, now for a long time, been extremely solicitous to provide me with food, clothing and the necessities of life: “Now, therefore, in appreciative remembrance, I do, by these Presents, give and bequeath to the said United States Government fifty-one thousand dollars in bank notes, which I have caused on this day to be delivered to the Federal District Attorney of this city; “In the hope that the said United States Government, having thus esteemed me in life, may now, in death, cherish my memory. (Signed) “John Mooney.” They realized now that the man was in the very extremity of death. He was dying as he had lived, with a cynical disregard of everybody. His very last words were in character: “Tell ’em—no flowers.” His voice was a gasping stutter. In the meantime Maggie had gone to the railroad station, found the traveling bag which had been reshipped, and had taken a taxicab to the office of the District Attorney; precisely as Mooney had directed in his will. But there she had not carried out his directions in its exact details. I would like to write into this record that it was Mooney, on his deathbed, who thought of the course that Maggie followed, but it would not be the truth. He thought only of the cynical jest that he endeavored to carry out in his death. It was Maggie who was thinking of some one else. What she did will presently appear. I suppose it was about a week later when a man came into the horse tent, and walked up to me as though he were an old acquaintance: “How do you do?” he said. His greeting was so cordial, that, although I did not know him, I put out my hand to shake hands with him. But instead of grasping my hand as I expected, he took hold of it and turned it suddenly over so he could see the palm. There, still visible, was the red discoloration from the burn when I had taken hold of the hot iron rod, on the night when we had climbed down from the tender into the cab of the locomotive, in our last holdup. The man seemed surprised, as though at finding some confirmatory evidence of which he had been in doubt. He looked me over. “You are only a boy,” he said. “How did you get mixed up in this business?”