A few hours after my own private detective had given me the information I so much desired, I wrote the first letter I had written in twenty-six months.  As letters go, it is in a class by itself.  I dared not ask for ink, so I wrote with a lead pencil.  Another fellow-patient in whom I had confidence, at my request, addressed the envelope; but he was not in the secret of its contents.  This was an added precaution, for I thought the Secret Service men might have found out that I had a detective of my own and would confiscate any letters addressed by him or me.  The next morning, my “detective” mailed the letter.  That letter I still have, and I treasure it as any innocent man condemned to death would treasure a pardon.  It should convince the reader that sometimes a mentally disordered person, even one suffering from many delusions, can think and write clearly.  An exact copy of this—­the most important letter I ever expect to be called upon to write—­is here presented: 

    AUGUST 29, 1902.

    DEAR GEORGE: 

On last Wednesday morning a person who claimed to be George M. Beers of New Haven, Ct., clerk in the Director’s Office of the Sheffield Scientific School and a brother of mine, called to see me.

Perhaps what he said was true, but after the events of the last two years I find myself inclined to doubt the truth of everything that is told me.  He said that he would come and see me again sometime next week, and I am sending you this letter in order that you may bring it with you as a passport, provided you are the one who was here on Wednesday.

If you did not call as stated please say nothing about this letter to anyone, and when your double arrives, I’ll tell him what I think of him.  Would send other messages, but while things seem as they do at present it is impossible.  Have had someone else address envelope for fear letter might be held up on the way.

    Yours,

    CLIFFORD W.B.

Though I felt reasonably confident that this message would reach my brother, I was by no means certain.  I was sure, however, that, should he receive it, under no circumstances would he turn it over to anyone hostile to myself.  When I wrote the words:  “Dear George,” my feeling was much like that of a child who sends a letter to Santa Claus after his childish faith has been shaken.  Like the skeptical child, I felt there was nothing to lose, but everything to gain.  “Yours” fully expressed such affection for relatives as I was then capable of—­for the belief that I had disgraced, perhaps destroyed, my family prompted me to forbear to use the family name in the signature.