And this is what DeGolyer read by the light of the sputtering lamp: 

“Years ago there lived in Salem, Mass., two brothers, George and Andrew Witherspoon.  Their parents had passed away when the boys were quite young, but the youngsters had managed to get a fair start in life.  Without ado let me say that I am Andrew Witherspoon.  My brother and I were of different temperaments.  He had graces of mind, but was essentially a business man.  I prided myself that I was born to be a thinker.  I worshiped Emerson.  I know now that a man who would willingly become a thinker is a fool.  When I was twenty-three—­and George nearly twenty-one—­I fell in love with Caroline Springer.  There was just enough of poetry in my nature to throw me into a devotion that was almost wild in its intensity, and after my first meeting with her I knew no peace.  The chill of fear and the fever of confidence came alternating day by day, and months passed ere I had the strength of nerve to declare myself; but at last the opportunity and the courage came together.  I was accepted.  She said that if I had great love her love might be measured by my own, and that if I did not think that I could love her always she would go away and end her days in grief.  The wedding day was appointed.  But when I went to claim my bride she was gone—­gone with my brother George.  To-day, an old man, I look back upon that time and see myself raving on the very brink of madness.  I had known that George was acquainted with Caroline Springer—­indeed, I had proudly introduced him to her.  I will tell my story, though, and not discourse.  But it is hard for an old man to be straightforward.  If he has read much he is discursive, and if he has not read he is tedious with many words.  I didn’t leave Salem at once.  I met George, and he did not even attempt to apologize for the wrong he had done me.  He repeated the fool saying that all is fair in love.  ‘You ought to be glad that you discovered her lack of love in time,’ he said.  This was consolation, surely.  My mind may never have been well-balanced, and I think that at this time it tilted over to one side, never to tilt back.  And now my love, trampled in the mire, arose in the form of an evil determination.  I would do my brother and his wife an injury that could not be repaired.  I did not wish them dead; I wanted them to live and be miserable.  A year passed, and a boy was born.  I left my native town and went west.  I lived there nearly three years, and then I sent to a Kansas newspaper an account of my death.  It was printed, and I sent my brother a marked copy of the paper.  Two weeks later I was in Salem.  I wore a beard, kept myself close, and no one recognized me.  I waited for an opportunity.  It came, and I stole my brother’s boy.  I went to Boston, to Europe, back to America; lived here and there, and you know the rest.  My dear boy, I repented somewhat, and it was my intention, at some time, to restore you to your parents, but