you to consider this point, and weigh it well; that stranger’s gratitude to me that night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could find no words for it that were adequate, and that if he should ever be able he would repay me a thousandfold.  Now, then, I ask you this; could I expect—could I believe—could I even remotely imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my own people assembled in a public hall?  It was preposterous; it was impossible.  His test would contain only the kindly opening clause of my remark.  Of that I had no shadow of doubt.  You would have thought as I did.  You would not have expected a base betrayal from one whom you had befriended and against whom you had committed no offence.  And so with perfect confidence, perfect trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words—ending with “Go, and reform,”—and signed it.  When I was about to put it in an envelope I was called into my back office, and without thinking I left the paper lying open on my desk.”  He stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson, waited a moment, then added: “I ask you to note this; when I returned, a little latter, Mr. Billson was retiring by my street door.”  [Sensation.]