Ten days later.
十天以后。
Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.
次日夜间。寄自一个小站的便条。
“James Walker” is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement too. I start with him for Denver to-morrow morning.
“詹姆士·沃克”的身体已经复元，他的脑子也清楚多了。明天我就和他一起去丹佛。
As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me: Keep this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb his mind and check his improvement: “the ancient crime he spoke of was really committed; and by his cousin, as he said. We buried the real criminal the other day; the unhappiest man that has lived in a century; Flint Buckner. His real name was Jacob Fuller!” There, mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave. Let him rest.
今天早晨我们动身的时候，希里尔悄悄对我说：“有个消息，等你觉得没事了，沃克不会再受刺激，身体真正好起来的时候再告诉他：他说的那桩陈年罪过——他说是他堂兄干的——真是罪有应得。那天咱们埋了的是真凶——就是这世上最最不幸的那个人——弗林特·布克纳。他的真名叫雅可布·福勒！”母亲，您看，是我这个不知内情的送葬人，帮著把您的丈夫和我的父亲送进了坟墓。让他安息吧。
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