“What became of the superintendent?”
“He was taken home, but grew no better. At last he had to be sent to an asylum. Some examination was made by the authorities, but nothing ever came of it. The papers made no mention of the affair, and it was hushed up.”
Brandon read on. At last he came to another name. It was simply this: “Brandon.” There was a slight movement on the clerk’s part as Brandon came to this name. “There is no Christian name here,” said Brandon. “I suppose they did not know it.”
“Well,” said the clerk, “there’s something peculiar about that. The former clerk never mentioned it to any body but me. That man didn’t die at all.”
“What do you mean?” said Brandon, who could scarcely speak for the tremendous struggle between hope and despair that was going on within him.
“It’s a false entry.”
“How?”
“The superintendent wrote that. See, the handwriting is different from the others. One is that of the clerk who made all these entries; the other is the superintendent’s.”
Brandon looked and saw that this was the case.
“What was the cause of that?”