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 no turning when among a heap of letters that the postman delivered one morning he descried an envelope addressed in a friendly hand. The letter was from Jack Story, a former reporter-acquaintance for whom Ambrose felt a real affection. Jack had long suffered from a complaint which the doctors at last had diagnosed as an advanced stage of tuberculosis and he had been shipped off to recover on the high and dry New Mexican mountains. The letter—the first that Ambrose had received from him since his departure—congratulated the playwright on his success and went on to describe the delights of western life. Jack wrote that he had found Santa Fe extremely amusing. The people were fine, the climate was delightful. In short, he was enjoying himself. He was not yet permitted to ride, but he sat in his warm garden by the hour, talking to a friend or reading, or he visited his neighbours' gardens.

I know, the letter concluded, how you, poor shy kid, must be overcome by the honours that are being dumped on your venerable head. What you need is rest and change. Why don't you come out here to get it? Ship on the Santa Fe to Lamy and a Harvey bus will carry you over the last twenty-five miles. I have an agreeable dug-out if you want to stay with me. Otherwise there are two excellent hotels. You'll have all the opportunity and leisure you want for writing—I take it for granted that every manager in New York is clamouring for your next opus