“The day before he was to enter the Little Angel, Jake took me down to Denver and we went on a shopping spree. He bought me fancy clothes, jewelry, and treated me to champagne at the finest restaurant in town. We spent our last night together in the honeymoon suite of the Brown Palace Hotel. Do you know of it?”

“I have a friend staying there right now.”

“In the morning, he told me not to believe what I heard or read in the newspapers about his death in a mining accident, and that he would be gone for several months on a job somewhere in Russia. When he returned, he said we would be rich beyond our wildest dreams. Then he mentioned something I’ve never understood.”

“What was that?”

“He said the Frenchies were taking care of everything and that when it was all over, we would live in Paris.” Her face took on a dreamlike quality. “In the morning he was gone. On his pillow was a note that simply said, `I love you, Ad’ and an envelope containing five thousand dollars.”

“Do you have any idea where the money came from?”

“None. We only had about three hundred dollars in the bank at the time.”

“And that was the last you heard from him?”

“No.” She handed Seagram a faded postcard with a tinted photograph of the Eiffel Tower on the front. “This came in the mail about a month later.”

Dear Ad, The weather is rainy here and the beer awful. Am fine and so is the other boys. Don’t fret. As you can tell I ain’t dead by a long shot. You know who.

The handwriting was obviously from a heavy hand. The postmark on the card was dated Paris, December 1, 1911.

“It was followed in a week by a second card,” Adeline said as she handed it to Seagram. It depicted Sacra Coeur but was postmarked Le Havre.

Dear Ad, We’re headin for the arctic. This will be my last message for some time. Be brave. The Frenchies are treating us right. Good food, good ship. You know who.

“You’re certain it’s Jake’s handwriting?” Seagram asked. “Absolutely. I have other papers and old letters of Jake’s. You can compare them if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ad.” She smiled when she heard her nickname. “Was there any further communication?”

She nodded. “The third and last. Jake must have stocked up on picture postcards of Paris. This one shows the Sainte-Chapelle, but it was mailed from Aberdeen, Scotland, on April 4, 1912.”

Dear Ad, This is a frightful place. The cold is fearsome. We don’t know if we will survive. If I can somehow get this to you, you will be taken care of. God Bless. Jake.

Along the side, another hand had written in:

Dear Mrs. Hobart. We lost Jake in a storm. We gave him a Christian readin. We’re sorry. V.H.

Seagram took out the list of the crew’s names that Donner had read him over the phone.