18 Monday, August 2, 1897 Mortimer Fillmore looked old. Had there been a mirror close at hand, Jonas would have checked his own appearance. Mortimer was only a few years older than Jonas, but the man appeared ancient. A light breeze drifted from off the water, and wisps of white hair splayed about the lawyer’s head like arthritic fingers. He relied upon a hand-carved walking stick to aid in his climb up the sloping grass embankment from the boathouse. The sight of his decrepit lawyer was enough