“Mr. Holmes, you have keen insight into reality, you said a corrupt world.” Christy implored, “you have seen the hand of God in nature, but He is not so heavy handed with his children. He has created man with freedom, and accounts him responsible to live right. We live in a fallen world. Yet, He wants fellowship with us. It is our inability to raise ourselves to His absolute standard that has required Him to sacrifice His sinless Son for our salvation. His Word enlightens us to His true nature, A Holy God that makes Covenants with His created. He always keeps His side; we always fail our parts. Christ is our loophole, don’t you see. He lived a sinless life and gave it up, nailed on the horrific wooden Cross, to bridge the gap between us sinful beings and a Holy God who cannot by His nature condone anything less than perfection. He involved Himself in mankind’s affairs because He truly loves us and wants the best for us. He didn’t come to condemn us, as so many fearful souls dread, but to save us from our sinful nature. It is by accepting His unmerited grace that we are imputed as righteous. No matter how filthy my soul is, I can go before the Holy White Throne of God and be lovingly accepted as I am. As the song declares, ‘Just as I am.’” “How can I know Jesus if I only have ancient translated reports of his existence and claims of divinity? Quite frankly I cannot conceive of the Creator of the Universe submitting himself to have to take a daily crap.” I harshly commented. “I know He is real, for I have His Spirit in me,” Christy calmly stated. “I know because I believe the Spirit of God who has revealed His Son as my Savior.” “I have not heard the voice you have, my dear,” I calmed down, “Your reality is not mine yet.” “I see you hold out a possibility, Mr. Holmes,” Christy noted, “Please don’t take offense at my passion. I truly believe my Lord Jesus is my Salvation and can be yours if you allow Him to show you His love.” “My dear,” Watson came to my rescue, “I assure you Holmes and I do not think unfavorably of you for your deep faith. It is just something that neither he nor I have, regrettably. I know you have a kind and loving heart and only want what is best for us. But we are grown men of the world who have seen more that you ever hopefully will, and we have doubts we just must overcome before we join in your heavenly chorus of True worship.” “I know John, and I pray daily for your salvation so that you may join me in Heaven. I will add Mr. Holmes to my prayers, that he may join us in eternity.” “I have no hard feeling against you my dear,” I again became more comfortable, “I know you are well meaning, I enjoy a spirited conversation, if you will excuse my pun. We must just agree to disagree for now.” I returned her smile as she returned her gaze to me from her husband. “Not to change the subject, but you did say that you would share your letter from Jack, did you not?” I was curious as to its content. “Now that we have had our talk I don’t mind,” Christy un-hesitantly stated. “If you will excuse me I will go get it, I think you might find it interesting, it hints of a mystery.” This piqued my curiosity, what would our just completed conversation have anything to do with correspondence from Jack? I didn’t at that time take note of the significance of a lone man at a table down from us get up a few minutes after Christy left us and head toward the sleeping compartments. I became concerned when Christ delayed her return. “Watson, does she usually take this long?” I asked. “I would think she should have returned by now,” Watson commented, but with not much concern in his voice. “Please see to the check,” I asked as I rose and left to find Christy. I didn’t wait for his response, but got up and left immediately. Watson had no reason for concern, not being aware of the behind the scenes course of events that preceded our trip. I had trepidation as I approached the door to their compartment. It was closed but after listening at the door and hearing unusual rifling of articles, I turned the knob with my left hand while gripping my cane with the other. Back in my college days, I was considered somewhat of an expert singlestick player, a form of cane fencing. I became as comfortable wielding those cudgels as I was with a sword. It was from this familiarity that I often carried a cane, since sporting a sword on one’s hip is not socially acceptable these days. I opened the door to a horrifying scene; the beautiful sweet wife of my dear friend Watson was sprawled on the seat next to the far wall with dead eyes and tilted head. A scoundrel was meticulously going through her luggage, one hand still clasping what I recognized as a deadly air pistol. The small entry wound squarely in front of Christy’s heart, seeped a deep crimson stain on her chic spoiled Parisian dress.