ted, became much interested in him.
There is no doubt that Coleman was really touched by the kindness which
Bishop and Mrs. Potter showed to him and to his wife, and his resolution
to reform was quite sincere.

"There is nothing in being a crook," he said. "I am sixty years old, and
have been in prison half my life. My advice to young men is 'Don't
steal.'"

At Bishop Potter's request the sentence of the court was lighter than
Coleman's record might have warranted, and he was sent to Auburn prison
for six years and five months, a term which discounts for good behaviour
reduced to four years and four months.

Coleman's explanation of the blood-stains which had played so important
a part in the various theories of the robbery was one that nobody had
thought to venture. He said that before he opened the jewel-casket in
the basement he really had no idea what it contained, and when he saw
the fortune in gems that had come into his possession his great
excitement brought on a nose-bleed.[128] His clothes were so
blood-stained that he was in mortal fear of being arrested on that
account, but, as he wore a black suit, the stains were not conspicuous.
As to the woman's footprints, which the detectives said they found, no
explanation was ever made.

Ten years later an elderly man was arrested in New York, charged with
robbing a Wells-Fargo Express wagon on Broadway. With the aid of an
umbrella handle he had drawn from the rear of the wagon a package
containing $100,000 in cancelled cheques--not a very successful haul.
His age and apparent harmlessness so much impressed the justices in
Special Sessions that he would undoubtedly have been released on
suspended sentence had not a detective who had been engaged in the Clark
robbery case passed his cell in the Tombs. The detective recognized the
famous Billy Coleman, whose police record dated back to 1869, showing
thirteen arrests and a total period of twenty-eight years in prison.

Bishop Potter's last notable public appearance in Cooperstown was at the
Village Centennial Celebration in August of 1907. He was the most
picturesque figure in a scene rich in kaleidoscopic color and historic
significance when, on the Sunday afternoon which began the week's
festivities, multitudes listened beneath the sunlit trees upon the green
of the Cooper Grounds, while the Bishop, mantled in an academic gown of
crimson, described his vision of the future of religion in America.

The Coopersto