room. As far as my inexperienced eye
could tell the handwriting was identical.

The room was that of Lucius Pescini. If I had not been mistaken in the
handwriting, I had proven a previous relationship and acquaintance,
extending practically over the whole lifetime of both men, between the
distinguished, bearded man that came as Nealman's guest and the gray
butler who had died on the lagoon shore the previous night.

I put the letter back in the man's coat-pocket; then joined Mrs. Gentry
in the hall. She went to her own room. I turned down the broad stairs to
the hall. And the question before me now was whether to report my
discovery to the officials of the law.

I had started down the stairs with the intention of telling them all I
knew. By the time I had reached the hall I had begun to have serious
doubts as to the wisdom of such a course. After all I had learned
nothing conclusive. Handwriting evidence is at best uncertain; even
experts have made mistakes in comparing signatures. In this regard it
was quite different from finger-prints--those tell-tale stains that
never lie. True, the handwriting looked identical to the naked eye, but
a microscope might prove it entirely dissimilar. Was I to cast suspicion
on a distinguished man on such fragile and uncertain grounds?

Pescini had been in the lounging-room only a few minutes before the
crime was committed. It seemed doubtful that he would have had time to
cover the distance between the house and the lagoon, strike Florey low,
and get back to the place where we met him in the short time of his
absence.

Besides, I wanted to work alone. I couldn't bring myself to share my
discoveries with Slatterly and Weldon.

The hall below was deserted and half in darkness. I met Marten and Nopp
on the way to their rooms: passing into the library I found Hal Fargo
seated under a reading-lamp, deep in "Floridan fauna." Major Dell was
smoking quietly on the veranda, gazing out over the moonlit lawns. Van
Hope and Pescini himself were seated at the far end of the
lounging-room, evidently in earnest conversation.

I sat down across the room where from time to time I could glance up and
observe the bearded face of my suspect. How animated he was, how
effective the gestures of his firm, strong hands. Was that the hand I
had seen in the flashlight over my table the preceding night? He had
rather thin, esthetic lips, half concealed by his mustache. Yet it
wasn't a cruel or degenerate