of papers and letters.
Some of them pertained to household matters, there was a note from some
friend in Charleston, a folder issued by a steamship plying out of
Tampa, and a letter from Mrs. Noyes, of New Hampshire, who seemed to be
the dead man's sister. At least the salutation was "Dear Brother Dave,"
and the letter itself dealt with the fortunes of common relatives. Then
there were a few short letters from one who signed himself "George."

There was nothing of particular interest. Mostly they were
notifications of arrivals and departures in various cities, and they
seemed to concern various business ventures. "I've got a good lead," one
of them said, "but it may turn out like the rest." "Things are
brightening up," another went. "I believe I see a rift in the clouds."

"George" was unquestionably a traveler. One of the notes had been
written from Washington, D. C., one from Tampa, the third from some
obscure port in Brazil. They were written in a rather bold, rugged, but
not unattractive hand.

The only document that gave any kind of a key to the mystery was a
half-finished letter that protruded beneath the blotter pad on his desk.
It was addressed "My dear Sister," and was undoubtedly in answer to the
"Mrs. Noyes" letter. The sheriff read it aloud:

My dear Sister:

I got the place here and like it very much. Mr. Nealman is a
fine man to work for. I get on with my work very well. The
house is located on a lagoon, cut off from the open sea by a
natural rock wall--a very lovely place.

But you will be sorry to hear that my old malady, g----, is
troubling me again. I don't think I will ever be rid of it.
It is certainly the Florey burden, going through all our
family. I can't hardly sleep, and don't know that I'll ever
get rid of it, short of death. I'm deeply discouraged, yet I
know----

At that point the letter ended. The sheriff's voice died away so slowly
and tonelessly that it gave almost the effect of a start. Then he laid
the letter on the desk and smoothed it out with his hands.

"Weldon?" he asked jerkily. "Do you s'pose we've got off on the wrong
foot, altogether?"

"What d'ye mean?"

"Do you suppose that poor devil did himself in? At least we've got a
motive for suicide, and a good one--and there's none whatever for
murder. You know what old Bampus used to say--find the motive first."

"Of course you mean the disease he writes of. Why did