n't he spell it
out."

"He was likely just given to abbreviations. Lots of men are. The word
might have been a long one, and hard to spell."

"Most invalids, I've noticed, rejoice in the long names of their
diseases!"

"Not a bad remark, from an undertaker. I suppose you mean they get your
hopes all aroused by their diseases when they ain't got 'em, you old
buzzard. But seriously, Weldon. He writes here that his old malady has
come back on him, some disease that runs through his family--that he's
discouraged, that he doesn't think he'll ever be rid of it. You know
that ill-health is the greatest cause for suicide--that more men blow
out their own brains because they are incurably sick than for any other
reason. He says he can't sleep. And what leads to suicide faster than
that!"

"All true enough. But it don't hold water. Where's the knife? What
became of the body? Suicides don't eat the knife that killed them, lay
dead, and then crawl away. You'll have to do better."

"He might not have been quite dead. Even doctors have been deceived
before now, and crawled into the water to end his own misery. You can
bet I'm going to keep the matter in mind."

And it was a curious thing that this little handful of letters also set
me off on a new tack. A possibility so bizarre and so terrible that it
seemed almost beyond the pale of credibility flashed to my mind. I
watched my chance, and slipped one of the "George" letters into my
pocket.

The idea I had was vague, not overly convincing, and it left a great
part of the mystery still unsolved--but yet it was a clew. I waited
impatiently until the search was concluded. Then I sought the telephone.

A few minutes later a telegraphic message was clicking over the wires to
Mrs. Noyes, in New Hampshire, notifying her of her brother's murder and
disappearance, and asking a certain question. There was nothing to do
but wait patiently for the answer.

CHAPTER XI

In midafternoon the coroner called all the occupants of the manor house
together in the big living-room. He had us draw chairs to make a half
circle about him, and the sheriff took a chair at his side. He began at
once upon a patient, systematic questioning of every one present.

None of us could read the thoughts behind his rather swarthy face. His
coal-black eyes were alike unfathomable: whether he believed that the
murderer was then sitting in our circle we could not guess. "Of course
this is not an offici