the first ripening flush on a wild strawberry.
That, too, was the mark left by the caress of wind and sun. I had had
no idea she was so pretty.

"I think we'll enjoy this adventure," I said; "don't you?"

"I try to make the best of things," she said, gazing off into the
horizon haze. "Look," she added; "is that a man?"

A spot far away on the beach caught my eye. At first I thought it was
a pelican--and small wonder, too, for the dumpy, waddling,
goose-necked individual who loomed up resembled a heavy bottomed bird
more than a human being.

"Do you suppose that could be Mr. Slunk?" asked the stenographer, as
our vehicle drew nearer.

He looked as though his name ought to be Slunk; he was digging coquina
clams, and he dug with a pecking motion like a water-turkey mastering
a mullet too big for it.

His name was Slunk; he admitted it when I accused him. Our negro
driver drew rein, and I descended to the sand and gazed on Mr. Slunk.

He was, as I have said, not impressive, even with the tremendous
background of sky and ocean.

"I've come something over a thousand miles to see you," I said,
reluctant to admit that I had come as far to see such a specimen of
human architecture.

A weather-beaten grin stretched the skin that covered his face, and he
shoved a hairy paw into the pockets of his overalls, digging deeply
into profound depths. First he brought to light a twist of South
Carolina tobacco, which he leisurely inserted in his mouth--not,
apparently, for pleasure, but merely to get rid of it.

The second object excavated from the overalls was a small packet
addressed to me. This he handed to me; I gravely handed him a silver
dollar; he went back to his clam-digging, and I entered the carriage
and drove on. All had been carried out according to the letter of my
instructions so far, and my spirits brightened.

"If you don't mind I'll read my instructions," I said, in high
good-humor.

"Pray do not hesitate," she said, smiling in sympathy.

So I opened the little packet and read:

"Drive to Cape Canaveral along the beach. You will find a gang
of men at work on a government breakwater. The superintendent
is Mr. Rowan. Show him this letter.

"FARRAGO."

Rather disappointed--for I had been expecting to find in the packet
some key to the interesting mystery which had sent Professor Farrago
into the Everglades--I thrust the missive into my pocket and resumed a
study of the immedi