recalled merely the genial nature of the man, his acts of former friendship, and his motherless daughter. Out of the mist floated the face of the girl, the girl who had waved to me in the road. The vision brought back to me coolness, and determination. I wiped off the blood stains from the revolver on the carpet, and slipped the weapon back into my belt, assuring myself first that it remained loaded. Then I felt through the pockets of the dead man—if robbery had been the object of this crime, that robbery did not involve the taking of money. I found a knife, keys, and a roll of bills untouched, but not a scrap of paper. On the floor, partially concealed by one arm, was a large envelope, unaddressed, roughly torn open. It was some document, then, that the murderer sought. This once attained, his purpose had been accomplished, and he had fled with it in his possession. What paper could justify such a crime? The negro—perhaps the negro knew.
Intent now on my one purpose of discovery, my mind active and alert, I returned the lamp to the dining room table, and revolver still in hand began a rapid search of the house. The front door was fastened and barred, proving Taylor had not left that way. There was but one other room on that floor, a kitchen in considerable disorder, as though
