"The man I want sells cocoanuts," suggested Plunkett.

"You see that cocoanut walk extending up to the point?" said the
consul, waving his hand toward the open door. "That belongs to Bob
Reeves. Henry Morgan owns half the trees to loo'ard on the island."

"One, month ago," said the sheriff, "Wade Williams wrote a
confidential letter to a man in Chatham county, telling him where he
was and how he was getting along. The letter was lost; and the person
that found it gave it away. They sent me after him, and I've got the
papers. I reckon he's one of your cocoanut men for certain."

"You've got his picture, of course," said Bridger. "It might be
Reeves or Morgan, but I'd hate to think it. They're both as fine
fellows as you'd meet in an all-day auto ride."

"No," doubtfully answered Plunkett; "there wasn't any picture of
Williams to be had. And I never saw him myself. I've been sheriff
only a year. But I've got a pretty accurate description of him. About
5 feet 11; dark-hair and eyes; nose inclined to be Roman; heavy about
the shoulders; strong, white teeth, with none missing; laughs a good
deal, talkative; drinks considerably but never to intoxication; looks
you square in the eye when talking; age thirty-five. Which one of
your men does that description fit?"

The consul grinned broadly.

"I'll tell you what you do," he said, laying down his rifle and
slipping on his dingy black alpaca coat. "You come along, Mr.