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 immediate landscape. It had not changed as we progressed:
ocean, sand, low dunes crowned with impenetrable tangles of wild bay,
sparkleberry, and live-oak, with here and there a weather-twisted
palmetto sprawling, and here and there the battered blades of cactus