"Really, at first I thought it was a case of suicide. But there
was no sign of a weapon about and not a trace of poison--no glass,
no packet. There was no wound on him, either--except a few slight
cuts and scratches on his face and hands. But none of them looked
to be serious. And yet, before we could get the house physician up
to him he was dead."

"And with not a word?" queried Kennedy.

"That's the strangest part of it. No; not a word spoken. But as he
lay there, even in spite of his paralyzed muscles, he was just
able to motion with his hands. I thought he wanted to write, and
gave him a pencil and a piece of paper. He clutched at them, but
here is all he was able to do."

Grady drew from his pocket a piece of paper and handed it to us.
On it were printed in trembling, irregular characters, "G A D,"
the "D" scarcely finished and trailing off into nothing.

What did it all mean? How had Shirley met his death, and why?

"Tell me something about him," said Kennedy, studying the paper
with a frown. Grady shrugged his shoulders.

"An Englishman--that's about all I know. Looked like one of the
younger sons who so frequently go out to seek their fortunes in
the colonies. By his appearance, I should say he had been in the
Far East--India, no doubt. And I imagine he had made good. He
seemed to have plenty of money. That's all I know about him."