"Vell, she ton't vos a common poat," was Hans' comment. "She vos a peauty."
Sam was on the point of giving up the search when he saw something sticking from a crack next to the wall. He pulled the object forth and saw it was the photograph of a big, heavy-set man with rather a handsome face. He turned it over and gave a short gasp, for on the back was written in pencil:
Sharwell Lee Bird, Murderer.
"What a horrible thing to write!" murmured the youngest Rover. "It makes a fellow shiver to read it!"
"Of he killed dot man ven he vos hunting he vos sure a murderer, Sam."
"Not exactly, Hans; he didn't mean to shoot the fellow. It was accidental."
"Yah, put der mans vos teat, ain't it!"
"Yes, and the death of the poor fellow drove Mr. Bird insane. I must show this to Dick, and to Tom, too."
Sam took the second picture, and all on board the steam yacht discussed the discovery for some time. But they could reach no conclusion saving that Mr. Bird had likely been on the vessel at one time and had left his coat and the two pictures behind him.
"Perhaps he was on this vessel after he dis-
