I got the place here and like it very much. Mr. Nealman is a fine man to work for. I get on with my work very well. The house is located on a lagoon, cut off from the open sea by a natural rock wall—a very lovely place.
But you will be sorry to hear that my old malady, g——, is troubling me again. I don’t think I will ever be rid of it. It is certainly the Florey burden, going through all our family. I can’t hardly sleep, and don’t know that I’ll ever get rid of it, short of death. I’m deeply discouraged, yet I know——
At that point the letter ended. The sheriff’s voice died away so slowly and tonelessly that it gave almost the effect of a start. Then he laid the letter on the desk and smoothed it out with his hands.
“Weldon?” he asked jerkily. “Do you s’pose we’ve got off on the wrong foot, altogether?”
“What d’ye mean?”
“Do you suppose that poor devil did himself in? At least we’ve got a motive for suicide, and a good one—and there’s none whatever for murder. You know what old Bampus used to say—find the motive first.”
“Of course you mean the disease he writes of. Why didn’t he spell it out.”
“He was likely just given to abbreviations. Lots of men are. The word might have been a long one, and hard to spell.”
“Most invalids, I’ve noticed, rejoice in the long names of their diseases!”
“Not a bad remark, from an undertaker. I suppose you mean they get your hopes all aroused by their diseases when they ain’t got ’em, you old buzzard. But seriously, Weldon. He writes here that his old malady has come back on him, some disease that runs through his family—that he’s discouraged, that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of it. You know that ill-health is the greatest cause for suicide—that more men blow out their own brains because they are incurably sick than for any other reason. He says he can’t sleep. And what leads to suicide faster than that!”