“Then, some three or four months before you moved in, another William H. Robinson lived there for a short time. His middle name was Honeywell. He is a cousin, and an object of great solicitude to this gentleman here. In fact, he is, or will be, the chief witness against Mr. Honeywell in his effort to break the famous Holden Honeywell will, disposing of some ten million dollars. Am I right, Mr. Honeywell?” “Thus far,” replied the blind man composedly. “Five years ago William Honeywell Robinson became addicted to a patent headache ‘dope.’ It ended, as such habits do, in insanity. He was confined two years, suffering from psychasthenia, with suicidal melancholia and delusion of persecution. Then he was released, cured, but with a supersensitive mental balance.” “Then the messages were intended to drive him out of his mind again,” said Bertram in sudden enlightenment. “What a devil!” “Either that, or to impel him, by suggestion, to suicide or to revert to the headache powders, which would have meant the asylum again. Anything to put him out of the way, or to make his testimony incompetent for the will contest. So, when the ex-lunatic returned from Europe a year ago, our friend Honeywell here, in some way located him at the Caronia. He matured his little scheme. Through a letter broker who deals with the rag and refuse collectors, he got all the second-hand mail from the Caronia. Meantime, William Honeywell Robinson had moved away, and as chance would have it, William Hunter Robinson moved in, receiving the pinprick letters which, had they reached their goal, would probably have produced the desired effect.” “If they drove a sane man nearly crazy, what wouldn’t they have done to one whose mind wasn’t quite right!” cried the wronged Robinson. “But since Mr. Honeywell is blind,” said Bertram, “how could he see to erase the cancellations?” “Ah! That’s what I asked myself. Obviously, he couldn’t. He’d have to get that done for him. Presumably he’d get some stranger to do it. That’s why I advertised for a professional eraser who was _experienced_, judging that it would fetch the person who had done Honeywell’s work.” “Is there any such thing as a professional envelope eraser?” asked Bertram. “No. So a person of experience in this line would be almost unique. I was sure to find the right one, if he or she saw my advertisement. As a matter of fact, it turned out to be an unimaginative young woman who has told me all about her former employment with Mr. Honeywell, apparently with no thought that there was anything strange in erasing cancellations from hundreds of envelopes—for Honeywell was cautious enough not to confine her to the Robinson mail alone—and then pasting on stamps to remail them.” “You appear to have followed out my moves with some degree of acumen, Mr.—er—Jones,” said the blind schemer suavely. “Yet I might not have solved your processes easily if you had not made one rather—if you will pardon me, stupid mistake.”