“I believe that I hear the surf,” said he. “Guiding our course by the sound, we may gain the cliff, by following the line of which we easily should reach our destination.” “Bravo, Professor!” said Haynes, and they made for the sea. As they reached the crest of the sand-cliff some eighty feet above the beach, the rain ceased, a brisk puff of wind blew away the mist, and they found themselves a quarter of a mile west of Graveyard Point. A short distance toward the point a steep gully debouched upon the shore, and a few rods out from its mouth the riders saw the body of a man stretched on the hard sand. The face was hidden. Something in the huddled posture struck the eye with a shock as of violence. With every reason for assuming, at first sight, the body to have been washed up, they immediately felt that the man had not met death by the waves. Where they stood, the cliff fell too precipitously to admit of descent; but the ravine farther on offered easy access. Half-falling, half-slipping, they made their way down the abrupt declivity to the gully’s opening, which was partly blocked by a great boulder, and came upon a soft and pebbly beach, beyond which the hard clean level of sand stretched to the receding waves. As they reached the open a man appeared around the point to the eastward, sighted the body, and broke into a run. Haynes recognised him as Bruce, the Bow Hill station patrol, who had been on the cliff the night of the wreck. Dick Colton also started forward, but Haynes called to him: “Hold on, Colton. Don’t go out on the sand for a moment.” “Why not,” he asked in surprise. “No use marking it all up with footsteps.” At this moment the coast-guard hailed them. “How long has that been there?” “We’ve just found it,” said Colton. “I’m on patrol duty from the Bow Hill station,” said the other. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Haynes,” he added, recognising the reporter. “These gentlemen are guests at Third House, Bruce,” said Haynes. “Here’s fresh evidence in our mystery, I fear.” “Looks so,” said the patrol. “Let’s have a closer look.” He walked toward the body, which lay with the head toward the waves. Suddenly he stood still, shaking. “Good God! it’s Paul Serdholm!” he cried. Then he sprang forward with a great cry: “He’s been murdered!” “Oh, surely not murdered!” expostulated Professor Ravenden. “He’s been drowned and——” “Drowned?” cried the man in a heat of contempt. “And how about that gash in the back of his neck? It’s his day on patrol from the Sand Spit station, and this is where the Bow Hill and Sand Spit lines meet. Three hours ago I saw him on the cliff yonder. Since then he’s come and gone betwixt here and his station. And——” he gulped suddenly and turned upon the others so sharply that the professor jumped—“what’s he met with?” “Perhaps the surf dashing him on a rock made the wound,” suggested Haynes.