"Standing on the small lamp table in the room now occupied by Mrs. Nash," she replied. "It was pushed back against the wall." "When did you take that nut dish there, Corbin?" Trenholm stepped closer as he put the question and the caretaker wriggled his shoulders against the wall; the support brought back his lost sense of security. He had no love for the sheriff of the county. "Mr. Abbott brought the nuts in some time last week," he retorted. "I disremember the exact day, but he poured them in a bowl that usually sits over yonder on the sideboard, and he took it away--I don't know where." "Think again, Corbin," cautioned Trenholm as the man moved uneasily. "When did you last see that bowl and the nut pick?" "I told you I can't think of the exact day," was the surly reply. An idea occurred to him and his parchment-like face brightened. "I'll get Martha; she'll know." "Wait!" Trenholm's voice rang out clearly and Corbin stopped where he was. "I'll talk to your wife later. Who used Mrs. Nash's bedroom?" "It was Mr. Abbott's bedroom, and after his death it was closed," answered Corbin. "But lately Mr. Paul has used it as a sitting room. He told Martha it made him feel that his father was nearby and he wasn't so lonesome." Trenholm viewed the caretaker in silence for a moment. "So Mr. Paul used to sit there, did he?" he asked, and Corbin contented himself with a sullen nod of his closely shaven, bullet-shaped head. "And when were you last in the room?" "This morning." Corbin dropped his eyes that Trenholm might not read their expression of relief at the change in the trend of his questions. "I went in to make up the fire for Mrs. Nash. There's the telephone, sir." "I'll answer it," and turning on his heel Trenholm hastened into the living room and over to the telephone. In an instant Corbin was gone and Miriam almost rubbed her eyes, so swift were his movements and so noiseless. Pausing long enough to pour herself out a glass of water and drink it, she followed Trenholm into the living room. The sheriff was still at the telephone and she walked over to Paul Abbott's desk and sat down before it, intending to wait until Trenholm was disengaged. Miriam was idly playing with one of the silver desk ornaments when she saw a package of envelopes lying on the edge of an open leather bag, which stood on a stool by the desk. Near at hand was an empty scrap basket. Again Miriam's gaze sought the envelopes. They were oddly familiar. Stooping forward she took up the package and fingered them. In quality of paper, in quantity of stamps, they matched the half-burnt envelope which she had picked up in her bedroom twenty-four hours before. Her envelope was securely locked in her grip, but she vividly remembered the Canadian postage stamps, orange in color and five in number.