"There may be something in that idea," he admitted. "Read the letters aloud, Miss Ward." Obediently Miriam opened first one and then another. Except for the precision of the language used, none were out of the ordinary. Each letter began: "My dear Abbott," and closed with the conventional, "Yours sincerely," and the signature, "Boris Zybinn." The contents of each referred only to agriculture. Miriam dropped the last one in her lap with a despondent gesture; then her expression brightened. "You haven't looked at the unopened letter," she exclaimed. "See, you have left it there on the table." Trenholm picked up the envelope and examined it carefully. "It is just like the others in appearance," he declared. "It must have come several days before Paul's murder," examining the postmark. "Corbin, however, can answer that question." "I wonder why Mr. Abbott did not read it?" "Too ill, perhaps--especially if he judged the letter unimportant." Trenholm hunted about on his table until he found a letter opener and, using it dextrously, succeeded in raising the flap without breaking the seal. Taking care not to crease or otherwise mar the envelope, he drew out the folded sheet and read aloud the brief message it contained: SUNNYMEADE FARM TORONTO, CANADA January 22, 1923 DEAR ABBOTT: Sorry to learn that you are not well. Perhaps a change may do you good. Why not run up here for a week or two? I will be very happy to put you up if the Nashs are not at their place. Chisholm says the two grays are seventeen hands and entirely sound. Would advise offer of a thousand for the pair. Yours in haste, BORIS ZYBINN. Trenholm tossed down the letter in disgust. "Nothing to that!" he exclaimed. "They have fine horses in Canada, and Paul purchased several last year, and sold them at a good figure to one of our neighbors. What is it, Miss Ward?" observing her changed expression. Without answering, Miriam pulled her chair around so that she sat facing the table. Picking up the letters she spread each one, with its envelope, before her, and slowly counted them. "Eleven," she explained, "and this burnt envelope is twelve, and this last letter makes a total of thirteen _unimportant_ letters." "What then?" asked Trenholm, struck by her manner. Going around the table he stood looking over her shoulder. "Have you noticed the postage?" she queried. "Surely. They are Canadian stamps." "Isn't postage from Canada three cents for first-class mail?" "Yes." "Then why does each letter bear _five one-cent_ stamps?" glancing swiftly upward. "Boris Zybinn must have known the correct postage required." "Perhaps he thought that his letters weighed more than one ounce." "If so, the postage would have been double, or _six_ cents," she remarked quickly. "Five cents would not have covered it. Besides, I don't believe that one of these letters weighs over an ounce."