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Title: The Golf Course Mystery

Author: Chester K. Steele

Release date: October 1, 1998 [eBook #1495]
                Most recently updated: May 25, 2012

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Polly Stratton, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY ***




Produced by Polly Stratton





THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY


by Chester K. Steele




CONTENTS


     I         PUTTING OUT
     II        THE NINETEENTH HOLE
     III       "Why?"
     IV        VIOLA'S DECISION
     V         HARRY'S MISSION
     VI        By A QUIET STREAM
     VII       THE INQUEST
     VIII      ON SUSPICION
     IX        58 C. H--161*
     X         A WATER HAZARD
     XI        POISONOUS PLANTS
     XII       BLOSSOM'S SUSPICIONS
     XIII      CAPTAIN POLAND CONFESSES
     XIV       THE PRIVATE SAFE
     XV        POOR FISHING
     XVI       SOME LETTERS
     XVII      OVER THE TELEPHONE
     XVIII     A LARGE BLONDE LADY
     XIX       "UNKNOWN"
     XX        A MEETING
     XXI       THE LIBRARY POSTA
     XXII      THE LARGE BLONDE AGAIN
     XXIII     MOROCCO KATE, ALLY
     XXIV      STILL WATERS




CHAPTER I. PUTTING OUT


There was nothing in that clear, calm day, with its blue sky and its
flooding sunshine, to suggest in the slightest degree the awful tragedy
so close at hand--that tragedy which so puzzled the authorities and
which came so close to wrecking the happiness of several innocent
people.

The waters of the inlet sparkled like silver, and over those waters
poised the osprey, his rapidly moving wings and fan-spread tail
suspending him almost stationary in one spot, while, with eager and
far-seeing eyes, he peered into the depths below. The bird was a dark
blotch against the perfect blue sky for several seconds, and then,
suddenly folding his pinions and closing his tail, he darted downward
like a bomb dropped from an aeroplane.

There was a splash in the water, a shower of sparkling drops as the
osprey arose, a fish vainly struggling in its talons, and from a dusty
gray roadster, which had halted along the highway while the occupant
watched the hawk, there came an exclamation of satisfaction.

"Did you see that, Harry?" called the occupant of the gray car to
a slightly built, bronzed companion in a machine of vivid yellow,
christened by some who had ridden in it the "Spanish Omelet." "Did you
see that kill? As clean as a hound's tooth, and not a lost motion of a
feather. Some sport-that fish-hawk! Gad!"

"Yes, it was a neat bit of work, Gerry. But rather out of keeping with
the day."

"Out of keeping? What do you mean?"

"Well, out of tune, if you like that better. It's altogether too perfect
a day for a killing of any sort, seems to me."

"Oh, you're getting sentimental all at once, aren't you, Harry?" asked
Captain Gerry Poland, with just the trace of a covert sneer in his
voice. "I suppose you wouldn't have even a fish-hawk get a much needed
meal on a bright, sunshiny day, when, if ever, he must have a whale of
an appetite. You'd have him wait until it was dark and gloomy and rainy,
with a north-east wind blowing, and all that sort of thing. Now for me,
a kill is a kill, no matter what the weather."

"The better the day the worse the deed, I suppose," and Harry Bartlett
smiled as he leaned forward preparatory to throwing the switch of his
machine's self-starter, for both automobiles had come to a stop to watch
the osprey.

"Oh, well, I don't know that the day has anything to do with it," said
the captain--a courtesy title, bestowed because he was president of the
Maraposa Yacht Club. "I was just interested in the clean way the beggar
dived after that fish. Flounder, wasn't it?"

"Yes, though usually the birds are glad enough to get a moss-bunker.
Well, the fish will soon be a dead one, I suppose."

"Yes, food for the little ospreys, I imagine. Well, it's a good death to
die--serving some useful purpose, even if it's only to be eaten. Gad! I
didn't expect to get on such a gruesome subject when we started out.
By the way, speaking of killings, I expect to make a neat one to-day on
this cup-winners' match."

"How? I didn't know there was much betting."

"Oh, but there is; and I've picked up some tidy odds against our friend
Carwell. I'm taking his end, and I think he's going to win."

"Better be careful, Gerry. Golf is an uncertain game, especially when
there's a match on among the old boys like Horace Carwell and the crowd
of past-performers and cup-winners he trails along with. He's just as
likely to pull or slice as the veriest novice, and once he starts to
slide he's a goner. No reserve comeback, you know."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that. He'll be all right if he'll let the
champagne alone before he starts to play. I'm banking on him. At the
same time I haven't bet all my money. I've a ten spot left that says
I can beat you to the clubhouse, even if one of my cylinders has been
missing the last two miles. How about it?"

"You're on!" said Harry Bartlett shortly.

There was a throb from each machine as the electric motors started the
engines, and then they shot down the wide road in clouds of dust--the
sinister gray car and the more showy yellow--while above them, driving
its talons deeper into the sides of the fish it had caught, the osprey
circled off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on the
edge of the forest.

And on the white of the flounder appeared bright red spots of blood,
some of which dripped to the ground as the cruel talons closed until
they met inside.

It was only a little tragedy, such as went on every day in the inlet and
adjacent ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, as he drove on with
ever-increasing speed in an endeavor to gain a length on his opponent,
could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfect blue of the
sky, in which there was not a cloud. Was it prophetic?

Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls,
matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs and
pockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurrying
here and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes,
and of diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at the
Maraposa Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and Harry
Bartlett were racing their cars toward it.

It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on it
were to be played several matches, not the least in importance being
that of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes in
hotly contested contests on the home links.

In spite of the fact that on this day there were to be played several
matches, in which visiting and local champions were to try their
skill against one another, to the delight of a large gallery, interest
centered in the cup-winners' battle. For it was rumored, and not without
semblance of truth, that large sums of money would change hands on the
result.

Not that it was gambling-oh, my no! In fact any laying of wagers was
strictly prohibited by the club's constitution. But there are ways and
means of getting cattle through a fence without taking down the bars,
and there was talk that Horace Carwell had made a pretty stiff bet with
Major Turpin Wardell as to the outcome of the match, the major and Mr.
Carwell being rivals of long standing in the matter of drives and putts.

"Beastly fine day, eh, what?" exclaimed Bruce Garrigan, as he set down
on a tray a waiter held out to him a glass he had just emptied with
every indication of delight in its contents. "If it had been made to
order couldn't be improved on," and he flicked from the lapel of Tom
Sharwell's coat some ashes which had blown there from the cigarette
which Garrigan had lighted.

"You're right for once, Bruce, old man," was the laughing response.
"Never mind the ashes now, you'll make a spot if you rub any harder."

"Right for once? 'm always right!" cried Garrigan "And it may interest
you to know that the total precipitation, including rain and melted snow
in Yuma, Arizona, for the calendar year 1917, was three and one tenth
inches, being the smallest in the United States."

"It doesn't interest me a bit, Bruce!" laughed Sharwell. "And to prevent
you getting any more of those statistics out of your system, come on
over and we'll do a little precipitating on our own account. I can stand
another Bronx cocktail."

"I'm with you! But, speaking of statistics, did you know that from the
national forests of the United States in the last year there was cut
840,612,030 board feet of lumber? What the thirty feet were for I don't
know, but--"

"And I don't care to know," interrupted Tom. "If you spring any more of
those beastly dry figures--Say, there comes something that does interest
me, though!" he broke in with. "Look at those cars take that turn!"

"Some speed," murmured Garrigan. "It's Bartlett and Poland," he went
on, as a shift of wind blew the dust to one side and revealed the gray
roadster and the Spanish Omelet. "The rivals are at it again."

Bruce Garrigan, who had a name among the golf club members as a human
encyclopaedia, and who, at times, would inform his companions on almost
any subject that chanced to come uppermost, tossed away his cigarette
and, with Tom Sharwell, watched the oncoming automobile racers.

"They're rivals in more ways than one," remarked Sharwell. "And it
looks, now, as though the captain rather had the edge on Harry, in spite
of the fast color of Harry's car."

"That's right," admitted Garrigan. "Is it true what I've heard about
both of them-that each hopes to place the diamond hoop of proprietorship
on the fair Viola?"

"I guess if you've heard that they're both trying for her, it's true
enough," answered Sharwell. "And it also happens, if that old lady, Mrs.
G. 0. 5. Sipp, is to be believed, that there, also, the captain has the
advantage."

"How's that? I thought Harry had made a tidy sum on that ship-building
project he put through."

"He did, but it seems that he and his family have a penchant for doing
that sort of thing, and, some years ago, in one of the big mergers in
which his family took a prominent part, they, or some one connected with
them, pinched the Honorable Horace Carwell so that he squealed for mercy
like a lamb led to the Wall street slaughter house."

"So that's the game, is it?"

"Yes. And ever since then, though Viola Carwell has been just as nice
to Harry as she has to Gerry--as far as any one can tell-there has been
talk that Harry is persona non grata as far as her father goes. He never
forgives any business beat, I understand."

"Was it anything serious?" asked Garrigan, as they watched the racing
automobiles swing around the turn of the road that led to the clubhouse.

"I don't know the particulars. It was before my time--I mean before I
paid much attention to business."

"Rot! You don't now. You only think you do. But I'm interested. I expect
to have some business dealing with Carwell myself, and if I could get a
line--"

"Sorry, but I can't help you out, old man. Better see Harry. He
knows the whole story, and he insists that it was all straight on his
relatives' part. But it's like shaking a mince pie at a Thanksgiving
turkey to mention the matter to Carwell. He hasn't gone so far as to
forbid Harry the house, but there's a bit of coldness just the same."

"I see. And that's why the captain has the inside edge on the love game.
Well, Miss Carwell has a mind of her own, I fancy."

"Indeed she has! She's more like her mother used to be. I remember Mrs.
Carwell when I was a boy. She was a dear, somewhat conventional lady.
How she ever came to take up with the sporty Horace, or he with her, was
a seven-days' wonder. But they lived happily, I believe."

"Then Mrs. Carwell is dead?"

"Oh, yes-some years. Mr. Carwell's sister, Miss Mary, keeps The Haven up
to date for him. You've been there?"

"Once, at a reception. I'm not on the regular calling list, though Miss
Viola is pretty enough to--"

"Look out!" suddenly cried Sharwell, as though appealing to the two
automobilists, far off as they were. For the yellow car made a sudden
swerve and seemed about to turn turtle.

But Bartlett skillfully brought the Spanish Omelet back on the road
again, and swung up alongside his rival for the home stretch-the broad
highway that ran in front of the clubhouse.

The players who were soon to start out on the links; the guests, the
gallery, and the servants gathered to see the finish of the impromptu
race, murmurs arising as it was seen how close it was likely to be.
And close it was, for when the two machines, with doleful whinings of
brakes, came to a stop in front of the house, the front wheels were in
such perfect alignment that there was scarcely an inch of difference.

"A dead heat!" exclaimed Bartlett, as he leaped out and motioned for one
of the servants to take the car around to the garage.

"Yes, you win!" agreed Captain Poland, as he pushed his goggles back on
his cap. He held out a bill.

"What's it for?" asked Bartlett, drawing back.

"Why, I put up a ten spot that I'd beat you. I didn't, and you win."

"Buy drinks with your money!" laughed Bartlett. "The race was to be for
a finish, not a dead heat. We'll try it again, sometime."

"All right-any time you like!" said the captain crisply, as he sat down
at a table after greeting some friends. "But you won't refuse to split a
quart with me?"

"No. My throat is as dusty as a vacuum cleaner. Have any of the matches
started yet, Bruce?" he asked, turning to the Human Encyclopedia.

"Only some of the novices. And, speaking of novices, do you know that in
Scotland there are fourteen thousand, seven hundred--"

"Cut it, Bruce! Cut it!" begged the captain. "Sit in--you and Tom--and
we'll make it two bottles. Anything to choke off your flow of useless
statistics!" and he laughed good-naturedly.

"When does the cup-winners' match start?" asked Bartlett, as the four
young men sat about the table under the veranda. "That's the one I'm
interested in."

"In about an hour," announced Sharwell, as he consulted a card. "Hardly
any of the veterans are here yet."

"Has Mr. Carwell arrived?" asked Captain Poland, as he raised his glass
and seemed to be studying the bubbles that spiraled upward from the
hollow stem.

"You'll know when he gets here," answered Bruce Garrigan.

"How so?" asked the captain. "Does he have an official announcer?"

"No, but you'll hear his car before you see it."

"New horn?"

"No, new car-new color-new everything!" said Garrigan. "He's just bought
a new ten thousand dollar French car, and it's painted red, white and
blue, and-"

"Red, white and blue?" chorused the other three men.

"Yes. Very patriotic. His friends don't know whether he's honoring Uncle
Sam or the French Republic. However, it's all the same. His car is a
wonder."

"I must have a brush with him!" murmured Captain Poland.

"Don't. You'll lose out," advised Garrigan. "It can do eighty on fourth
speed, and Carwell is sporty enough to slip it into that gear if he
needed to."

"Um! Guess I'll wait until I get my new machine, then," decided the
captain.

There was more talk, but Bartlett gradually dropped out of the
conversation and went to walk about the club grounds.

Maraposa was a social, as well as a golfing, club, and the scene of many
dances and other affairs. It lay a few miles back from the shore near
Lakeside, in New Jersey. The clubhouse was large and elaborate, and the
grounds around it were spacious and well laid out.

Not far away was Loch Harbor, where the yachts of the club of which
Captain Gerry Poland was president anchored, and a mile or so in the
opposite direction was Lake Tacoma, on the shore of which was Lakeside.
A rather exclusive colony summered there, the hotel numbering many
wealthy persons among its patrons.

Harry Bartlett, rather wishing he had gone in for golf more devotedly,
was wandering about, casually greeting friends and acquaintances,
when he heard his name called from the cool and shady depths of a
summer-house on the edge of the golf links.

"Oh, Minnie! How are you?" he cordially greeted a rather tall and dark
girl who extended her slim hand to him. "I didn't expect to see you
today."

"Oh, I take in all the big matches, though I don't play much myself,"
answered Minnie Webb. "I'm surprised to find you without a caddy,
though, Harry."

"Too lazy, I'm afraid. I'm going to join the gallery to-day. Meanwhile,
if you don't mind, I'll sit in here and help you keep cool."

"It isn't very hard to do that to-day," and she moved over to make room
for him. "Isn't it just perfect weather!"

At one time Minnie Webb and Harry Bartlett had been very close
friends--engaged some rumors had it. But now they were jolly good
companions, that was all.

"Seen the Carwells' new machine?" asked Bartlett.

"No, but I've heard about it. I presume they'll drive up in it to-day."

"Does Viola run it?"

"I haven't heard. It's a powerful machine, some one said-more of a racer
than a touring car, Mr. Blossom was remarking."

"Well, he ought to know. I understand he's soon to be taken into
partnership with Mr. Carwell."

"I don't know," murmured Minnie, and she seemed suddenly very much
interested in the vein structure of a leaf she pulled from a vine that
covered the summer-house.

Bartlett smiled. Gossip had it that Minnie Webb and Le Grand Blossom,
Mr. Carwell's private secretary, were engaged. But there had been
no formal announcement, though the two had been seen together more
frequently of late than mere friendship would warrant.

There was a stir in front of the clubhouse, followed by a murmur of
voices, and Minnie, peering through a space in the vines, announced:

"There's the big car now.  Oh, I don't like that color at all!
I'm as patriotic as any one, but to daub a perfectly good car up like
that--well, it's--"

"Sporty, I suppose Carwell thinks," finished Bartlett. He had risen as
though to leave the summerhouse, but as he saw Captain Poland step up
and offer his hand to Viola Carwell, he drew back and again sat down
beside Minnie.

A group gathered about the big French car, obviously to the delight of
Mr. Carwell, who was proud of the furor created by his latest purchase.

Though he kept up his talk with Minnie in the summer-house, Harry
Bartlett's attention was very plainly not on his present companion nor
the conversation. At any other time Minnie Webb would have noticed it
and taxed him with it, but now, she, too, had her attention centered
elsewhere. She watched eagerly the group about the big machine, and her
eyes followed the figure of a man who descended from the rear seat and
made his way out along a path that led to a quiet spot.

"I think I'll go in now," murmured Minnie Webb. "I have to see--"
Bartlett was not listening. In fact he was glad of the diversion, for
he saw Viola Carwell turn with what he thought was impatience aside from
Captain Poland, and that was the very chance the other young man had
been waiting for.

He followed Minnie Webb from the little pavilion, paying no attention to
where she drifted. But he made his way through the press of persons to
where Viola stood, and he saw her eyes light up as he approached. His,
too, seemed brighter.

"I was wondering if you would come to see dad win," she murmured to
him, as he took her hand, and Captain Poland, with a little bow, stepped
back.

"You knew I'd come, didn't you?" Bartlett asked in a low voice.

"I hoped so," she murmured. "Now, Harry," she went on in a low voice,
as they moved aside, "this will be a good time for you to smooth
things over with father. If he wins, as he feels sure he will, you must
congratulate him very heartily--exceptionally so. Make a fuss over him,
so to speak. He'll be club champion, and it will seem natural for you to
bubble over about it."

"But why should I, Viola? I haven't done anything to merit his
displeasure."

"I know. But you remember what a touch-fire he is. He's always held that
business matter against you, though I'm sure you had nothing to do with
it. Now, if he wins, and I hope he will, you can take advantage of it to
get on better terms with him, and--"

"Well, I'm willing to be friends, you know that, Viola. But I can't
pretend--I never could!"

"You're stubborn, Harry!" and Viola pouted.

"Well, perhaps I am. When I know I'm right--"

"Couldn't you forget it just once?"

"I don't see how!"

"Oh, you provoke me! But if you won't you won't, I suppose. Only it
would be such a good chance--"

"Well, I'll see him after the match, Viola. I'll do my best to be
decent."

"You must go a little farther than that, Harry. Dad will be all worked
up if he wins, and he'll want a fuss made over him. It will be the very
chance for you."

"All right-I'll do my best," murmured Bartlett. And then a servant came
up to summon him to the telephone.

Viola was not left long alone, for Captain Poland was watching her from
the tail of his eye, and he was at her side before Harry Bartlett was
out of sight.

"Perhaps you'd like to come for a little spin with me, Miss Carwell,"
said the captain. "I just heard that they've postponed the cup-winners'
match an hour; and unless you want to sit around here--"

"Come on!" cried Viola, impulsively. "It's too perfect a day to sit
around, and I'm only interested in my father's match."

There was another reason why Viola Carwell was glad of the chance to go
riding with Captain Poland just then. She really was a little provoked
with Bartlett's stubbornness, or what she called that, and she thought
it might "wake him up," as she termed it, to see her with the only man
who might be classed as his rival.

As for herself, Viola was not sure whether or not she would admit
Captain Poland to that class. There was time enough yet.

And so, as Bartlett went in to the telephone, to answer a call that had
come most inopportunely for him, Viola Carwell and Captain Poland swept
off along the pleasantly shaded country road.

Left to herself, for which just then she was thankful, Minnie Webb
drifted around until she met LeGrand Blossom.

"What's the matter, Lee?" she asked him in a low voice, and he smiled
with his eyes at her, though his face showed no great amount of jollity.
"You're as solemn as though every railroad stock listed had dropped ten
points just after you bought it."

"No, it isn't quite as bad as that," he said, as he fell into step beside
her, and they strolled off on one of the less-frequented walks.

"I thought everything was going so well with you. Has there been any
hitch in the partnership arrangement?" asked Minnie.

"No, not exactly."

"Have you lost money?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Then for goodness' sake what is it? Do I have to pump you like a
newspaper reporter?" and Minnie Webb laughed, showing a perfect set of
teeth that contrasted well against the dark red and tan of her cheeks.

"Oh, I don't know that it's anything much," replied LeGrand Blossom.

"It's something!" insisted Minnie.

"Well, yes, it is. And as it'll come out, sooner or later, I might as
well tell you now," he said, with rather an air of desperation, and as
though driven to it. "Have you heard any rumors that Mr. Carwell is in
financial difficulties?"

"Why, no! The idea! I always thought he had plenty of money. Not a
multi-millionaire, of course, but better off financially than any one
else in Lakeside."

"He was once; but he won't be soon, if he keeps up the pace he's set of
late," went on LeGrand Blossom, and his voice was gloomy.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, things don't look so well as they did. He was very foolish to
buy that ten-thousand-dollar yacht so soon after spending even more than
that on this red, white and blue monstrosity of his!"

"You don't mean to tell me he's bought a yacht, too?"

"Yes, the Osprey that Colonel Blakeson used to sport up and down the
coast in. Paid a cool ten thousand for it, though if he had left it to
me I could have got it for eight, I'm sure."

"Well, twenty thousand dollars oughtn't to worry Mr. Carwell, I should
think," returned Minnie.

"It wouldn't have, a year ago," answered LeGrand. "But he's been on the
wrong side of the market for some time. Then, too, something new has
cropped up about that old Bartlett deal."

"You mean the one over which Harry's uncle and Mr. Carwell had such a
fuss?"

"Yes. Mr. Carwell's never got over that. And there are rumors that he
lost quite a sum in a business transaction with Captain Poland."

"Oh, dear!" sighed the girl. "Isn't business horrid! I'm glad I'm not a
man. But what is this about Captain Poland?"

"I don't know? haven't heard it all yet, as Mr. Carwell doesn't tell me
everything, even if he has planned to take me into partnership with him.
But now I'm not so keen on it."

"Keen on what, Lee?" and Minnie Webb leaned just the least bit nearer to
his side.

"On going into partnership with a man who spends money so lavishly when
he needs all the ready cash he can lay his hands on. But don't mention
this to any one, Minnie. If it got out it might precipitate matters, and
then the whole business would tumble down like a house of cards. As it
is, I may be able to pull him out. But I've put the soft pedal on the
partnership talk."

"Has Mr. Carwell mentioned it of late?"

"No. All he seems to be interested in is this golf game that may make
him club champion. But keep secret what I have told you."

Minnie Webb nodded assent, and they turned back toward the clubhouse,
for they had reached a too secluded part of the grounds.

Meanwhile, Viola Carwell was not enjoying her ride with Captain Poland
as much as she had expected she would. As a matter of fact it had been
undertaken largely to cause Bartlett a little uneasiness; and as the
car spun on she paid less and less attention to the captain.

Seeing this, the latter changed his mind concerning something he had
fully expected to speak to Viola about that day, if he got the chance.

Captain Poland was genuinely in love with Viola, and he had reason
to feel that she cared for him, though whether enough to warrant a
declaration of love on his part was hard to understand.

"But I won't take a chance now," mused the captain, rather moodily; and
the talk descended to mere monosyllables on the part of both of them.
"I must see Carwell and have it out with him about that insurance deal.
Maybe he holds that against me, though the last time I talked with him
he gave me to understand that I'd stand a better show than Harry. I
must see him after the game. If he wins he'll be in a mellow humor,
particularly after a bottle or so. That's what I'll do."

The captain spun his car up in front of the clubhouse and helped Viola
out. "I think we are in plenty of time for your father's match," he
remarked.

"Yes," she assented. "I don't see any of the veterans on the field yet,"
and she looked across the perfect course. "I'll go to look for dad and
wish him luck. He always wants me to do that before he starts his medal
play. See you again, Captain;" and with a friendly nod she left the
somewhat chagrined yachtsman.

When Captain Poland had parked his car he took a short cut along a path
that led through a little clump of bushes. Midway he heard voices. In
an instant he recognized them as those of Horace Carwell and Harry
Bartlett. He heard Bartlett say:

"But don't you see how much better it would be to drop it all--to have
nothing more to do with her?"

"Look here, young man, you mind your own business!" snapped Mr. Carwell.
"I know what I'm doing!"

"I haven't any doubt of it, Mr. Carwell; but I ventured to suggest?"
went on Bartlett.

"Keep your suggestions to yourself, if you please. I've had about all I
want from you and your family. And if I hear any more of your impudent
talk--"

Then Captain Poland moved away, for he did not want to hear any more.

In the meantime Viola hurried back to the clubhouse, and forced herself
to be gay. But, somehow, a cloud seemed to have come over her day.

The throng had increased, and she caught sight, among the press, of Jean
Forette, their chauffeur.

"Have you seen my father since he arrived, Jean?" asked Viola.

"Oh, he is somewhere about, I suppose," was the answer, and it was given
in such a surly tone with such a churlish manner that Viola flushed with
anger and bit her lips to keep back a sharp retort.

At that moment Minnie Webb strolled past. She had heard the question and
the answer.

"I just saw your father going out with the other contestants, Viola,"
said Minnie Webb, "for they were friends of some years' standing. I
think they are going to start to play. I wonder why they say the French
are such a polite race," she went on, speaking lightly to cover Viola's
confusion caused by the chauffeur's manner. "He was positively
insulting."

"He was," agreed Viola. "But I shouldn't mind him, I suppose. He does
not like the new machine, and father has told him to find another place
by the end of the month. I suppose that has piqued him."

While there were many matches to be played at the Maraposa Club that
day, interest, as far as the older members and their friends were
concerned, was centered in that for cup-winners. These constituted the
best players--the veterans of the game--and the contest was sure to be
interesting and close.

Horace Carwell was a "sport," in every meaning of the term. Though a man
well along in his forties, he was as lithe and active as one ten years
younger. He motored, fished, played golf, hunted, and of late had added
yachting to his amusements. He was wealthy, as his father had been
before him, and owned a fine home in New York, but he spent a large part
of every year at Lakeside, where he might enjoy the two sports he loved
best-golfing and yachting.

Viola was an only child, her mother having died when she was about
sixteen, and since then Mr. Carwell's maiden sister had kept watch and
ward over the handsome home, The Haven. Viola, though loving her father
with the natural affection of a daughter and some of the love she had
lavished on her mother, was not altogether in sympathy with the sporting
proclivities of Mr. Carwell.

True, she accompanied him to his golf games and sailed with him or
rode in his big car almost as often as he asked her. And she thoroughly
enjoyed these things. But what she did not enjoy was the rather too
jovial comradeship that followed on the part of the men and women her
father associated with. He was a good liver and a good spender, and he
liked to have about him such persons-men "sleek and fat," who if they
did not "sleep o' nights," at least had the happy faculty of turning
night into day for their own amusement.

So, in a measure, Viola and her father were out of sympathy, as had been
husband and wife before her; though there had never been a whisper of
real incompatibility; nor was there now, between father and daughter.

"Fore!"

It was the warning cry from the first tee to clear the course for the
start of the cup-winners' match. In anticipation of some remarkable
playing, an unusually large gallery would follow the contestants around.
The best caddies had been selected, clubs had been looked to with
care and tested, new balls were got out, and there was much subdued
excitement, as befitted the occasion.

Mr. Carwell, his always flushed face perhaps a trifle more like a mild
sunset than ever, strolled to the first tee. He swung his driver with
freedom and ease to make sure it was the one that best suited him, and
then turned to Major Wardell, his chief rival. "Do you want to take any
more?" he asked meaningly.

"No, thank you," was the laughing response. "I've got all I can carry.
Not that I'm going to let you beat me, but I'm always a stroke or two
off in my play when the sun's too bright, as it is now. However, I'm not
crawling."

"You'd better not!" declared his rival. "As for me, the brighter the sun
the better I like it. Well, are we all ready?"

The officials held a last consultation and announced that play might
start. Mr. Carwell was to lead.

The first hole was not the longest in the course, but to place one's ball
on fair ground meant driving very surely, and for a longer distance than
most players liked to think about. Also a short distance from the tee
was a deep ravine, and unless one cleared that it was a handicap hard to
overcome.

Mr. Carwell made his little tee of sand with care, and placed the ball
on the apex. Then he took his place and glanced back for a moment to
where Viola stood between Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett. Something
like a little frown gathered on the face of Horace Carwell as he noted
the presence of Bartlett, but it passed almost at once.

"Well, here goes, ladies and gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Carwell in rather
loud tones and with a free and easy manner he did not often assume.
"Here's where I bring home the bacon and make my friend, the major, eat
humble pie."

Viola flushed. It was not like her father to thus boast. On the contrary
he was usually what the Scotch call a "canny" player. He never predicted
that he was going to win, except, perhaps, to his close friends. But he
was now boasting like the veriest schoolboy.

"Here I go!" he exclaimed again, and then he swung at the ball with his
well-known skill.

It was a marvelous drive, and the murmurs of approbation that greeted it
seemed to please Mr. Carwell.

"Let's see anybody beat that!" he cried as he stepped off the tee to
give place to Major Wardell.

Mr. Carwell's white ball had sailed well up on the putting green of the
first hole, a shot seldom made at Maraposa.

"A few more strokes like that and he'll win the match," murmured
Bartlett.

"And when he does, don't forget what I told you," whispered Viola to
him.

He found her hand, hidden at her side in the folds of her dress, and
pressed it. She smiled up at him, and then they watched the major swing
at his ball.

"It's going to be a corking match," murmured more than one member of the
gallery, as they followed the players down the field.

"If any one asked me, I should say that Carwell had taken just a little
too much champagne to make his strokes true toward the last hole," said
Tom Sharwell to Bruce Garrigan.

"Perhaps," was the admission. "But I'd like to see him win. And, for
the sake of saying something, let me inform you that in Africa last year
there were used in nose rings alone for the natives seventeen thousand
four hundred and twenty-one pounds of copper wire. While for anklets--"

"I'll buy you a drink if you chop it off short!" offered Sharwell.

"Taken!" exclaimed Garrigan, with a grin.

The cup play went on, the four contestants being well matched, and the
shots duly applauded from hole to hole.

The turn was made and the homeward course began, with the excitement
increasing as it was seen that there would be the closest possible
finish, between the major and Mr. Carwell at least.

"What's the row over there?" asked Bartlett suddenly, as he walked along
with Viola and Captain Poland.

"Where?" inquired the captain.

"Among those autos. Looks as if one was on fire."

"It does," agreed Viola. "But I can see our patriotic palfrey, so I
guess it's all right. There are enough people over there, anyhow. But it
is something!"

There was a dense cloud of smoke hovering over the place where some of
the many automobiles were parked at one corner of the course. Still it
might be some one starting his machine, with too much oil being burned
in the cylinders.

"Now for the last hole!" exulted Mr. Carwell, as they approached the
eighteenth. "I've got you two strokes now, Major, and I'll have you
four by the end of the match."

"I'm not so sure of that," was the laughing and good-natured reply.

There was silence in the gallery while the players made ready for the
last hole.

There was a sharp impact as Mr. Carwell's driver struck the little white
ball and sent it sailing in a graceful curve well toward the last hole.

"A marvelous shot!" exclaimed Captain Poland. "On the green again!
Another like that and he'll win the game!"

"And I can do it, too!" boasted Carwell, who overheard what was said.

The others drove off in turn, and the play reached the final stage of
putting. Viola turned as though to go over and see what the trouble was
among the automobiles. She looked back as she saw her father stoop to
send the ball into the little depressed cup. She felt sure that he
would win, for she had kept a record of his strokes and those of his
opponents. The game was all but over.

"I wonder if there can be anything the matter with our car?" mused
Viola, as she saw the smoke growing denser. "Dad's won, so I'm going
over to see. Perhaps that chauffeur--"

She did not finish the sentence. She turned to look back at her father
once more, and saw him make the putt that won the game at the last
hole. Then, to her horror she saw him reel, throw up his hands, and fall
heavily in a heap, while startled cries reached her ears.

"Oh! Oh! What has happened?" she exclaimed, and deadly fear clutched at
her heart--and not without good cause.



CHAPTER II. THE NINETEENTH HOLE


For several seconds after Mr. Carwell fell so heavily on the putting
green, having completed the last stroke that sent the white ball into
the cup and made him club champion, there was not a stir among the other
players grouped about him; nor did the gallery, grouped some distance
back, rush up. The most natural thought, and one that was in the minds
of the majority, was that the clubman had overbalanced himself in making
his stance for the putt shot, and had fallen. There was even a little
thoughtless laughter from some in the gallery. But it was almost
instantly hushed, for it needed but a second glance to tell that
something more serious than a simple fall had occurred.

Or if it was a fall caused by an unsteady position, taken when he
made his last shot, it had been such a heavy one that Mr. Carwell was
overlong in recovering from it. He remained in a huddled heap on the
short-cropped, velvety turf of the putting green.

Then the murmurs of wonder came, surging from many throats, and the
friends of Mr. Carwell closed around to help him to his feet-to render
what aid was needed. Among them were Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett,
and as the latter stepped forward he glanced up, for an instant, at the
blue sky.

Far above the Maraposa golf links circled a lone osprey on its way to
the inlet or ocean. Rather idly Bartlett wondered if it was the same one
he and Captain Poland had seen dart down and kill the fish just before
the beginning of the big match.

"What's the matter, Horace? Sun too much for you?" asked Major Wardell,
as he leaned over his friend and rival. "It is a bit hot; I feel it
myself. But I didn't think it would knock you out. Or are you done up
because you beat me? Come--"

He ceased his rather railing talk, and a look came over his face that
told those near him something serious had happened. There was a rush
toward the prostrate man.

"Keep back, please!" exclaimed the major. "He seems to have fainted. He
needs air. Is Dr. Rowland here? I thought I saw him at the clubhouse a
while ago. Some one get him, please. If not--"

"I'll get him!" some one offered

"Here, give him a sip of this--it's brandy!" and an automobilist, who
had come across the links from the nearest point to the highway, offered
his flask.

The major unscrewed the silver top, which formed a tiny cup, and tried
to let some of the potent liquor trickle between the purplish lips of
the unconscious victor in the cup-winners' match. But more of the liquid
was spilled on his face and neck than went into his mouth. The air
reeked with the odor of it.

"What has happened? Is he hurt?" gasped Viola, who made her way through
the press of people, which opened for her, till she stood close beside
her father. "What is it? Oh, is he--?"

"He fell," some one said.

"Just as he made his winning stroke," added another.

"Oh!" and Viola herself reeled unsteadily.

"It's all right," a voice said in her ear, and though it was in the
ordinary tones of Captain Poland, to the alarmed girl it seemed as
though it came from the distant peaks of the hills. "He'll be all right
presently," went on the captain, as he supported Viola and led her out
of the throng.

"It's just a touch of the sun, I fancy. They've gone for a doctor."

"Oh, but, Captain Poland--father was never like this before--he was
always so strong and well--I never knew him to complain of the heat. And
as for fainting--why I believe I almost did it myself, just now, didn't
I?"

"Almost, yes."

"But father never did. Oh, I must go to him!"

She struggled a little and moved away from his half encircling arm, for
he had seen that her strength was failing her and had supported her as
he led her away. "I must go to him!"

"Better not just now," said Captain Poland gently. "Harry is there with
him, the major and other friends. They will look after him. You had
better come with me to the clubhouse and lie down. I will get you a cup
of tea."

"No! I must be with my father!" she insisted. "He will need me when
he--when he revives. Please let me go to him!"

The captain saw that it was of little use to oppose her so he led her
back toward the throng that was still about the prostrate player. A
clubman was hurrying back with a young man who carried a small black
bag.

"They've got a doctor, I think," said Gerry. "Not Dr. Rowland, though.
However, I dare say it will be all right."

A fit of trembling seized Viola, and it was so violent that, for a
moment, Captain Poland thought she would fall. He had to hold her close,
and he wished there was some place near at hand to which he might
take her. But the clubhouse was some distance away, and there were no
conveyances within call.

However, Viola soon recovered her composure, or at least seemed to, and
smiled up at him, though there was no mirth in it.

"I'll be all right now," she said. "Please take me to him. He will ask
for me as soon as he recovers."

The young doctor had made his way through the throng and now knelt
beside the prostrate man. The examination was brief--a raising of the
eyelids, an ear pressed over the heart, supplemented by the use of the
stethoscope, and then the young medical man looked up, searching the
ring of faces about him as though seeking for some one in authority to
whom information might be imparted. Then he announced, generally:

"He is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed several.

"Hush!" cautioned Harry Bartlett "She'll hear you!"

He looked in the direction whence Viola and Captain Poland were
approaching the scene.

"Are you sure, Dr. Baird?" he asked.

"Positive. The heart action has entirely stopped."

"But might that not be from some cause--some temporary cause?"

"Yes, but not in this case. Mr. Carwell is dead. I can do nothing for
him."

It sounded brutal, but it was only a medical man's plain statement of
the case.

"Some one must tell her," murmured Minnie Webb, who had been attracted
to the crowd, though she was not much of a golf enthusiast. "Poor Viola!
Some one must tell her."

"I will," offered Bartlett, and he made his way through a living lane
that opened for him. Then it closed again, hiding the body from sight.
Some one placed a sweater over the face that had been so ruddy, and was
now so pale.

Captain Poland, still supporting Viola on his arm, saw Bartlett
approaching. Somehow he surmised what his fellow clubman was going to
say.

"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Viola, impulsively holding out her hands to him.
"Is he all right? Is he better?"

"I am sorry," began Harry, and then she seemed to sense what he was
going to add.

"He isn't--Oh, don't tell me he is--"

"The doctor says he is dead, Viola," answered Bartlett gently. "He
passed away without pain or suffering. It must have been heart disease."

But Viola Carwell never heard the last words, for she really fainted
this time, and Captain Poland laid her gently down on the soft, green
grass.

"Better get the doctor for her," he advised Bartlett. "She'll need him,
if her father doesn't." As Harry Bartlett turned aside, waving back
the curiosity seekers that were already leaving the former scene of
excitement for the latest, LeGrand Blossom came up. He seemed very cool
and not at all excited, considering what had happened.

"I will look after Miss Carwell," he said.

"Perhaps you had better see to Mr. Carwell--Mr. Carwell's remains,
Blossom," suggested Captain Poland. "Miss Carwell will be herself very
soon. She has only fainted. Her father is dead.

"Dead? Are you sure?" asked LeGrand Blossom, and his manner seemed a
trifle more naturally excited.

"Dr. Baird says so. You'd better go to him. He may want to ask some
questions, and you were more closely associated with Carwell than any of
the rest of us."

"Very well, I'll look after the body," said the secretary. "Did the
doctor say what killed him?"

"No. That will be gone into later, I dare say. Probably heart disease;
though I never knew he had it," said Bartlett.

"Nor I," added Blossom. "I'd be more inclined to suspect apoplexy. But
are you sure Miss Carwell will be all right?"

"Yes," answered Captain Poland, who had raised her head after sprinkling
in her face some water a caddy brought in his cap. "She is reviving."

Dr. Baird came up just then and gave her some aromatic spirits of
ammonia.

Viola opened her eyes. There was no comprehension in them, and she
looked about in wonder. Then, as her benumbed brain again took up its
work, she exclaimed:

"Oh, it isn't true! It can't be true! Tell me it isn't!"

"I am sorry, but it seems to be but too true," said Captain Poland
gently. "Did he ever speak of trouble with his heart, Viola?"

"Never, Gerry. He was always so well and strong."

"You had better come to the clubhouse," suggested Bartlett, and she went
with them both.

A little later the body of Horace Carwell was carried to the "nineteenth
hole"--that place where all games are played over again in detail as the
contestants put away their clubs.

A throng followed the silent figure, borne on the shoulders of some
grounds workmen, but only club members were admitted to the house. And
among them buzzed talk of the tragedy that had so suddenly ended the day
of sports.

"He looked all right when he started to play," said one. "Never saw him
in better form, and some of his shots were marvelous."

"He'd been drinking a little too much for a man to play his best,
especially on a hot day," ventured another. "He must have been taken ill
from that, and the excitement of trying to win over the major, and it
affected his heart."

"Never knew him to have heart disease," declared Bruce Garrigan.

"Lots of us have it and don't know it," commented Tom Sharwell. "I
suppose it will take an autopsy to decide."

"Rather tough on Miss Carwell," was another comment.

"That's true!" several agreed.

The body of Horace Carwell was placed in one of the small card rooms,
and the door locked. Then followed some quick telephoning on the part of
Dr. Baird, who had recently joined the golf club, and who had arrived at
the clubhouse shortly before Mr. Carwell dropped dead.

It was at the suggestion of Harry Bartlett that Dr. Addison Lambert,
the Carwell family physician, was sent for, and that rather aged
practitioner arrived as soon as possible.

He was taken in to view the body, together with Dr. Baird, who was
almost pathetically deferential to his senior colleague. The two medical
men were together in the room with the body for some time, and when they
came out Viola Carwell was there to meet them. Dr. Lambert put his arms
about her. He had known her all her life--since she first ventured into
this world, in fact--and his manner was most fatherly.

"Oh, Uncle Add!" she murmured to him--for she had long called him by
this endearing title--Oh, Uncle Add! What is it? Is my father--is he
really--"

"My dear little girl, your father is dead, I am sorry to say. You must
be very brave, and bear up. Be the brave woman he would want you to be."

"I will, Uncle Add. But, oh, it is so hard! He was all I had! Oh, what
made him die?"

She questioned almost as a little child might have done.

"That I don't know, my dear," answered Dr. Lambert gently. "We shall
have to find that out later by--Well, we'll find out later, Dr. Baird
and I. You had better go home now. I'll have your car brought around. Is
that--that Frenchman here--your chauffeur?"

"Yes, he was here a little while ago. But I had rather not go home with
him--at least, unless some one else comes with me. I don't like--I don't
like that big, new car.

"If you will come with me, Viola--" began Bartlett.

"Yes, Harry, I'll go with you. Oh, poor Aunt Mary! This will be a
terrible shock to her. I--"

"I'll telephone," offered Dr. Lambert. "She'll know when you arrive. And
I'll be over to see you, Viola, as soon as I make some arrangements."

"And will you look after--after poor father?"

"Yes, you may leave it all to me."

And so, while the body of the dead clubman remained at the nineteenth
hole, Viola Carwell was taken to 'The Haven' by Harry Bartlett, while
Captain Poland, nodding farewell to LeGrand Blossom and some of his
other friends, left the grounds in his gray car.

And as he rode down past the inlet where the tide was now running out to
the sea, he saw an osprey dart down and strike at an unseen fish.

But the bird rose with dripping pinions, its talons empty.

"You didn't get any one that time!" murmured the captain.




CHAPTER III. "WHY?"


Through the silent house echoed the vibration of the electric bell,
sounding unnecessarily loud, it seemed. The maid who answered took the
caller's card to Miss Mary Carwell, Viola's aunt.

"He wants to see Miss Viola," the servant reported. "Shall I tell her?"

"You had better, yes. She went to lie down, but she will want to see
Captain Poland. Wait, I'll tell her myself. Where is he?"

"In the library, ma am.

"Very well. I'll see him."

Mr. Carwell's sister literally swept down the stairs, her black silk
dress rustling somberly and importantly. She was a large woman, and her
bearing and air were in keeping.

"It was very good of you to come," she murmured, as she sank, with more
rustling and shimmerings, into a chair, while the captain waited for her
to be settled, like a boat at anchor, before he again took his place.
"Viola will be down presently. I gave her a powder the doctor left for
her, and she slept, I hope, since we were both awake nearly all of last
night."

"I should imagine so. The strain and shock must have been intense. But
please don't disturb her if she is resting. I merely called to see if I
could do anything."

"Thank you so much. We are waiting for the doctors' report. It was
necessary to have an autopsy, I understand?" she questioned.

"Yes. The law requires it in all cases of sudden and mysterious death."

"Mysterious death, Captain Poland!"

Mary Carwell seemed to swell up like a fretful turkey.

"Well, by that I mean unexplained. Mr. Carwell dropped dead suddenly and
from no apparent cause."

"But it was heart disease--or apoplexy--of course! What else could it
be?"

"It must have been one or the other of those, Miss Carwell, I am sure,"
the captain murmured sympathetically. "But the law requires that such a
fact be established to the satisfaction of the county physician."

"And who is he?"

"Dr. Rowland."

"Will there be a coroner's inquest, such as I have read about? I
couldn't bear anything like that."

"It is not at all necessary, Miss Carwell," went on the captain.
"The law of New Jersey does not demand that in cases of sudden and
unexplained death, unless the county physician is not satisfied with his
investigation. In that matter New Jersey differs from some of the other
states. The county physician will make an autopsy to determine the cause
of death. If he is satisfied that it was from natural causes he gives a
certificate to that effect, and that ends the matter."

"Oh, then it will be very simple."

"Yes, I imagine so. Dr. Rowland will state that your brother came to his
death from heart disease, or from apoplexy, or whatever it was, and then
you may proceed with the funeral arrangements. I shall be glad to help
you in any way I can."

"It is very kind of you. This has been so terrible--so sudden and
unexpected. It has perfectly unnerved both poor Viola and myself, and we
are the only ones to look after matters."

"Then, let me help," urged Captain Poland. "I shall only be too glad.
The members of the golf club, too, will do all in their power. We had
a meeting this morning and passed resolutions of sympathy. I have also
called a meeting of our yacht club, of which your brother was a member.
We will take suitable action."

"Thank you. And when do you think we may expect the certificate from Dr.
Rowland?"

"Very soon. He is performing the autopsy now, at the club. Dr. Lambert
and Dr. Baird are with him. It was thought best to have it there, rather
than at the undertaking rooms."

"I shall be glad when matters can proceed as they ought to proceed. This
publicity is very distasteful to me."

"I can readily believe that, Miss Carwell. And now, if you will ask Miss
Viola if I may be of any service to her, I shall--"

"Before I call her, there is one matter I wish to ask you about," said
Mr. Carwell's sister. "You are familiar with business, I know. I was
going to ask Mr. Bartlett, as this seemed more in his line, but perhaps
you can advise me."

"I shall do my best, Miss Carwell. What is it?"

"One of the clerks came from my brother's office this morning with a
note from the bank. It seems that Horace borrowed a large sum for some
business transaction, and put up as collateral certain bonds. He often
does that, as I have heard him mention here time and again to Mr.
Blossom, when they sat in consultation in the library.

"But now it appears, according to the note from the bank, that more
securities are needed. There has been a depreciation, or something--I
am not familiar with the terms. At any rate the bank sends word that it
wants more bonds. I was wondering what I had better do. Of course I have
securities in my own private box that I might send, but--"

"Why didn't Mr. Blossom attend to this?" asked Captain Poland, a bit
sharply, it would have seemed to a casual listener. "That was his place.
He knows all about Mr. Carwell's affairs."

"I asked the clerk from the office why Mr. Blossom--did you ever hear
such an absurd name as he has?--LeGrand Blossom--I asked the clerk why
the matter was not attended to," went on Miss Carwell, "and he said Mr.
Blossom must have forgotten it."

"Rather odd," commented the captain. "However, I'll look after it for
you. If necessary, I'll loan the bank enough additional securities as
collateral to cover the loan. Don't let it disturb you, Miss Carwell. It
is merely a small detail of business that often crops up. Securities in
these days so often fluctuate that banks are forced to call for more,
and different ones, to cover loans secured by them. I'll attend to the
matter for you."

"Thank you so much. And now I believe I may safely call Viola. She would
not forgive me if she knew you had been here and she had not seen you to
thank you for your care of her yesterday."

"Oh, that was nothing. I was very glad--"

Captain Poland was interrupted by a ring at the door.

"Perhaps that is a message from the doctors now," suggested Miss
Carwell.

"It is Dr. Lambert himself," announced the captain, looking from a
window that gave a view of the front porch. "Dr. Baird is with him. They
must have completed the autopsy. Shall I see them for you?"

"Please do. And please tell me at once that everything is all right, and
that we may proceed with the funeral arrangements," begged the sister of
the dead man.

"I will do so, Miss Carwell."

Captain Poland, anticipating the maid, went into the hall and himself
opened the door for the medical men.

"Oh! I'm glad you're here!" exclaimed the rather gruff voice of Dr.
Lambert. "Yes, I'm glad you're here."

The captain was on the point of asking why, when Dr. Lambert motioned
to him to step into a little reception room off the main hall. Somewhat
wonderingly, Captain Poland obeyed, and when the door had closed,
shutting him in with the two doctors, he turned to the older physician
and asked:

"Is anything the matter?"

"Well, we have completed the autopsy," said Dr. Lambert.

"That's good. Then you are ready to sign a certificate, or at least get
Dr. Rowland to, so that we can proceed with the arrangements. Miss Mary
Carwell is anxious to have--"

"Well, I suppose the funeral will have to be held," said Dr. Lambert
slowly. "That can't be held up very long, even if it was worse than it
is."

"Worse than it is! What do you mean?" cried Captain Poland sharply. "Is
there any suspicion--"

"There is more than suspicion, my dear sir," went on Dr. Lambert, as
he sank into a chair as though very, very tired. "There is, I regret to
say, certainty."

"Certainty of what?"

"Certainty that my old friend, Horace Carwell, committed suicide!"

"Suicide!"

"By poisoning," added Dr. Baird, who had been anxious to get in a word.
"We found very plain evidences of it when we examined the stomach and
viscera."

"Poison!" cried Captain Poland. "A suicide? I don't believe it! Why
should Horace Carwell kill himself? He hadn't a reason in the world for
it! There must be some mistake! Why did he do it? Why? Why?"

And then suddenly he became strangely thoughtful.




CHAPTER IV. VIOLA'S DECISION

"That is the very question we have been asking ourselves, my dear
Captain," said Dr. Lambert wearily. "And we are no nearer an answer now
than, apparently, you are. Why did he do it?"

The three men, two gravely professional, one, the younger, more so than
his elder colleague, and the third plainly upset over the surprising
news, looked at one another behind the closed door of the little room
off the imposing reception hall at The Haven. They were in the house of
death, and they had to do with more than death, for there was, in the
reputed action of Horace Carwell, the hint of disgrace which suicide
always engenders.

"I suppose," began Captain Poland, rather weakly, "that there can be no
chance of error He looked from one medical man to the other.

"Not the least in the world!" quickly exclaimed Baird. "We made a most
careful examination of the deceased's organs. They plainly show traces
of a violent poison, though whether it was irritant or one of the
neurotics, we are not yet prepared to say."

"It couldn't have been an irritant," said Dr. Lambert gently. It was
as though he had corrected a too zealous student reciting in class. Dr.
Baird was painfully young, though much in earnest.

"Perhaps not an irritant," he agreed. "Though I know of no neurotic that
would produce such effects as we saw.

"You are right there," said Dr. Lambert. "Whatever poison was used it
was one the effects of which I have never seen before. But we have not
yet finished our analysis. We have only reached a certain conclusion
that may ultimately be changed."

"You mean as to whether or not it was suicide?" asked Captain Poland
eagerly.

"No, I don't see how we can get away from that," said Dr. Lambert. "That
fact remains. But if we establish the kind of poison used it may lead us
to the motive. That is what we must find."

"And we will find the kind of poison!" declared Dr. Baird.

The older medical man shook his head.

"There are some animal and vegetable poisons for which there is no known
test," he said gently. "It may turn out to be one of these."

"Then may it not develop that Mr. Carwell, assuming that he did take
poison, did it by mistake?" asked the captain.

"I hope so," murmured Dr. Lambert.

"But from the action of the poison, as shown by the condition of the
mucous coat of the alimentary canal, I hardly see how Mr. Carwell could
not have known that he took poison," declared Dr. Baird.

"Yet he seemed all right except for a little pardonable exhilaration
during the game of golf," remarked Captain Poland. "He was feeling
'pretty good' as we say. I don't see how he could have taken poison
knowingly or unknowingly."

"There are some poisons which, taken in combination, might mix and form
a comparatively harmless mixture," said Dr. Lambert. "Though I confess
this is a very remote possibility. Some poisons are neutralized by an
alcoholic condition. And some persons, who may have been habitual users
of a drug, may take a dose of it that would kill several persons not so
addicted."

"Do you mean that Mr. Carwell was a drug user?" demanded the captain.

"I would hesitate very long before saying so," answered Dr. Lambert,
"and I have known him many years."

"Then what was it? What in the world does it all mean?" asked Captain
Poland. "What's the answers in other words?"

"I wish I knew," replied Dr. Lambert, and he shook his head. Something
more than the weight of years seemed bowing him down. Dr. Baird seemed
duly impressed by the circumstances that had brought him--a young and as
yet unestablished physician--to a connection with such a startling case
in the well known and wealthy Carwell family.

As for Captain Gerry Poland, he was clearly startled by the news the
physicians had brought. He looked toward the closed door as though
seeking to see beyond it--into the room where Viola was waiting. To her,
sooner or later, the tragic verdict must be told.

"Can't you say anything?" he asked, a bit sharply, looking from one
physician to the other "Is this all you came to tell--that Mr. Carwell
was a suicide? Isn't there any mitigating circumstance?"

"I believe he poisoned himself before he began his championship game,"
said Dr. Baird, with startling frankness--almost brutal it seemed.

"But why should he do such a thing?" demanded the captain, rather
petulantly.

"He may have taken some dope, thinking it would brace him up," went on the
young medical man, "and it had the opposite effect--a depressing action
on the heart. Or, he may have taken a overdose of his favorite drug.
That is what we shall have to find out by making suitable inquiries of
members of the family."

"Oh, must we tell them," exclaimed Captain Poland in startled tones.
And it was easy to determine by his voice that by "them" he meant Viola.
"Must we tell?" he repeated.

"I must do my duty as a physician both to the public and to the family,"
said Dr. Lambert, and he straightened up as though ready to assume the
burden he knew would fall heavily on his shoulders. "I must also think
of Viola. I feel like another father to her now. I have always, more or
less, regarded her as my little girl, though she is a young lady
now. But the facts must come out. Even if I were disposed to aid in
a concealment--which I am far from doing--Dr. Rowland, the county
physician, was present at the autopsy. He knows."

"Does he know the poison used?" asked Captain Poland quickly, and then,
almost as soon as the words had left his lips, he seemed sorry he had
uttered them.

"No, no more than we," said Dr. Baird. "It will require some nice
work in medical jurisprudence, and also a very delicate analysis, to
determine that. I am inclined to think--"

But what he thought no one heard or cared to hear at that moment, for,
even as he spoke, the door of the little room was thrown hastily and
somewhat violently open, and Viola Carwell confronted the three men. Her
face showed traces of grief, but it had lost little of the beauty for
which she was noted.

Tall and dark, with hair of that blue--black sheen so rarely observed,
with violet eyes and a poise and grace that made her much observed,
Viola Carwell was at the height of her beauty. In a sense she had the
gentle grace of her mother and with that the verve and sprightliness of
her father mingled perfectly. It was no wonder that Captain Poland and
Harry Bartlett and many others, for that matter, were rivals for her
favors.

"I thought you were here," she said quietly to Dr. Lambert. "Oh, Uncle
Add, what is it? Tell me the truth!" she begged as she placed a hand on
his arm, a hand that trembled in spite of her determination to remain
calm. "Please tell me the truth!"

"The truth, Viola?" he questioned gently.

"Yes. I'm afraid you are trying to keep something back from me. This
looks like it--you men in here talking--consulting as to what is best to
do. Tell me. My father is dead. But that, I know, is not the worst that
can happen. Tell me! Is there-is there any disgrace? I know--"

Viola stopped as though she herself feared the words she was about to
utter. Dr. Lambert quickly spoke.

"There has been no disgrace, my dear Viola," he said, gently. "We have
just come from the--from having made an investigation--Dr. Baird and
myself and Dr. Rowland. We discovered that your father was poisoned,
and--"

"Poisoned?" she gasped, and started back as though struck, while her
rapid glances went from face to face, resting longest on the countenance
of Captain Poland. It was as though, in this great emergency, she looked
to him for comfort more than to the old doctor who had ushered her into
the world.

"I am sorry to have to say it, Viola, but such is the case," went
on the family physician. "Your father was poisoned. But the kind of
poison we have not yet determined."

"But who gave it to him?" she cried. "Oh, it doesn't seem that any
one would hate him so, not even his worst enemy. And he had so many
friends-too many, perhaps."

"We don't know that any one gave him the poison, Viola," said Dr.
Lambert, gently. "In fact, it does not seem that any one did, or your
father would have known it. Certainly if any one had tried to make
him take poison there would have been a struggle that he would have
mentioned. But he died of poison, nevertheless."

"Then there can be but one other explanation," she murmured, and her
voice was tense and strained. "He must have--"

"We fear he took it himself," blurted out Dr. Baird, in spite of the
warning look cast at him by his colleague.

"Oh, I won't believe that! It can't be true!" cried Viola, and she burst
into a storm of sobs. Dr. Lambert placed his arms about her.

"Tell me it isn't true, Uncle Add! Tell me it isn't true!" she sobbed.

The three men, looking at one another--Dr. Lambert's glance coming over
the bowed head of Viola--said nothing for a few moments. Then as her
sobs died away, and she became calmer, the old physician said:

"You must not take on so, Vi. I know it is hard, but you must meet the
issue squarely. At the same time you must realize that even the most
suspicious circumstances may be explained away. While it does look as
though your father had deliberately taken the poison, it may easily be
established by an investigation that it was an accident--an accident of
which even your father was ignorant."

"There are so many poisons that do not manifest themselves for a long
time--often days--after they are taken, that there is every chance of
proving this to have been an accident."

"Then there must be an investigation!" was Viola's quick decision.
There were still tears in her eyes, but she looked through them now,
as through a veil that must be torn aside. "I can not believe that my
father was a--a suicide--" she halted at the awful word. "I will not
believe it!" she went on more firmly. "It can not be true!"

Hardly had she uttered the last word than a figure passed through the
hall, flitting past the half-opened door of the little room where Viola
stood with the three men.

"Who is there?" she called sharply, for she had spoken rather loudly,
and she did not want any of the servants to hear. "Who is there?"

"It is I--Minnie," was the answer. "Dear Viola, I have come to see if I
could do anything. I rang and rang, but no one answered the bell, and,
as the door was open, I walked in."

"I'm afraid I didn't close it when I let you in," said Captain Poland to
Dr. Lambert.

"Dear Viola!" said Minnie Webb, as she placed cheek against that of her
friend. "Is there anything I can do in your terrible trouble? Please let
me do something!"

"Thank you, Minnie. You are very kind. I don't know. We are in such
distress. Tell me--" and Viola seemed to nerve herself for some effort.
"Tell me! Did you hear what I said just now--as you passed the door?"

"Do you mean about not believing that your father was a suicide?" asked
Minnie, in a low voice.

"Yes."

"I--I heard you."

"Then the only thing you can do is to help me prove otherwise," said
Viola. "That would be the greatest help. It can't be true, and we want
that made plain. Father never killed himself. He was not that kind of
man. He did not fear death, but he would not go deliberately to meet it.
It is not true that he killed himself!" and Viola's voice seemed to ring
out.

A strange look came over the face of Minnie Webb. There was a great pity
shining in her eyes as she said:

"I--I am sorry, Viola, but--but I am afraid it may be true."

"What! That my father committed suicide?"

"Yes," whispered Minnie. "I--I'm afraid it may be true!"



CHAPTER V. HARRY'S MISSION


Minnie Webb's announcement affected her four hearers in four different
ways. It shocked Viola--shocked her greatly, for she had, naturally,
expected kindly sympathy and agreement from her friend.

Dr. Baird, who had involuntarily begun to twist his small mustache at
the entrance of Miss Webb, looked at her in admiration of her good looks
and because she upheld a theory to which he felt himself committed--a
theory that Mr. Carwell was a plain out-and-out suicide.

Dr. Lambert was plainly indignant at the bald manner in which Minnie
Webb made her statement, and at the same time he had pity for the
ignorance of the lay mind that will pronounce judgment against the more
cautious opinions of science. And this was not the first poisoning case
with which the aged practitioner had dealt.

As for Captain Poland, he gazed blankly at Miss Webb for a moment
following her statement, and then he looked more keenly at the young
woman, as though seeking to know whence her information came.

And when Viola had recovered from her first shock this was the thought
that came to her:

"What did Minnie know?"

And Viola asked that very question--asked it sharply and with an air
which told of her determination to know.

"Oh, please don't ask me!" stammered Minnie Webb. "But I have heard that
your father's affairs are involved, Viola."

"His affairs? You mean anything in his--private life?" and the
daughter of Horace Carwell--"Carwell the sport," as he was frequently
called--seemed to feel this blow more than the shock of death.

"Oh, no, nothing like that!" exclaimed Minnie, as though abashed at
the mere suggestion. "But I did hear--and I can not tell where I heard
it--that he was involved financially, and that, perhaps--well, you know
some men have a horror of facing the world poor and--"

"That can't be true!" declared Viola stoutly. "While I do not know
anything about my father's financial affairs, I know he had no fear of
failure--no fear of becoming poor."

"I do not believe he would have feared to face poverty if there was
need. But there was not, I'm sure. Minnie, who told you this?"

"I--I can not tell!" said Minnie, with a memory of the insinuating
manner in which LeGrand Blossom had spoken. Bearing in mind her promise
to him not to mention the matter, she began to wish that she had not
spoken.

"But you must tell!" insisted Dr. Lambert. "This amounts to an
accusation against a dead man, and you owe it to Viola to give the
source of your information."

"No, Doctor, I can not! Please don't ask me, Viola. Oh, I shouldn't have
spoken, but I thought only to help you solve the problem."

"You have only made it harder, unless you tell us more," said Dr.
Lambert gently. "Why can not you tell us, Miss Webb?"

"Because I--I promised not to. Oh, can't you find out for yourselves--in
your own way, about his affairs? Surely an examination--"

"Yes, of course, that would be the proper way," said Dr. Lambert gravely.
"And it must be done, I suppose."

"It will lead to nothing--it will prove nothing," insisted Viola. "I am
sure my father's affairs were not involved. Wait, I'll call Aunt Mary.
She was in close touch with all the money matters of our household.
Father trusted her with many business matters. Call Aunt Mary!"

Her eyes red with weeping, but bearing up bravely withal, Miss Mary
Carwell joined the conference. She, it seemed, had guessed something
when Dr. Lambert and Dr. Baird were closeted so long with Captain Poland.

"We must face the facts, however unpleasant they are," said Dr. Lambert,
in a low voice. "We must recognize that this will be public talk in
a little while. A man--so well-known a character as was my old friend
Horace Carwell--can not die suddenly in the midst of a championship golf
game, and let the matter rest there."

"The papers will take it up," said Dr. Baird.

"The papers!" broke in Viola.

"Yes, even now I have been besieged by reporters demanding to know
the cause of death. It will have to come out. The report of the county
physician, on which only a burial certificate can be obtained, is public
property. The bureau of vital statistics is open to the public and the
reporters. There is bound to be an inquiry, and, as I have said, Dr.
Rowland has already announced it as a suicide. We must face the issue
bravely."

"But even if it should prove true, that he took the poison, I am sure
it will turn out to be a mistake!" declared Viola. "As for my father's
affairs being in danger financially--Aunt Mary, did you ever hear of
such a thing?"

"Well, my dear, your father kept his affairs pretty much to himself,"
was the answer of her aunt. "He did tell me some things, and only
to-day something came up that makes me think--Oh, I don't know what to
think--now!"

"What is it?" asked Dr. Lambert, quietly but firmly. "It is best to know
the worst at once."

"I can't say that it is the 'worst,'" replied Miss Carwell; "but there
was something about a loan to the bank, and not enough collateral to
cover--Mr. Blossom should have attended to it, but he did not, it seems,
and--Won't you tell them?" she appealed to Captain Poland.

"Certainly," he responded. "It is a simple matter," he went on. "Mr.
Carwell, as all of us do at times, borrowed money from his bank, giving
certain securities as collateral for the loan.

"The bank, as all banks do, kept watch on this security, and when it
fell in market value below a certain point, where there was no longer
sufficient margin to cover the loan safely, demanded more collateral.

"This, for some reason, Mr. Carwell did not put up, nor did his clerk,
Mr. Blossom. I know nothing more in this respect than Miss Carwell told
me," and he bowed to indicate the dead man's sister. "I offered to see
to the matter for her, putting up some collateral of my own until Mr.
Carwell's affairs could be straightened out. It is a mere technicality,
I imagine, and can have nothing to do with--with the present matter,
even though Miss Webb seems to think so."

"Oh, I am so sorry if I have made a mistake!" exclaimed Minnie, now very
penitent. "But I only thought it would be helping--"

"It will be--to know the truth," said Dr. Lambert. "Is this all that you
heard, Miss Webb?"

"No, it was nothing like that. It had nothing to do with a bank loan.
Oh, please don't ask me. I promised not to tell."

"Very well, we won't force you to speak," said the family physician.
"But this matter must be gone into. What one person knows others are
sure to find out. We must see Blossom. He is the one who would have
the most complete knowledge of your father's affairs, Viola. Did I hear
something about his going into partnership with your father?"

"Yes, there was some such plan. Father decided that he needed help,
and he spoke of taking in Mr. Blossom. I know no more than that," Viola
answered.

"Then LeGrand Blossom is the person to throw more light on that
subject," said Dr. Lambert.

To himself he added a mental reservation that he did not count much on
what information might come from the head clerk. Blossom, in the mind of
Dr. Lambert, was a person of not much strength of character. There had
been certain episodes in his life, information as to which had come
to the physician in a roundabout way, that did not reflect on him very
well; though, in truth, he felt that the man was weak rather than bad.

"Then is it to be believed that my father was a suicide?" asked Viola,
as though seeking to know the worst, that she might fight to make it
better.

"On the bare facts in the case--yes," answered Dr. Lambert. "But that is
only a starting point. We will make no hard and fast decision."

"Indeed we will not," declared Viola. "There must be a most rigid
investigation."

And when the others had gone, Dr. Lambert to make funeral arrangements
for his old friend, Captain Poland to see the bank officials, Dr. Baird
to his office, taking Minnie Webb home in his car, and Miss Garwell to
her room to lie down, Viola, left alone, gave herself up to grief. She
felt utterly downcast and very much in need of a friend.

And perhaps this feeling made her welcome, more cordially than when
she had last seen him, Harry Bartlett, who was announced soon after the
others left.

"Oh, Harry, have you heard the terrible news?" faltered Viola.

"You mean about your father? Yes," he said gently. "But I do not believe
it. I may as well speak plainly, Viola. Your father, for some reason
best known to himself, did not care for me. But I respected him, and
in spite of a feeling between us I admired him. I feel sure he did not
commit suicide."

"But they say it looks very suspicious, Harry! Oh, tell me what to do!"
and, impulsively, Viola held out her hands to him. Bartlett pressed them
warmly.

"I'll serve you in any way I can," he said, gazing fondly into her eyes.
"But I confess I am puzzled. I don't know what to do. Perhaps it would
be better, as Dr. Lambert says, to look into your father's affairs."

"Yes. But I want more than that!" declared Viola. "I want his name
cleared from any suspicion of suicide. And I want you to undertake it,
Harry!"

"You want me?" he exclaimed, drawing back. "Me?"

"Yes. I feel that you will do better than any one else. Oh, you will
help me, won't you?" she pleaded.

"Of course, Viola. But I don't know how."

"Then let me tell you," and she seemed to be in better control
of herself than at any time that day. "This must be gone into
systematically, and we can best do it through a detective."

"A detective!" cried Harry Bartlett, and he started from his chair.
"Why, my dear Viola, a detective would be the worst possible person to
call in on a case like this! Let me investigate, if you think it wise,
but a detective--"

"I am not speaking of an ordinary detective, Harry. I have in mind
an elderly man who was a friend of my father. He has an extraordinary
reputation for solving mysteries."

"Well, of course, if you know the man it makes a difference." Bartlett
eyed the girl curiously. "I didn't know you knew any detectives."

"The man I have in mind was in some business deal with my father once,
and they became very well acquainted. I met him several times, and liked
him immensely. He is well along in years, but I think sharper than many
younger men. But there is one difficulty."

"What is that?"

"More than likely he will shy at having anything to do with the case.
He told my father he was going to retire and devote his leisure time to
fishing--that being his great pastime."

"Humph! he can't be much of a detective if he wants to spend most of his
time fishing," was Bartlett's comment.

"You're mistaken, Harry. My father, and other men too, considered him
one of the greatest detectives in the world, even though he sometimes
works in a very peculiar and apparently uninterested manner." "All right
then, Viola. If you say so, I'll look up this wonderful detective for
you and get him to take hold of the case."



CHAPTER VI. BY A QUIET STREAM


Drooping willows dipped their pendant branches in the stream that foamed
and rippled over green, mossy stones. In a meadow that stretched fair
and wide on either side of the water, innumerable grasshoppers were
singing their song of summer. On a verdant bank reclined a man, whose
advanced age might be indicated in his whitening locks, but whose bright
eyes, and the quick, nervous movements as he leafed the pages of a
small, green-covered book, made negative the first analysis. A little
distance from him, where the sun beat down warmly, unhindered by any
shade, lolled a colored man whose look now and then strayed to the
reading figure.

A glance over the shoulder of the reader, were one so impolite as to
take that liberty, would have disclosed, among others, this passage on
the printed page:

     "But yet you are to note, that as you see some willows or
     palm trees bud and blossom sooner than others do, so some
     trouts be, in rivers, sooner in season; and as some hollies
     or oaks are longer before they cast their leaves, so are
     some trouts in rivers longer before they go out of season."

The gray-haired man closed the book, thereby revealing the title
"Walton's Compleat Angler," and looked across the stream. The sunlight
flickered over its rippling surface, and now and then there was a
splash in the otherwise quiet waters--a splash that to the reader was
illuminating indeed.

"Shag!" he suddenly exclaimed, thereby galvanizing into life the
somnolent negro.

"Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah!" came the response.

"Hum! Asleep, weren't you?"

"Well, no, sah. Not zactly asleep, Colonel. I were jest takin' the fust
of mah forty winks, an'--"

"Well, postpone the rest for this evening. I think I'll make some
casts here. I don't expect any trout, my friend Walton to the contrary.
Besides they're out of season now. But I may get something. Get me the
rod, Shag!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah!"

And while the fishing paraphernalia was being put in readiness by his
colored servant, Colonel Robert Lee Ashley once more opened the little
green book, as though to draw inspiration therefrom. And he read:

     "Only thus much is necessary for you to know, and to be
     mindful and careful of, that if the pike or perch do breed
     in that river, they will be sure to bite first and must
     first be taken.  And for the most part they are very large."

"Well, large or small, it doesn't much matter, so I catch some,"
observed the colonel.

Then he carefully baited the hook, after he had taken the rod and line
from Shag, who handled it as though it was a rare object of art; which,
indeed, it was to his master.

"I think we shall go back with a fine mess of perch, Shag," observed the
fisherman.

"Yes, sah, Colonel, dat's what we will," was the cheerful answer.

"And this time we won't, under any consideration, let anything interfere
with our vacation, Shag."

"No, sah, Colonel. No, sah!"

"If you see me buying a paper, Shag, mind, if you ever hear me asking if
the last edition is out, stop me at once."

"I will, Colonel."

"And if any one tries to tell me of a murder mystery, of a big robbery,
or of anything except where the fish are biting best, Shag, why, you
just--"

"I'll jest natchully knock 'em down, Colonel! Dat's what I'll do!"
exclaimed the colored man, as cheerfully as though he would relish 
such [Updater's note: line missing?]

"Well, I can't advise that, of course," said the colonel with a smile,
"but you may use your own judgment. I came here for a rest, and I don't
want to run into another diamond cross mystery, or anything like it."

"No, sah, Colonel. But yo' suah did elucidate dat one most expeditious
like. I nevah saw sech--"

"That will do now, Shag. I don't want to be reminded of it. I came here
to fish, not to work, nor hold any post-mortems on past cases. Now for
it!" and the elderly man cast in where a little eddy, under the grassy
bank, indicated deep water, in which the perch or other fish might lurk
this sunny day.

And yet, in spite of his determination not to recall the details of the
diamond cross mystery to which Shag had alluded, Colonel Ashley could
not help dwelling on one or two phases of what, with justifiable pride,
he regarded as one of the most successful of his many cases.

Colonel Robert Lee Ashley was a detective by instinct and profession,
though of late years he had endeavored, but with scant success, to turn
the more routine matters of his profession over to his able assistants.

To those who have read of his masterly solution of the diamond cross
mystery the colonel needs no introduction. He was a well known character
in police and criminal circles, because of his success in catching many
a slippery representative of the latter.

He had served in the secret service during the Spanish-American war, and
later had become the head of the police department of a large Eastern
city. From that he had built up a private business of his own that
assumed large proportions, until advancing age and a desire to fish and
reflect caused him virtually to retire from active work. And now, as he
had so often done before, he had come to this quiet stream to angle.

And yet, even as he dropped his bait into the water, he could not keep
his active mind from passing in rapid review over some of the events of
his career--especially the late episode of the Darcy diamond cross.

"Well, I'm glad I helped out in that case," mused the colonel, as he sat
up more alertly, for there came a tremor to his line that told much to
his practiced and sensitive hands.

A moment later the reel clicked its song of a strike, and the colonel
got first to his knees and then to his feet as he prepared to play his
fish.

"I've hooked one, Shag!" he called in a low but tense voice. "I've
hooked one, and I think it's a beauty!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah! Dat's fine! I'll be ready as soon as yo'
is!"

Shag caught up a landing net, for, though the colonel was not
anticipating any gamy fish in this quiet, country stream, yet for such
as he caught he used such light tackle that a net was needed to bring
even a humble perch to shore.

"I've got him, Shag! I've got him!" the colonel cried, as the fish broke
water, a shimmering shower of sparkling drops falling from his sides.
"I've got him, and it's a bass, too! I didn't think there were any here!
I've got him!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel! Yo' suah has!" exclaimed the delighted George
Washington Shag. "You suah has got a beauty!"

And as Shag started forward with the landing net, while the colonel
was playing with the skill of long years of practice the fish which had
developed unexpected fighting powers, there was a movement among the
bushes that lined the stream below the willows, and a young man, showing
every evidence of eagerness, advanced toward the fisherman. Shag saw him
and called:

"Keep back! Keep back, sah, if yo' please! De Colonel, he's done got a
bite, an'--"

"Bite! You mean that something's bitten him?" asked the young man, for
he could not see the figure of the colonel, who, just then, in allowing
the bass to have a run, had followed him up stream.

"No, he's catchin' a fish--he's got a strike--a big one! Don't isturb
him."

"But I must see him. I've come a long distance to--"

"Distance or closeness don't make no mattah of diffunce to de colonel
when he's got a bite, sah! I'm sorry, but I can't let yo' go any closer,
an' I'se got to go an' land de fish. Aftah dat, if you wants to hab a
word wif de colonel, well, maybe he'll see yo', sah," and Shag, with
a warning gesture, like that of a traffic policeman halting a line of
automobiles, started toward the colonel, who was still playing his fish.

Harry Bartlett, for he it was who had thus somewhat rudely interrupted
the detective's fishing, stopped in the shade of the willows, somewhat
chagrined. He had come a long way for a talk, and now to be thus held
back by a colored man who seemed to have no idea of the importance of
the mission was provoking.

But there was something authoritative in Shag's manner, and, being a
business man, Harry Bartlett knew better than to make an inauspicious
approach. It would be as bad as slicing his golf ball on the drive.

So he waited beside the silent stream, not so silent as it had been, for
it was disturbed by the movements, up and down, of Colonel Ashley, who
was playing his fish with consummate skill.

Seeing a little green book on the grass where it had fallen, Harry
Bartlett picked it up. Idly opening the pages, he read:

     "There is also a fish called a sticklebag, a fish without
     scales, but he hath his body fenced with several prickles.
     I know not where he dwells in winter, nor what he is good
     for in summer, but only to make sport for boys and women
     anglers, and to feed other fish that be fish of prey, as
     trout in particular, who will bite at him as at a penk, and
     better, if your hook be rightly baited with him; for he may
     be so baited, as, his tail turning like a sail of a
     windmill, will make him turn more quick than any penk or
     minnow can."

"I guess I've got the right man," said Harry Bartlett with a smile.



CHAPTER VII. THE INQUEST


"Ready, now, Shag! Ready!" called Colonel Ashley, in tense tones. "Ready
with the net!"

"Yes, sah! All ready!"

"I've got him about ready for you! And he's better than I thought!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel! I won't miss!"

"If you do you may look for another place!" At this dire threat Shag
turned as white as he would ever become, and took a firmer grip on the
"Ready now, Shag!" called the colonel, at the same time directing his
helper to come down the bank toward a little pool whither he was leading
the now well-played fish. "Ready!"

Shag did not speak, but while the colonel slowly reeled in and the tip
of the slender pole bent like a bow, he slipped the net into the water,
under the fish, and, a moment later, had it out on the grass.

"There!" exclaimed the famous detective, with a sigh of relief. "There
he is, and as fine a fish as I've ever landed in these parts! Now,
Shag--"

But there came an interruption. Reasoning that now was a most propitious
time to make his appeal, Harry Bartlett advanced to where the colonel
and Shag were bending over the panting bass. As the detective, with
a smart blow back of its head, put his catch out of misery, Bartlett
spoke.

"Excuse me," he said, deferentially enough, for he saw the type of man
with whom he had to deal, "but are you not Colonel Ashley?"

"I am, sir!" and the colonel looked up as he slipped the fish into his
grass-lined creel.

"I am Mr. Bartlett. I followed you here from New York, and I wish to--"

"If it's anything about business, Mr. Bartlett, let me save your time
and my own--both valuable, I take it--by stating that I came here to
fish, and not to talk business. Excuse me for putting it thus bluntly,
but I see no reason for many words. I can not consider any business.
That is all attended to at my New York office, and I am surprised that
they should even have given you my address. I told them not to."

"It was no easy matter to get it, Colonel, I assure you," and--Bartlett
smiled genially. "And please don't blame any one in your office for
disclosing your whereabouts. I did not get your address from them, I
assure you."

"From whom, then, if I may ask?"

"From Spotty." And again Bartlett smiled.

"What? Spotty Morgan?"

"Yes."

"Are you--do you know him?" and the detective could not keep the
interest out of his voice.

"Rather well. I saved him from drowning once some years ago, and he
hasn't forgotten it. It was at a summer resort, and Spotty, though he is
a good swimmer, didn't estimate the force of the undertow. I pulled him
out just in time."

"Strange," murmured the colonel. "A strange coincidence."

"I beg pardon," said Harry politely.

"Oh, nothing," went on the detective. "Only, as it happens, Spotty saved
my life some time ago. It's just a coincidence, that's all. So Spotty
gave you my address, did he?"

"Yes. I had called at your New York office, and, as you say, your clerks
had orders not to disclose your whereabouts. I used every cajolery
and device of which I was master, but it was no avail. I urged the
importance it was to myself and others to know where you were, but they
were obdurate. I was coming out, much disappointed, when I saw Spotty
emerging from an inner office. He knew me at once, though it is years
since we met, and going down in the elevator I mentioned that I was
looking for you. I told him something of the reason for wanting to find
you and--Well, he told me you were here."

"And he is about the only person in New York outside of my most
confidential man who could have done that," observed the colonel, as he
slowly reeled up his line. "One reason why the clerks in my office could
not give you my address was because they did not have it. So Spotty, who
must just have finished his bit, told."

"But please don't hold that against him," urged Bartlett. "If he
violated a confidence--"

"He did, in a way, yes," observed the disciple of Izaak Walton. "But I
shall have to forgive him, I suppose. It must have been rather a strong
reason that induced him to tell you where I had gone."

"It was, Colonel Ashley, the strongest reason in the world. It is to
help clear up the mystery--"

"Stop!" fairly shouted the colonel. "If it's a detective case I don't
want to hear it! Not a word! Shag, show this gentleman the door--I beg
your pardon, I didn't mean to be rude," went on the colonel with his
usual politeness. "But I really can not listen. I came here to rest and
fish, not to take up new detective cases. You know where my office is.
They will attend to you there. I have given up business for the time
being."

"And yet, Colonel Ashley, the person who sent me will have no one but
you. She says you are the only one who can get at the bottom of the
puzzling case."

In spite of himself the colonel's face lighted up at the words "puzzling
case," but as his eyes fell on the creel containing his fish he turned
aside. "No," he said, "I am sorry, but I can not listen to you. Shag,
kindly--"

Harry Bartlett was not a successful business man for nothing. He knew
how to make an appeal. "I came to see you at the request of Miss Viola
Carwell," he said slowly. "She sent me to find you--told me not to come
back to her without you. A change came over the colonel's face at the
mention of Viola's name.

"You came from her--from the daughter of Horace Carwell?" he asked
quickly.

"I did," answered Bartlett.

"Well, of course, that might make a difference. I hope my old friend is
not in trouble--nor his daughter," and there was a new quality in the
voice.

"Mr. Carwell's troubles are all over--if he had any," returned Bartlett
simply.

"You mean--"

"He is dead."

The colonel uttered an exclamation.

"Pardon my rather brusk reception of you," he apologized. "I did not
know that. Was it recently--suddenly?"

"Both recently and suddenly."

"I did not know that I seldom read the papers, and have not looked at
one lately. I had not heard that he was ill."

"'He wasn't, Colonel Ashley. Mr. Carwell died very suddenly on the
Maraposa Golf Club links, after making a stroke that gave him the
championship."

"Heart disease or apoplexy?"

"Neither one. It was poison."

"You amaze me, Mr.--er--Mr.--"

"Bartlett. Yes, Mr. Carwell died of poison, as the autopsy showed."

"'Was he--did he--"

"That is what we want to find out," interrupted the messenger eagerly.
"The county physician says Mr. Carwell is a suicide. His daughter, Miss
Viola, can not believe it. Nor can I. There has been some talk that his
affairs are involved. As you may have known, he was somewhat of a--"

"His sporting proclivities were somewhat different from mine," said the
old detective dryly. "You needn't explain. Every man must live his own
life. But tell me more."

Thereupon Bartlett gave the details as he knew them, bearing on the
death of the father of the girl he loved.

"And she sent you to find me?" asked the detective.

"Yes. Miss Viola said you were an old friend of her father's, and if any
one could solve the mystery of his death you could. For that there is a
mystery about it, many of us believe."

"There may be. Poison is always more or less of a mystery. But just what
do you want me to do?"

"Come back with me if you will, Colonel Ashley. Miss Carwell wants you
to aid her--aid all of us, for we are all at sea. Will you? She sent
me to plead with you. I went to your New York office, and from Spotty
Morgan learned you were here. I--"

"I suppose I shall have to forgive Spotty," murmured the fisherman.

"They told me at the hotel you had come here," went on Bartlett, "so I
followed. I was lucky in finding you."

"I don't know about that," murmured the colonel, smiling. "It may be
unfortunate. Well, I am deeply shocked at my old friend's death--and
such a tragic taking off. Horace Carwell was my very good friend. He
once did me a great service, when I needed money badly, by helping me
make an investment in copper that turned out extremely well. I feel
myself under obligations to him; and, since he is no more, I must
transfer that obligation to his daughter."

"Then you'll come with me to see her, Colonel Ashley?"

"Yes. Shag, pack up! We're going back to civilization."

The colored man's face was a study. He looked at the quiet stream, at
the drooping willows, at the fish rod in his master's hand, and at the
creel. He opened his mouth and spoke:

"But, Colonel, yo' done tole me t'--"

"No matter what I told you, Shag, these are new orders. Pack up!" came
the crisp command. "We're going back to town. I'll do what I can in this
case," he went on to Bartlett. "I came here for some quiet fishing, and
to get my mind off detective work. I was dragged into a diamond cross
mystery not long since, sorely against my will, and now--"

"I am sorry--" began Bartlett.

"Oh, well, it can't be helped," the colonel said. "I'd give up more than
a fishing trip for a daughter of Horace Carwell. You may let her know
that I'll come, if it will give her any comfort. Though, mind you," the
colonel's manner was impressive, "I promise nothing."

"That is understood," said Bartlett eagerly. "I'll wire her that you
are coming. There's a train that leaves right after supper. We can get
that--"

"I'll take it!" decided the colonel. Now that he had given up his
cherished fishing he was all business again. "Shag!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel!"

"Pack up for the evening train. Give that fish to the cook and have it
served for Mr. Bartlett and myself. You'll dine with me," he went on. It
was an order, not an invitation, but Bartlett understood, and accepted
with a bow.

A few hours later he and the colonel left the little town where the
detective had gone for such a short vacation, and were on their way to
Lakeside, which they reached early in the morning.

"Now if you'll tell me the best hotel to stop at here," said the
colonel, as they alighted from the train, "I'll put up there and see
Miss Carwell."

"She requested me to bring you at once to her home," said Bartlett. "You
are to be her guest. She thought perhaps you would want to examine the--
to see Mr. Carwell's body--before--"

"Oh, yes. I suppose I had better. Then the funeral has not been held?"

"No, it was postponed at the request of the county physician."

"Has there been a coroner's inquest?"

"No. None was deemed necessary at the time I left, at the solicitation
of Miss Carwell, to get you."

"I see. Inquests are less often held in New Jersey than in some of the
other states. Well, then I suppose I may as well go to the Carwell home
with you."

"Yes. I wired for my car to meet us. It's here I see. Right over here."

Bartlett led the way, the colonel following, and Shag bringing up the
rear with the bags.

As the machine started from the station Bartlett looked up to the
morning sky. There was a little speck in it, no larger than a man's
hand. It grew larger, and became an osprey on its way to the sea in
search of a fish.

As the car drew up in front of the Carwell mansion, from the bell of
which fluttered a dismal length of crepe, a man stepped from the shadow
of the gate posts and held out a paper to Harry Bartlett.

"What is it?" asked Bartlett.

"A subpoena," was the rather gruff answer.

"A subpoena? What for?"

"The coroner's inquest. You'll have to appear and give evidence. They're
going to have an inquest to find out more about Mr. Carwell's death.
That's all I know. I'm from police headquarters. I was told to wait
around here, as you were expected, and to serve that on you. Don't
forget to be there. It's a court order," and the man slunk away.

"An inquest," murmured Bartlett, as he looked at the paper in his hand.
"I thought they weren't going to have any," and he glanced quickly at
Colonel Ashley.



CHAPTER VIII. ON SUSPICION


Colonel Robert Lee Ashley was used to surprises. This was natural,
considering his calling, and at some of the surprises he was a silent
spectator, while at others he furnished the surprise. In this case he
served in his former capacity, merely noting the rather startled look
on the face of Harry Bartlett when handed the subpoena to the coroner's
inquest.

"I thought they weren't going to have any," Bartlett repeated, but
whether to himself in a sort of daze, to Colonel Ashley, or to the man
from headquarters was not clear. At any rate Colonel Ashley answered him
by saying:

"You never can tell what Jersey justice is going to do. Coroner's
inquests are not usual in this state, but they are lawful."

"But why do they consider one necessary?" asked Bartlett, as they
prepared to enter the house of death.

"That, my dear sir, I don't know. Perhaps the county physician may have
requested it, or the prosecutor of the pleas. He may want to be backed
up by the verdict of twelve men before taking any action."

"But if Mr. Carwell's death was due to suicide who can be held guilty
but himself?"

"No one. But I thought you said there was a doubt as to its being
suicide," commented the detective.

"Miss Carwell doubts," returned Bartlett; "and I admit that it does seem
strange that a man of Mr. Carwell's character would do such a thing,
particularly when he had shown no previous signs of being in trouble.
But you can never tell."

"No, you can never tell," agreed Colonel Ashley, and none knew, better
than himself, how true that was.

"But why should they subpoena me?" asked Bartlett.

"Don't fret over that," advised his companion, with a calm smile. "You
probably aren't the only one. A coroner's inquest is, as some one has
said, a sort of fishing excursion. They start out not expecting much,
not knowing what they are going to get, and sometimes they catch
nothing--or no one--and again, a big haul is made. It's merely a sort
of clearing house, and I, for one, will be glad to listen to what is
brought out at the hearing."

"Well, then I suppose it will be all right," assented the young man, but
the manner in which he looked again at the legal document was distinctly
nervous.

"Had we better tell--her?" and he motioned to the house, on the steps of
which they stood, Shag having pressed the bell for his master.

"Miss Carwell probably knows all about it," said Colonel Ashley.

They found Viola waiting for them in the library, passing on their way
the darkened and closed room which held all that was mortal of the late
owner of The Haven--no, not quite all of him, for certain portions were,
even then, being subjected to the minute and searching analysis of a
number of chemists, under the direction of the county prosecutor.

"It was very good of you to come, Colonel Ashley," said Viola quietly.
"I appreciate it more than I can express--at this time."

"I'm very glad to come," said the colonel as he held her hand in his
warm, firm clasp. "I am only sorry that it was necessary to send for
me on such an occasion. Believe me, I will do all I can for you, Miss
Carwell. Your father was my very good friend."

"Thank you. What most I want is to clear my father's name from the
imputation of having--of having killed himself," and she halted over the
words.

"You mean that you suspect--" began Colonel Ashley.

"Oh, I don't know what to think, and certainly I don't dare suspect any
one!" exclaimed Viola. "It is all so terrible! But one thing I would
like all father's friends to know--that he did not take his own life. He
would not do such a thing."

"Then," said Colonel Ashley, "we must show that it was either an
accident--that he took the fatal dose by mistake or that some one gave
it to him. Forgive me for thus brutally putting it, but that is what it
simmers down to."

"Yes, I have thought of that," returned Viola, and her shrinking form
and the haunted look in her eyes told what an ordeal it was for her. "I
leave it all to you, Colonel Ashley. Father often spoke of you, and he
often said, if ever he had any mystery to clear up, that you were the
only man he would trust. Now that I am alone I must trust you," and she
smiled at the colonel. It was something of her former smile--a look that
had turned many a man's head, some even as settled in life and years as
Colonel Ashley.

"Well, I'll do my best for the sake of you and your father," replied the
detective. "I don't mind saying that I hoped I was done with all mystery
cases, but fate seems to be against me.

"Mind, I am not complaining!" he said quickly, as he saw Viola about to
protest. "It's just my luck. And I can't promise you anything. From what
Mr. Bartlett told me, there seem to be very few suspicious circumstances
connected with the case."

"I realize that," answered Viola. "And that makes it all the stranger.
But tell me, Colonel, haven't you often found that the cases which, at
first, seemed perfectly plain and simple, afterward turned out to be the
most mysterious?"

"Jove, but that's true!" exclaimed the former soldier. "You spoke the
truth then, Miss Viola. My friend Izaak never put a statement more
plainly. And that's the theory I always go on. Now then, let me have
all the facts in your possession. And you too," he added, turning to
Bartlett. "You might remain while Miss Carwell talks to me, and you can
add anything she may forget, while she can do the same in your case. I
suppose you know there is to be a coroner's inquest?" he added to the
girl.

"Yes," she answered. "I have received a subpoena. I think it is well to
have it, for it will show the public how mistaken a verdict arrived at
when all the facts are not known may be. I shall attend."

"I just received a summons," said Bartlett, and he seemed to breathe
more easily.

"Shag--Where's that black boy of mine?" exclaimed the colonel.

"I sent him to the servants' quarters," said Miss Mary Carwell, coming
in just then. "How do you do, Colonel Ashley. I don't know whether you
remember me, but--"

"Indeed I do. And I remember that the last time I dined with you we had
chicken and waffles that--well, the taste lingers yet!" and the colonel
bowed gallantly, which seemed to please Miss Carwell very much indeed.
"So you have looked after Shag, have you?"

"Yes. We have plenty of spare rooms, and I thought you'd want him near
you."

"I want him this moment," said the detective. "If you will be so good as
to send him here I'll get him to open my bag and take out a note-book I
wish to use."

A little later Colonel Ashley had thrown himself heart and soul into the
"Golf Course Mystery," as he marked it on a page in his note-book.

On the preceding page were the last entries in a case, the beginning
of which was inscribed "The Diamond Cross Mystery." It was thus that
Colonel Ashley kept the salient facts of his problems before him as he
worked.

Between them Viola Carwell and Harry Bartlett told the colonel such
facts leading up to the death of Mr. Carwell as they knew. They spoke of
the day of the big golf matches, and the exhilaration of Mr. Carwell as
he anticipated winning the championship contest.

The scene at the links was portrayed, the little excitement among
the parked cars, caused, as developed later, by a blaze in a machine
standing next the big red, white, and blue car belonging to Mr. Carwell,
and then the sudden collapse of Carwell as he make his winning stroke.
The finding of some peculiar poison in the stomach and viscera of the
dead man was spoken of, and then Viola made her appeal again for a
disclosure of such truth as Colonel Ashley might reveal.

"I'll do my best," he promised. "But I believe it will be better to wait
until after the inquest before I take an active part. And I think I can
best work if I remain unknown--that is if it is not published broadcast
that I am here in my official capacity."

To this Viola and Bartlett agreed. As neither of them had, as yet,
spoken of bringing the colonel into the case, it was a comparatively
easy matter to pass him off as an old friend of the family; which, in
truth, he was.

So Colonel Ashley was given the guest chamber, Shag was provided with
comfortable quarters, and then Viola seemed more content.

"I know," she said to her aunt, "that the truth will be found out now."

"But suppose the truth is more painful than uncertainty, Viola?"

"How can it be?" asked the girl, as tears filled her eyes.

"I don't know," answered Miss Carwell softly. "It is all so terrible,
that I don't believe it can be any worse. But we must hope for the best.
I trust business matters will go along all right. I confess I don't like
the forgetting, on the part of LeGrand Blossom, of attending to the bank
matter."

"It was probably only an oversight."

"Yes. But it has started a rumor that your poor father's affairs might
not be in the best shape. Oh, dear, it's all so terrible!"

But there were other terrors to come.

Following his plan of acting merely as a guest and an old friend of the
family who had journeyed from afar to attend the funeral, Colonel
Ashley went about as silent as though on a fishing trip. He looked and
listened, but said little. He was not yet ready for a cast. He was but
inspecting the stream--several streams, in fact, to see where he could
best toss in his baited hook.

And it was in this same spirit that he attended the coroner's inquest,
which was held in the town hall. Over the deliberations, which were, at
best, rather informal, Coroner Billy Teller presided.

The office of coroner was, in Lakeside, as in most New Jersey cities or
towns, much of an empty title. At every election the names of certain
men were put on the ticket to be voted for as coroners.

Few took the trouble to ballot for them, scarcely any one against them,
and they were automatically inducted into office by reason of a few
votes.

Just what their functions were few knew and less cared. There used to
be a rumor, perhaps it is current yet in many Jersey counties, that a
coroner was the only official who could legally arrest the sheriff in
case that official needed taking into custody. As to the truth of this
it is not important.

Certain it is that Billy Teller had never before found himself in such
demand and prominence. He was to act in the capacity of judge, though
the verdict in the case, providing one could be returned, would be given
by the jury he might impanel.

There was a large throng in attendance at the town hall when the inquest
began. Reporters had been sent out by metropolitan papers, for Horace
Carwell was a well known figure in the sporting and the financial world,
and the mere fact that there was a suspicion that his death was not from
natural causes was enough to make it a good story.

Billy Teller was, frankly, unacquainted with the method of procedure,
and he confessed as much to the prosecutor, an astute lawyer. As the
latter would have the conducting of the case for the state in case it
came to a trial in the upper courts, Mr. Stryker saw to it that legal
forms were followed in the selection of a jury and the swearing in of
the members of the panel. Then began the taking of testimony.

The doctors told of the finding of evidences of poison in Mr. Carwell's
body. Its nature was as yet undetermined, for it was not of the common
type.

This much Dr. Lambert stated calmly, and without attempting to go into
technical details. Not so Dr. Baird. He spoke learnedly of Reinsch's
test for arsenic, of Bloxam's method, of the distillation process. He
juggled with words, and finally, when pinned down by a direct but homely
question from Billy Teller, admitted that he did not know what had
killed Mr. Carwell.

Testimony to the same effect was given by several chemists who had
analyzed the stomach and viscera of the dead man. There was a sediment
of poison present, they admitted, and sufficient had been extracted in a
free state to end the lives of several guinea pigs on which it had been
tested. But as to the exact nature of the poison they could not yet say.
More time for analysis was needed.

It was certain that Mr. Carwell had come to his death by an active
agent in the nature of some substance, as yet unknown, which he either
swallowed purposely, by accident, or because some one gave it to
him either knowingly or unknowingly. This was a sufficiently broad
hypothesis on which to base almost anything, thought Colonel Ashley, as
he sat and listened in the corner of the improvised courtroom.

There was a stir of excitement and anticipation when Viola was called,
but beyond testifying that her father was in his usual health when he
went with her to the golf game, she could throw no light on the puzzle,
nor could the dead man's sister or any of the servants.

"Call Jean Forette," said the prosecutor, and the chauffeur, a decidedly
nervous man on whom the excitement of testifying plainly told, came to
the stand.

He made a poor showing, and there were several whispers that ran around
the courtroom, but poor Jean's rather distressing manner was improved
when Mr. Stryker took him in hand to question him. The prosecutor,
observing that the man was more frightened than anything else, soon put
him at his ease, and then the witness told a clear and connected story.
He admitted frankly that because he had not the faculty, or, perhaps,
the desire to drive the big, new car, he and his late employer were to
part company at the end of the month. That was no secret, and there were
no hard feelings on either side. It was in the course of business, and
natural.

Yes, he had driven Mr. Carwell and his daughter to the links that day in
the big red, white and blue machine. Mr. Carwell had been in his usual
jolly spirits, and had greeted several acquaintances on the road.

Had they stopped at any place? Oh, yes. The golfer was thirsty, and
halted at a roadhouse for a pint of champagne--his favorite wine. Jean
had alighted from the car to get it for him, and Viola, recalled to the
stand, testified that she had seen her father drink some of the bubbling
liquor. It was obvious why she had not spoken of it before, and that
point was not pressed. It was known she did not share her father's love
for sports and high living.

A little delay was caused while the innkeeper was sent for, but pending
his arrival some other unimportant witnesses were called, among them
Major Wardell, who was Mr. Carwell's rival in the golf game.

Had he heard his friend speak of feeling ill? No, not until a moment
before the final stroke was made. Then Mr. Carwell had said he felt
"queer," and had acted as though dizzy. The major, who was himself quite
a convivial spirit, attributed it to some highballs he and his friend
had had in the clubhouse just prior to the game.

Mr. Carwell had drunk nothing during his round of golf, and had
associated during the progress of the game with no one except the
players who were with him from the start to the finish. He was not seen
to have taken any tablets or powders that might have contained poison,
and a thorough search of his person and clothing after his death had
revealed nothing.

At this point the innkeeper appeared. He testified to having served Mr.
Carwell's chauffeur with a pint of champagne which Jean Forette was seen
to carry directly from the cafe to the waiting automobile. The champagne
was from a bottle newly opened, and the innkeeper himself had selected a
clean glass and carefully washed it before pouring in the wine. He knew
Mr. Carwell was fastidious about such matters, as he had often spent
many hours in the roadhouse.

"LeGrand Blossom!"

Now something might come out. It was known that Blossom was Mr.
Carwell's chief clerk, and more than one person knew of the impending
partnership, for Mr. Carwell was rather talkative at times.

"Mr. Blossom," asked the prosecutor, after some preliminary questions,
"it has been intimated--not here but outside--that the financial affairs
of Mr. Carwell were not in such good shape as might be wished. Do you
know anything about this?"

"I do, sir.

"Tell what you know."

"I know he was hard pushed for money, and had to get loans from the bank
and otherwise."

"Was that unusual?"

"Yes, it was. Before he bought the big car and the yacht he carried a
good balance. But I told him--"

"Never mind what you told him or he told you. That is not admissible
under the circumstances. Just tell what you know."

"Well, then I know that Mr. Carwell's affairs were in bad shape, and
that he was trying to raise some ready cash."

"How do you know this?"

"Because he asked me to put a large sum into his business and become a
member of the firm."

"He asked you to invest money and become a partner?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is not unusual, is it? Many a business man might do the same
if he wanted to branch out, mightn't he?"

"Yes. But before this Mr. Carwell had offered to take me into
partnership without any advance of money on my part. Then he suddenly
said he needed a large sum. He knew I had inherited eleven thousand
dollars and had, moreover, made from investments."

"And did you agree to it?"

"I said I'd think it over. I was to give him my answer the day he died."

"Did you?"

"No."

"What would have been your answer?"

"It would have been 'no.' I didn't think I wanted to tie up with a man
who was on the verge of ruin; and if you ask me I'll say I think he
committed suicide because he was on the verge of financial ruin and
couldn't face the music, and--"

"That will do!" came sternly from the prosecutor. "We didn't ask your
opinion as to the suicide theory, and, what is more, we don't want it.
I ask, your honor," and he turned to Billy Teller, who was secretly
delighted at being thus addressed, "that the last remark of the witness
be stricken from the record."

"Rub it out," ordered the coroner, looking over at the stenographer;
and the latter, with a smile, ran his pen through the curious hooks and
curves that represented the "opinion" of LeGrand Blossom.

He was allowed to leave the stand, and Harry Bartlett was called next.
He nodded and smiled at Viola as he walked forward through the crowd,
and Captain Poland, who was sitting in front, waved his hand to his
rival. For the young men were friends, even if both were in love with
Viola Carwell.

"Mr Bartlett," began the prosecutor, after some unimportant preliminary
questions, "I have been informed that you had a conversation with Mr.
Carwell shortly before his death. Is that true?"

"Yes, we had a talk."

Viola started at hearing this--started so visibly that several about her
noticed it, and even Colonel Ashley turned his head.

"What was the nature of the talk?" asked Mr. Stryker.

"That I can not tell," said Bartlett firmly. "But it had nothing to do
with the matter in hand."

There was a rustle of expectancy on hearing this, and the prosecutor
quickly asked:

"What do you mean by 'the matter in hand'?"

"Well, his death."

"Naturally you didn't talk about his death, for it hadn't taken place,"
said Mr. Stryker. "Nor could it have been foreseen, I imagine. But what
did you talk about?"

"I decline to answer."

There was a gasp that swept over the courtroom, and Billy Teller banged
the gavel as he had seen real judges do.

"You decline to answer," repeated the prosecutor. "Is it on the ground
that it might incriminate you?"

"No."

"Then I must insist on an answer. However, I will not do so now, but at
the proper time. I will now ask you one other question, and I think
you will answer that. Did you resume friendly relations with Mr. Carwell
after your quarrel with him that day?" and Mr. Stryker fairly hurled the
question at Harry Bartlett.

If this was a trap it was a most skillfully set one. For there must be
an answer, and either no or yes would involve explanations.

"Answer me!" exclaimed the prosecutor. "Did you make up after the
quarrel?"

There was a tense silence as Bartlett, whose face showed pale under his
tan, said:

"I did not."

"Then you admit that you had a quarrel with Mr. Carwell?"

"Yes, but--"

Just at this moment Viola Carwell fainted in the arms of her aunt, the
resultant commotion being such that an adjournment was taken while she
was carried to an anteroom, where Dr. Lambert attended her.

"We will resume where we left off," said the prosecutor, when Bartlett
again took the stand, and it might have been noticed that during the
temporary recess one of the regular court constables from the county
building at Loch Harbor remained close at his side. "Will you now state
the nature of your quarrel with Mr. Carwell?" asked Mr. Stryker.

"I do not feel that I can."

"Very well," was the calm rejoinder. "Then, your honor," and again Billy
Teller seemed to swell with importance at the title, "I ask that this
witness be held without bail to await a further session of this court,
and I ask for an adjournment to summon other witnesses."

"Granted," replied Teller, who had been coached what to answer.

"Held!" exclaimed Bartlett, as he rose to his feet in indignation. "You
are going to hold me! On what grounds?"

"On suspicion," answered the prosecutor.

"Suspicion of what?"

"Of knowing something concerning the death of Mr. Carwell."

An exclamation broke from the crowd, and Bartlett reeled slightly. He
was quickly approached by the same constable who had remained at
his side during the recess, and a moment later Coroner Billy Teller
adjourned court.



CHAPTER IX. 58 C. H.--161*


There was considerable excitement when it became known to the crowd, as
it speedily did, that Harry Bartlett, almost universally accepted as the
fiance of Viola Carwell, had been held as having vital knowledge of her
father's death. Indeed there were not a few wild rumors which insisted
that he had been held on a charge of murder.

"Oh, I can't believe it!  I can't believe it!" exclaimed Viola,
when they told her. "It can't be possible that they can hold him on such
a charge. It's unfair!"

"Perhaps," gently admitted Dr. Lambert. "The law is not always fair; but
it seeks to know the truth."

Viola and her aunt were again in the room where Viola had been revived
from her indisposition caused by the shock of Bartlett's testimony.
Colonel Ashley, who, truth to tell, had been expecting some such
summons, went with Dr. Lambert.

"Oh, isn't it terrible, Colonel?" began Viola. "Have they a right to--to
lock him up on this charge?"

"It isn't exactly a charge, Viola, my dear, and they have, I am sorry to
say, a right to lock him up. But it will not be in a cell."

"Not in a--a cell?"

"No, as a witness, merely, he has a right to better quarters; and I
understand that he will be given them on the order of the prosecutor."

"He'll be in jail, though, won't he?"

"Yes; but in very decent quarters. The witness rooms are not at all like
cells, though they have barred windows."

"But why can't he get out on bail?" asked Viola, rather petulantly. "I'm
sure the charge, absurd as it is, is not such as would make them keep
him locked up without being allowed to get bail. I thought only murder
cases were not bailable."

"That is usually the case," said Colonel Ashley. "But if this is not
a suicide case it is a murder case, and though Harry is not accused
of murder, in law the distinction is so fine that the prosecutor,
doubtless, feels justified in refusing bail."

"But we could give it--I could--I have money!" cried Viola. "Aunt Mary
has money, too. You'd go his bail, wouldn't you?" and the girl appealed
to her father's sister.

"Well, Viola, I--of course I'd do anything for you in the world. You
know that, dearie. But if the law feels that Harry must be locked up I
wouldn't like to interfere."

"Oh, Aunt Mary!"

"Besides, he says he did quarrel with your father," went on Miss
Carwell. "And he won't say what it was about. I don't want to talk about
any one, Vi, but it does look suspicious for Mr. Bartlett."

"Oh, Aunt Mary! Oh, I'll never forgive you for that!" and poor Viola
broke into tears.

They left the courtroom and returned to The Haven. Harry Bartlett sent a
hastily written note to Viola, asking her to suspend judgment and trust
in him, and then he was taken to the county jail by the sheriff--being
assured that he would be treated with every consideration and lodged in
one of the witness rooms.

"Isn't there some process by which we could free him?" asked Viola.
"Seems to me I've heard of some process--a habeas corpus writ, or
something like that."

"Often persons, who can not be gotten out of the custody of the law in
any other way, may be temporarily freed by habeas corpus proceedings,"
said Colonel Ashley. "In brief that means an order from the court,
calling on the sheriff, or whoever has the custody of a prisoner, to
produce his body in court. Of course a live body is understood in such
cases.

"But such an expedient is only temporary. Its use is resorted to in
order to bring out certain testimony that might be the means of freeing
the accused. In this case, if Harry persisted in his refusal not to
tell about the quarrel, the judge would have no other course open but to
return him to jail. So I can't see that a habeas corpus would be of any
service."

"In that case, no," sighed Viola. "But, oh, Colonel Ashley, I am sure
something can be done. You must solve this mystery!"

"I am going to try, my dear Viola. I'll try both for your sake and that
of the memory of your father. I loved him very much."

The day passed, and night settled down on the house of death. Throughout
Lakeside and Loch Harbor, as well as the neighboring seaside places,
talk of the death of Mr. Carwell under suspicious circumstances
multiplied with the evening editions of many newspapers.

Colonel Ashley in his pleasant room at The Haven--more pleasant it would
have been except for the dark chamber with its silent occupant--was
putting his fishing rod together. There came a knock on the door, and
Shag entered.

"Oh!" he exclaimed at the sight of the familiar equipment. "Is we--is
yo' done on dish yeah case, Colonel?"

"No, Shag. I haven't even begun yet."

"But--"

"Yes, I know. I've just heard that there's pretty good fishing at one
end of the golf course that's so intimately mixed up in this mystery,
and I don't see why I shouldn't keep my hand in. Come here, you black
rascal, and see if you can make this joint fit any better. Seems to me
the ferrule is loose."

"Yes, sah, Colonel, I'll 'tend to it immejite. I--er I done brung
in--you ain't no 'jections to lookin' at papers now, has you?" he asked
hesitatingly. For when he went fishing the mere sight of a newspaper
sometimes set Shag's master wild.

"No," was the answer. "In fact I was going to send you out for the
latest editions, Shag."

"I'se done got 'em," was the chuckling answer, and Shag pulled out from
under his coat a bundle of papers that he had been hiding until he saw
that it was safe to display them.

And while Shag was occupied with the rod, the colonel read the papers,
which contained little he did not already know.

The next day he went fishing.

It was on his return from a successful day of sport, which was added
to by some quiet and intensive thinking, that Viola spoke to him in the
library. The colonel laid aside a paper he had been reading, and looked
up.

In lieu of other news one of the reporters had written an interview
with Dr. Baird, in which that physician discoursed learnedly on various
poisons and the tests for them, such as might be made to determine what
caused the death of Mr. Carwell. The young doctor went very much into
details, even so far as giving the various chemical symbols of poison,
dwelling long on arsenious acid, whose symbol, he told the reporter, was
As2O5, while if one desired to test the organs for traces of strychnine,
it would be necessary to use "sodium and potassium hydroxide, ammonia
and alkaline carbonate, to precipitate the free base strychnine from
aqueous solutions of its salts as a white, crystalline solid," while
this imposing formula was given:

      "C21H22 + NaOH C21H22 + H20 + NaNO3."

And so on for a column and a half.

"Oh, Colonel! Have you found out anything yet?" the girl besought.

"Nothing of importance, I am sorry to say."

"But you are working on it?"

"Oh, yes. Have you anything to tell me?"

"No; except that I am perfectly miserable. It is all so terrible. And we
can't even put poor father's body in the grave, where he might rest."

"No, the coroner is waiting for permission from the prosecutor. It seems
they are trying to find some one who knows about the quarrel between
Harry and your father."

"I don't believe there was a quarrel--at least not a serious one. Harry
isn't that kind. I'm sure he is not guilty. Harry Bartlett had nothing
to do with his death. If my father was not a suicide--"

"But if he was not a suicide, for the sake of justice and to prove Harry
Bartlett innocent, we must find out who did kill your father," said the
colonel.

"You don't believe Harry did it, do you?" Viola asked appealingly.

Colonel Ashley did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly:

"My dear Viola, if some one were ill of a desperate disease, in which
the crisis had not yet been passed, you would not expect a physician to
say for certainty that such a person was to recover, would you?"

"No."

"Well, I am in much the same predicament. I am a sort of physician in
this mystery case. It has only begun. The crisis is still far off, and
nothing can be said with certainty. I prefer not to express an opinion."

"I'm not afraid!" cried Viola. "I know Harry Bartlett is not guilty!"

"If he is not--who then?" asked the colonel.

"Oh, I don't know! I don't know what to think! I suspect--No, I mustn't
say that--Oh, I'm almost distracted!" And, with sobs shaking her frame,
Viola Carwell rushed from the room.

Colonel Ashley looked after her for a moment, as though half of a mind
to follow, and then, slowly shaking his head, he again picked up the
paper he had been reading, delving through a maze of technical
poisoning detection formulae, from Vortmann's nitroprusside test to a
consideration of the best method of estimating the toxicity of chemical
compounds by blood hemolysis. The reporter and young Dr. Baird certainly
left little to the imagination.

Colonel Ashley read until rather late that evening, and his reading was
not altogether from Izaak Walton's "Compleat Angler." He delved into
several books, and again read, very carefully, the article on the effects
of various poisons as it appeared in the paper he had been glancing over
when Viola talked with him.

As the colonel was getting ready to retire a servant brought him a note.
It was damp, as though it had been splashed with water, and when the
detective had read it and had noted Viola's signature, he knew that her
tears had blurred the writing.

"Please excuse my impulsiveness," she penned. "I am distracted. I know
Harry is not guilty. Please do something!"

"I am trying to," mused the colonel as he got into bed, and turned his
thoughts to a passage he had read in Walton just before switching off
his light. It was an old rhyme, the source of which was not given, but
which seemed wonderfully comforting under the circumstances. It was
a bit of advice given by our friend Izaak, and as part of what a good
fisherman should provide specified:

     "My rod and my line, my float and my lead,
      My hook and my plummet, my whetstone and knife.
      My basket, my baits, both living and dead,
      My net and my meat (for that is the chief):
      Then I must have thread, and hairs green and small,
      With mine angling purse--and so you have all."

"And," reflected Colonel Ashley, as he dozed off, "I guess I'll need all
that and more to solve this mystery."

The detective was up betimes the next morning, as he would have said
had he been discoursing in the talk of Mr. Walton, and on going to the
window to fill his lungs with fresh air, he saw a letter slipped under
his door.

"From Viola, I imagine," he mused, as he picked it up. "Unless it's from
Shag, telling me the fish are biting unusually well. I hope they're not,
for I must do considerable to-day, and I don't want to be tempted to
stray to the fields.

"It isn't from Shag, though. He never could muster as neat a pen as
this. Nor yet is it from Viola. Printed, too! The old device to prevent
detection of the handwriting. Well, mysterious missive, what have you to
say this fine morning?"

He opened the envelope carefully, preserving it and not tearing the
address, which, as he had said, was printed, not written. It bore his
name, and nothing else.

Within the envelope was a small piece of paper on which was printed
this:

"Ask Miss Viola what this means.  58 C. H.--161*."

Colonel Ashley read the message through three times without saying a
word. Then he held the paper and envelope up to the light to see if they
bore a water mark. Neither did, and the paper was of a cheap, common
variety which might be come upon in almost any stationery store. The
colonel read the message again, looked at the back and front of the
envelope, and then, placing both in his pocket, went down to breakfast,
the bell for which he heard just as he finished his simple breathing
exercises.

The morning papers were at his place, which was the only one at the
table. Either Viola and her aunt had already breakfasted, or would do so
later. The colonel ate and read.

There was not much new in the papers. Harry Bartlett was still held as a
witness, and the prosecutor's detectives were still working on the case.
As yet no one had connected Colonel Ashley officially with the matter.
The reporters seemed to have missed noting that a celebrated--not to
say successful--detective was the guest of Viola Carwell. It was an hour
after the morning meal, and the colonel was in the library, rather idly
glancing over the titles of the books, which included a goodly number on
yachting and golfing, when Viola entered.

"Oh, I didn't know you were here!" she exclaimed, drawing back.

"Oh, come in! Come in!" invited the colonel. "I am just going out. I was
wondering if there happened to be a book on chemistry here--or one on
poisons."

"Poisons!" exclaimed the girl, half drawing back.

"Yes. I have one, but I left it in New York. If there happened to be
one--Or perhaps you can tell me. Did you ever study chemistry?"

"As a girl in school, yes. But I'm afraid I've forgotten all I ever
knew."

"My case, too," said the colonel with a laugh. "Then there isn't a book
giving the different symbols of chemicals?"

"Not that I know of," Viola answered. "Still I might help you out if
it wasn't too complicated. I remember that water is H two O and that
sulphuric acid is H two S O four. But that's about all."

"Would you know what fifty-eight C H one sixty-one, with a period after
the C, a dash after the H and a star after the last number was?" the
colonel asked casually.

Viola shook her head.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't," she answered. "That is too complicated for me.
Isn't it a shame we learn so much that we forget?'

"Still it may have its uses," said the colonel. "I'll have to get a book
on chemistry, I think."

He turned to go out.

"Have you learned anything more?" Viola asked timidly.

"Nothing to speak about," was the answer.

"Oh, I wish you would find out something--and soon," she murmured. "This
suspense is terrible!" and she shuddered as the detective went out.

It was late that afternoon when Colonel Ashley, having seen Miss Mary
Carwell and Viola walking at the far end of the garden, went softly up
the stairs to the room of the girl who had summoned him to The Haven.
With a skill of which he was master he looked quickly but carefully
through Viola's desk, which was littered with many letters and telegrams
of condolence that had been answered.

Colonel Ashley worked quickly and silently, and he was about to give up,
a look of disappointment on his face, when he found a slip of paper in
one of the pigeon holes. And the slip bore this, written in pencil:

58 C. H.--161*



CHAPTER X. A WATER HAZARD


"Isn't there some place where you can take her for a few days--some
relative's where she can rest and forget, as much as possible, the
scenes here?"

"Yes, there is," replied Miss Mary Carwell to Colonel Ashley's question.
"I'll go with her myself to Pentonville. I have a cousin there, and it's
the quietest place I know of, outside of Philadelphia," and she smiled
faintly at the detective.

"Good!" he announced. "Then get her away from here. It will do you both
good."

"But what about the case--solving the mystery? Won't you want either
Viola or me here to help you?"

"I shall do very well by myself for a few days. Indeed I shall need the
help of both of you, but you will be all the better fitted to render
it when you return. So take her away--go yourself, and try to forget as
much of your grief as possible."

"And you will stay--"

"I'll stay here, yes. Shag and I will manage very nicely, thank you. I'm
glad you have colored help. I can always get along with that kind. I've
been used to them since a boy in the South."

And so Viola and Miss Carwell went away.

It was after the sufficiently imposingly somber funeral of Horace
Carwell, for since the adjourned inquest--adjourned at the request of
the prosecutor--it was not considered necessary to keep the poor, maimed
body out of its last resting place any longer. It had been sufficiently
viewed and examined. In fact, parts of it were still in the hands of the
chemists.

"And now, Shag, that we're left to ourselves--" said Colonel Ashley,
when Viola and Miss Carwell had departed the day following the funeral,
"now that we are by ourselves--"

"I reckon as how you'll fix up as to who it were whut done killed de
gen'man, an' hab him 'rested, won't yo', Colonel, sah?" asked Shag, with
the kindly concern and freedom of an old and loved servant.

"Indeed I'll do nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Colonel Ashley. "I'm
going fishing, Shag, and I'll be obliged to you if you'll lay out my
Kennebec rod and the sixteen line. I think there are some fighting fish
in that little river that runs along at the end of the golf course. Get
everything ready and then let me know," and the colonel, smoking his
after-breakfast cigar, sat on the shady porch of The Haven and read:

"O, Sir, doubt not that angling is an art: is it not an art to deceive a
trout with an artificial fly? a trout! that is more sharp-sighted than
any hawk you have named, and more watchful and timorous than your
high-mettled merlin is bold; and yet I doubt not to catch a brace or two
to-morrow for a friend's breakfast."

"Um," mused the colonel. "Too bad it isn't the trout season. That
passage from Walton just naturally makes me hungry for the speckled
beauties. But I can wait. Meanwhile we'll see what else the stream
holds. Shag, are you coming?"

"Yes, sah! Comin' right d'rectly, sah! Yes, sah, Colonel!" and Shag
shuffled along the porch with the fishing tackle.

And so Colonel Ashley sat and fished, and as he fished he thought, for
the sport was not so good that it took up his whole attention. In
fact he was rather glad that the fish were not rising well, for he had
entered into this golf course mystery with a zest he seldom brought to
any case, and he was anxious to get to the bottom.

"I didn't want to get into that diamond cross affair, but I was dragged
in by the heels," he mused. "And now, just because some years ago
Horace Carwell did me a favor and enabled me to make money in the copper
market, I am trying to find out who killed him, or if, in a fit of
despondency, he killed himself."

"And yet, if it was despondency, he disguised it marvelously well. And
if it was an accident it was a most skillful and fateful one. How he
could swallow poison and not know it is beyond me. And now to consider
who might have given it to him, arguing that it was not an accident."

The colonel had walked up and down the stream at the turn of the
Maraposa golf course, Shag following at a discreet distance, and, after
trying out several places had settled down under a shady tree at an eddy
where the waters, after rushing down the bed of the small river, met
with an obstruction and turned upon themselves. Here they had worn out a
place under an overhanging bank, making a deep pool where, if ever, fish
might he expected to lurk.

And there the colonel threw in his bait and waited.

"And now, that I am waiting," he mused, "let me consider, as my friend
Walton would, matters in their sequence. Horace Carwell is dead. Let us
argue that some one gave him the poison. Who was it?"

And then, like some file index, the colonel began to pass over in his
mind the various persons who had come under his observation, as possible
perpetrators of the crime.

"Let us begin with one the law already suspects," mused the fisherman.
"Not that that is any criterion, but that it disposes of him in a
certain order--disposes of him or--involves him more deeply," and the
colonel looked to where a ground spider had woven a web in which a small
but helpless grass hopper was then struggling.

"Could Harry Bartlett have given the poison?" the colonel asked himself.
And the answer, naturally, was that such could have been the case.

Then came the question: "Why?"

"Had he an object? What was the quarrel about, concerning which he
refuses to speak? Why is Viola so sure Harry could not have done it? I
think I can see a reason for the last. She loves him as much as he does
her. That's natural. She's a sweet girl!"

And, being unable to decide definitely as to the status of Harry
Bartlett, Colonel Ashley mentally passed that card in his file and took
up another, bearing the name Captain Gerry Poland.

"Could he have had an object in getting Horace Carwell out of the way?"
mused the detective. "At first thought I'd say he could not, and, just
because I would say so, I must keep him on my list. He also is in love
with Viola,--just as much as Bartlett is. I shall list Captain Poland as
a remote possibility. I can't afford to eliminate him altogether, as it
may develop that Mr. Carwell objected to his paying his attentions to
Viola. Well, we shall see."


The next mental index card bore the name Jean Forette; and concerning
him Colonel Ashley had secured some information the day before. He had
got, by adroit questioning, a certain knowledge of the French chauffeur,
and this was now spread out on the card that, in fancy, Colonel Ashley
could see in his filing cabinet.

"Forette? Oh, yes, I know him," the mechanician of the best garage in
Lakeside had told the detective. "He's a good driver, and knows more
about an ignition system than I ever shall. He's a shark at it. But he's
a queer Dick."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes he's a regular devil at driving. Once he had a big
Rilat car in here for repairs. He had to tell me what was wrong with it,
as I couldn't dope it out. Then when we got it running for him, he took
it out for a trial run on the road. Drive! Say, it's a wonder I have any
hair on my head!"

"Did he go fast?"

"Fast? Say, a racing man had nothing on that Forette. And yet the next
day, when he came to take the car away, after we'd charged the storage
battery, he drove like a snail. One of my men went with him a little
way, to see that everything was all right, for Mr. Carwell is very
particular--I mean he was--and Forette didn't let her out for a cent.
My man was disappointed, for he's a fast devil, too, and he asked the
Frenchman why he didn't kick her along."

"What did the chauffeur say?"

"Well, it wasn't so much what he said as how he acted. He was as nervous
as a cat. Kept looking behind to see that no other machine was coming,
and when he passed anything on the road he almost went in the ditch
himself to make sure there was room enough to pass."

"Seemed afraid, did he?"

"That's it. And considering how bold he was the day I was out with him,
I put it down that he must have had a few drinks when he took me for a--
Well, I never saw him, but how else can you account for it? Drink will
make a man drive like old Nick, and get away with it, too, sometimes,
though the stuff'll get 'em sooner or later. But that's how I sized it
up."

"He might have taken something other than drink."

"What do you mean?"

"Dope!"

"Oh, yes, I s'pose so, and him bein' French might account for it. Anyhow
he was like two different men. That one day he was as bold as brass, and
I guess he'd have driven one of them there airships if any one had dared
him to. Then, the next day he was like a chap trying for his license
with the motor inspector lookin' on. I can't account for it. That Jean
Forette sure is a card!"

"Then he really seemed afraid to speed the Dilat car?"

"That's it. And he spoke of Mr. Carwell going to get a more powerful
French machine. He said then he'd never driven it to the limit, and
didn't want to handle it at all. And he spoke the truth, for I heard
that he and the old man didn't get along at all with that red, white and
blue devil Mr. Carwell imported."

"So they say. Forette was to leave at the end of the month. Well, I'm
much obliged to you. A friend of mine was going to engage him, but if
he has such a reputation--not reliable, you know, I guess I'll look
farther. Much obliged," and the colonel, who, it is needless to say, had
not revealed his true character to the garage owner, turned aside.

"Oh, I wouldn't want what I said to keep Forette out of a place!"
protested the man quickly. "If I'd thought that--"

"You needn't worry. You haven't done him any harm. He's out of a place
anyhow, since Mr. Carwell died, and I'll treat what you told me in
strict confidence."

"I wish you would. You know we have to be careful."

"I understand."

And this information passed again in review before the mind of the
fisherman as he took Jean Forette's card from the pack.

"I wonder if he can be a dope fiend?" mused the colonel. "It's worth
looking up, at any rate. He'd be a bad kind to drive a car. I'm glad he
isn't in my employ, and I'm better pleased that he won't take Viola out.
This dope--bad stuff, whether it's morphine, cocaine, or something else.
We'll just keep this card up in front where we can get at it easily."

The next mental card had on it the name of LeGrand Blossom.

"Curious chap, him," mused the detective. "He's very fond of the sound
of his own voice, particularly where he can get an audience, as he had
at the inquest. Well, I don't know anything about you, Mr. Blossom,
neither for nor against you, but I'll keep your card within reach, also.
Can't neglect any possibilities in cases like this. And now for some
others."

There were many cards in the colonel's index, and he ran rapidly over
them as he waited for a bite. They bore the names of many members of the
golf and yachting clubs of which Mr. Carwell had been a member. There
were also the names of the household servants, and the dead man's
nearest relatives, including his sister and Viola. But the colonel did
not linger long over any of these memoranda. The card of Viola Carwell,
however, had mentally penciled on it the somewhat mystic symbol 58 C.
H.--161* and this the colonel looked at from every angle.

"I really must get a book on chemistry," he mused. "I may need it to
find out what kind of dope Forette uses--if he takes any."

And thus the colonel sat in the shade, beside the quiet stream, the
little green book by his side. But he did not open it now, and though
his gaze was on his line, where it cut the water in a little swirl, he
did not seem to see it.

"Shag!" suddenly exclaimed the colonel, breaking a stillness that was
little short of idyllic.

"Yes, sah, Colonel! Yes, sah!" and the colored man awoke with a skill
perfected by long practice under similar circumstances.

"Shag, the fishing here is miserable!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel. Shall we-all move?"

"Might as well. I haven't had a nibble, and from the looks of
everything--even the evidence of Mr. Walton himself--it ought to have
been a most choice location. However, there will be other days, and--"

The colonel's voice was cut short by a shrill call from his delicate
reel, and a moment later he had leaped to his feet and cried:

"Shag, I'm a most monumental liar!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel. Dat's whut yo' suah is!"

"I've got the biggest bite I ever had! Get that landing net and see if
you can forget that you're a cross between a snail and a mud turtle!"
cried the colonel excitedly.

"Yes, sah!"

Shag moved on nimble feet, and presently stood down on the shore, near
the edge of the stream, while the colonel, on the bank above the eddy,
played the fish that had taken his bait and sought to depart with it
to some watery fastness to devour it at his leisure. But the hook and
tackle held him.

Up and down in the pool rushed the fish, and the colonel's rod bent
to the strain, but it did not break. It had been tested in other
piscatorial battles and was tried and true.

The battle progressed, not so unequal as it might seem, considering the
frail means used to ensnare the big fish. And the prize was gradually
being brought within reach of the landing net.

"Get ready now, Shag!" ordered the colonel.

"Yes, sah, I'se all ready!"

There was a final rush and swirl in the water. Shag leaned over, his
eyes shining in delight, for the fish was an extraordinarily large one.
He was about to scoop it up in the net, to take the strain off the rod
which was curved like a bow, when there came a streak of something white
sailing through the air. It fell with a splash into the water so close
to the fish that it must have bruised its scaly side, and then, in some
manner, the denizen of the stream, either in a desperate flurry, or
because the blow of the white object broke its hold on the hook, was
free, and with a dart scurried back into the element that was life
itself.

For a moment there was portentous silence on the part of Colonel Ashley.
He gazed at his dangling line and at the straightened pole. Then he
solemnly said:

"Shag!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel!"

"What happened?"

"By golly, Colonel! dat's whut I'd laik t' know. Must hab been a
shootin' star, or suffin laik dat! I never done see--"

At that moment a drawling voice from somewhere back of the fringe of
trees and bushes broke in with:

"I fancy I made that water hazard all right, though it was a close call.
Which reminds me of the perhaps interesting fact that forty-five and
sixty-four hundredths cylindrical feet of water will weigh twenty-two
hundred and forty pounds, figuring one cubic foot of salt water at
sixty-four and three-tenths pounds, if you get my meaning!" and there
was a genial laugh.

"Well, I don't get it, and I don't care to," was the rejoinder. "But
I'm ready to bet you a cold bottle that you've gone into instead of over
that water hazard."

"Done! Come on, we'll take a look!"



CHAPTER XI. POISONOUS PLANTS


Colonel Ashley still stood, holding his now useless rod and line,
gazing first at that, then at Shag and, anon, at the little swirl of the
waters, marking where the big fish had disappeared from view.

"Shag!" exclaimed the colonel in an ominously, quiet voice.

"Yes, sah!"

"Do you know what that was?"

"No, sab, Colonel, I don't."

"Well, that was a spirit manifestation of Izaak Walton. It was jealous
of my success and took that revenge. It was the spirit of the old
fisherman himself."

"Good land ob massy!" gasped Shag. "Does yo'--does yo' mean a--ghost?"

"You might call it that, Shag. Yes, a ghost."

The colored man looked frightened for a moment, and then a broad grin
spread over his face.

"Well, sah, Colonel," he began, deferentially, "maybe yo' kin call
it dat, but hit looks t' me mo' laik one ob dem li'l white balls de
gen'mens an' ladies done knock aroun' wif iron-headed clubs. Dat's whut
it looks laik t' me, sah, Colonel," and Shag picked up a golf ball from
the water, where it floated.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the fisherman. "If it was that--"

His indignant protest was interrupted by the appearance, breaking
through the underbrush on the edge of the stream, of two men, each one
carrying a bag of golf clubs.

"Did you--" began one, and then, as he caught sight of Shag holding up
in his black fingers the white ball, there was added:

"I see you did! Thank you. You were right, Tom. I did go into the water.
I sliced worse than I thought."

Then the two men seemed, for the first time, to have caught sight of
Colonel Ashley. They noticed his attitude, the dangling line and his
disappointed look.

"I beg pardon," said the one who had already spoken, "but did we
interfere with your fishing?"

"Did you interfere with it?" stormed the colonel. "You just naturally
knocked it all to the devil, sir! That's what you did!" And then, as he
saw a curious look on the faces of the two men, he added:

"I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. I'm an interloper, I
realize--a trespasser. It's my own fault for fishing so near the golf
course. But I--"

"Excuse me," broke in the other man. "But you are Colonel Ashley, aren't
you?"

"I am."

"My name is Sharwell--Tom Sharwell, and this is Bruce Garrigan. I
thought I had seen you at the club. Pray excuse our interruption of your
sport. We had no idea any one was fishing here."

"It's entirely my fault," declared the colonel, as he removed his cap
and bowed, a courtesy the two golfers, after a moment of hesitation,
returned. "I was taking chances when I threw in here."

"And did we scare the fish?" asked Garrigan. "I suppose so. Never was
much of a fisherman myself. All I know about them is seventeen million,
four hundred and eighty-eight thousand nine hundred and twenty one boxes
of sardines were imported into the United States last year. I read it in
the paper so it must be true. I know I ate the one box."

"Be quiet, Bruce," said Sharwell in a low voice, but the colonel smiled.
There was no affront to his dignity, as the golfer had feared.

"I had on a most beautiful catch," said the colonel, "and then what I
thought, at first, was the embodied spirit of Izaak Walton suddenly came
zipping into the water just as Shag was about to land the beauty, and
knocked it off the hook. Since then I have been informed by my servant
that it was no spirit, but a golf ball."

"It was mine," confessed Garrigan. "I'm all kinds of sorry about it.
Never had the least notion any one was here. Never saw any one fish here
before; did we, Tom?"

"Well, I thought there were fish here, and events proved I was
right," said the colonel. "I hope the water isn't posted?" he inquired
anxiously, for he was a stickler for the rights of others.

"Oh, no, nothing like that!" Garrigan hastened to add. "You're welcome
to fish here as long and as often as you like. Only, as this water
hazard is often played from the fifth hole, it would be advisable to
post a sign just outside the trees, or station your man there to give
notice."

"I'll do it after this," said the colonel, as he reeled in.

"You're not going to quit just because I was so unfortunate as to spoil
your first catch, are you?" asked Garrigan.

"I think I'd better," the colonel said. "I don't believe I could land
anything after what happened. The fish must have thought it was a
thunderbolt, from the way that ball landed."

"I did drive rather hard," admitted Garrigan. "But we can cut this out
of our game, take a stroke apiece and go on with the play. That is,
I'm willing. I don't feel very keen for the game to-day. How about you,
Tom?"

"I'm ready to quit, and I think the least we can do, considering that we
have spoiled Colonel Ashley's day, is to ask him if he won't share with
us the bottle I won from you on the water hazard."

"Done!" exclaimed Garrigan. "There were eleven million, four hundred and
ten thousand six hundred and six dollars' worth of soya beans imported
into the United States in 1917," he added, "which, of course, has
nothing to do with the number of cold bottles of champagne the steward,
at the nineteenth hole, has on the ice for us. So I suggest that we
adjourn and--"

"I will, on one condition," said Sharwell.

"What is it?" asked his companion.

"That you kindly refrain from telling us how many spools of thread were
sent to the cannibals of the Friendly Islands for the fiscal year ending
June 30, 1884."

"Done!" cried Garrigan with a laugh. "I'll never hint of it. Colonel,
will you accept our hospitality? I believe you are already put up at the
club?"

"Yes, Miss Carwell was kind enough to secure a visitor's card for me."

"Then let's forget our sorrows; drown them in the bubbling glasses with
hollow stems!" cried Garrigan, gayly.

"Here, Shag," called the colonel, as he gave his rod to his colored
servant. "I don't know when I'll be back."

"Well said!" exclaimed Sharwell.

Then they adjourned to the nineteenth hole.

If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it was
certainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat on
the shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things,
and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr.
Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had been
called off on the day of his funeral. But now those last rites were
over, the clubhouse was the same gay place it had been. Though more than
one veteran member sat in silent reverie over his cigar as he recalled
the friend who never again would tee a ball with him.

"It certainly is queer why Harry Bartlett doesn't come out and say what
it was that he and Mr. Carwell had words about," commented Sharwell.
"There he stays, in that rotten jail. Bah! I can smell it yet, for I
called to see if I could do anything. And yet he won't talk."

"It is queer," said Garrigan. "If he'd only let his friends speak for
him it could be cleared. We all know what the quarrel was about."

"What?" asked the colonel. He had his own theory, but he wanted to see
how it jibed with another's.

"It's an old story," went on Bruce Garrigan. "It goes back to the time,
about three years ago, when the fair Viola and Harry began to be talked
about as more than ordinary friends. Just about then Mr. Carwell lost a
large sum of money in a stock deal, or a bond issue, or something--I've
forgotten what--and he always said that Harry and his clique engineered
the plan by which he was mulcted."

"And did Mr. Bartlett have anything to do with it?" asked the colonel.

"Well, some say he did, and some say he didn't. Harry himself denied
all knowledge of it. Anyhow the colonel lost a stiffish sum, and some
of Harry's people took in a goodly pile. Naturally there was a bit
of coldness between the families, and I did hear Harry was told his
presence around Viola wasn't desired.

"If he was so warned he didn't heed it, for they went out together as
much as ever, though I can't say he called at the house very often."

"And you think it was about this he and Mr. Carwell quarreled just
before Mr. Carwell was stricken?" asked the colonel.

"I think so, yes," answered Garrigan. "And I think Harry refuses to
admit it, from a notion that it would be dragging in a lady's name. But
it wouldn't be airing anything that isn't already pretty well known. Mr.
Carwell has a violent temper--or he had one--and Harry isn't exactly an
angel when he's roused, though I'll say say for him that I have rarely
seen him angry. And there you are. Boy, another bottle, and have it
colder than the last."

"Yes," mused the colonel, "there you are--or aren't, according to your
viewpoint."

And so the day grew more sunshiny and mellow, and Colonel Ashley did not
regret the fish that the golf ball cheated him of, for he added several
new cards to his index file and jotted down, mentally, new facts on some
already in it.

"Will return to-morrow.  Viola too restless here."

That was the telegram Colonel Ashley received the day following
his acquaintance at the nineteenth hole with Bruce Garrigan and Tom
Sharwell.

"She stayed away longer than I thought she would," mused the detective,
"Yes, sah!"

"See if that French chauffeur, Forette, can drive me into town."

"Yes, sah, Colonel."

A little later Jean brought the roadster to the front of the house and
waited for Colonel Ashley. The latter came forth holding a slip of paper
in his hand, and, to the chauffeur, he said:

"Do you know where Dr. Baird lives?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Take me there, please. He was one of the physicians called in when Mr.
Carwell was poisoned, was he not?"

"Yes," and the chauffeur nodded and smiled. "You are not ill, I hope,
monsieur. If you are, there is a physician nearer--"

"Oh, no. I'm all right. I just want to have a talk with the doctor. Did
you ever consult him?"

"Me? Oh, no, monsieur, I have no need of a doctor. I am never sick. I
feel most excellent!" and certainly he looked it. There was a sparkle
in his eyes--perhaps too brilliant a sparkle, but he did not look like a
"dope fiend."

"If you are in a hurry," went on the chauffeur, "I can--"

"No, no hurry," responded the colonel. "Why, do you feel like driving
fast?"

"Very fast, monsieur. I always like to drive fast, only there is seldom
call for it. Mr. Carwell, he at times would like speed, and again he was
like the tortoise. But as for me--poof! What would you?" and he shrugged
his shoulders and reverted to his own tongue.

"Hum," mused the colonel. "Rather a different story from the garage
man's. However, we shall see."

Dr. Baird was in. In fact, being a very young doctor indeed, he was
rather more in than out--too much in to suit his own inclination and
pocketbook, for, as yet, the number of his patients was small.

"I did not come to see you for myself, professionally," said Colonel
Ashley, as he took a seat in the office, and introduced himself. "I
am trying to establish, for the satisfaction of Miss Carwell, that her
father was not a suicide, and--"

"What else could it be?" asked Dr. Baird.

"I do not know. But I read with great interest the interview, you gave
the Globe on the effects and detection of various poisons."

"Yes?" and young Dr. Baird rubbed his hands in delight, and stroked his
still younger moustache.

"Yes. And I called to ask what poison or chemical symbol that might be."

The colonel extended a paper on which was inscribed: 58 C. H.--161*

"That! Hum, why that is not a chemical symbol at all!" promptly declared
Dr. Baird.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Could it be some formula for poison?"

"It could not. Of course that is not to say it could not be some
person's private memorandum for some combination of elements. C might
stand for carbon and H for hydrogen. But that would not make a poison in
the ordinary accepted meaning of the term. I am sure you are mistaken if
you think that is a chemical symbol."

"I am sure, also," said the detective with a smile. "I just wanted your
opinion, that is all. Then those letters and figures would mean nothing
to you?"

"Nothing at all. Wait though--"

Young Dr. Percy Baird looked at the slip again. "No, it would mean
nothing to me," he said finally.

"Thank you," said the colonel.

He came out of the physician's office to find Jean Forette calmly
reading in his side of the car. The paper was put away at once, and with
a whirr from the self-starter the motor throbbed.

"It there a free public library in town, Jean?" asked the detective.

"Yes, monsieur.

"Take me there."

The library was one built partly with the money donated by a celebrated
millionaire, and contained a fair variety of books. To the main desk,
behind which sat a pretty girl, marched Colonel Ashley.

"Have you any books on poisons?" he asked.

"Poisons?" She looked up at him, startled, a flush mantling her fair
cheeks.

"Yes. Any works on poisons--a chemistry would do."

"Oh, yes, we have books on poisons. I'll jot down the numbers for you.
We have not many, I'm afraid. It is--it isn't a pleasant subject."

"No, I imagine not."

She busied herself with the card index, and came back to him in a moment
with a slip of paper.

"I'm sorry," said the pretty girl, "but we seem to have only one book
on poisons, and I'm afraid that isn't what you want. It is entitled
'Poisonous Plants of New Jersey,' and is one of the bulletins of the New
Jersey Agricultural Experiment Station at New Brunswick. But it is out
at present. Here is the number of it, and if it comes in--"

"I should be glad to see it," interrupted the colonel pleasantly.

"Here is the number," and the pretty girl extended to him a slip which
read: 58 C. H--161*

"What is the star for?" asked the colonel.

"It indicates that the book was donated by the state and was not
purchased with the endowment appropriation," she informed him.

"And it is out now. I wonder if you could tell me who has it?"

"Why, yes, sir. Just a moment."

She looked at some more cards, and came back to him. She looked a bit
disturbed.

"The book, 'Poisonous Plants of New Jersey' was taken out by Miss Viola
Carwell," said the girl.



CHAPTER XII. BLOSSOM'S SUSPICIONS


Characteristic as it was of Colonel Ashley not to show surprise, he
could hardly restrain an indication of it when he reached The Haven, and
found Miss Mary Carwell and Viola there. They were not expected until
the next day, but while her niece was temporarily absent Miss Carwell
explained the matter.

"She couldn't stand it another minute. She insisted that I should pack
and come with her. Something seemed to drive her home."

"I hope," said the Colonel gently, "that she didn't imagine that I
wasn't doing all possible, under the circumstances."

"Oh, no, it wasn't anything like that. She just wanted to be at home.
And I think, too," and Miss Carwell lowered her voice, after a glance at
the door, "that she wanted to see him."

"You mean--?"

"Mr. Bartlett! There's no use disguising the fact that his family and
ours aren't on friendly terms. I think he did a grave injustice to my
brother in a business way, and I'll never forgive him for it. I don't
want to see Viola marry him--that is I didn't. I hardly believe, now,
after he has been arrested, that she will. But there is no doubt she
cares for him, and would do anything to prove that this charge was
groundless."

"Well, yes, I suppose that's natural," assented the detective. "I'd be
glad, myself, to believe that Harry Bartlett had nothing to do with the
death of Mr. Carwell."

"But you believe he did have, don't you?"

"I haven't yet made up my mind," was the cautious answer. "The golf
course mystery, I don't mind admitting, is one of the most puzzling I've
ever run across. It won't do to make up one's mind at once."

"But my brother either committed suicide, or else he was deliberately
poisoned!" insisted Miss Carwell. "And those of us who knew him feel
sure he would never take his own life. He must have been killed, and if
Harry Bartlett didn't do it who did?"

"I don't know," frankly replied the colonel. "That's what I'm going to
try to find out. So Miss Viola feels much sympathy for him, does she?"

"Yes. And she wants to go to see him at the jail. Of course I know they
don't exactly call it a jail, but that's what I call it!"

Miss Carwell was nothing if not determined in her language.

"Would you let her go if you were I--go to see him?" she asked.

"I don't see how you are going to prevent it," replied the colonel.
"Miss Viola is of legal age, and she seems to have a will of her own.
But I hardly believe that she will see Mr. Bartlett."

"Oh, but she said she was going to. That's one reason she made me come
home ahead of time, I believe. She says she's going to see him, and what
she says she'll do she generally does."

"However I don't believe she'll see him," went on the detective. "The
prosecutor has given orders since yesterday that no one except Mr.
Bartlett's legal adviser must communicate with him; so I don't believe
Miss Viola will be admitted."

This proved to be correct. Viola was very insistent, but to no avail.
The warden at the jail would not admit her to the witness rooms, where
Harry Bartlett paced up and down, wondering, wondering, and wondering.
And much of his wonder had to do with the girl who tried so hard to see
him.

She had sent word by his lawyer that she believed in his innocence and
that she would do all she could for him, but he wanted more than that.
He wanted to see her--to feast his hungry eyes on her--to hold her hand,
to--Oh, well, what was the use? he wearily asked himself. Would the
horrible tangle ever be straightened out? He shook his head and resumed
his pacing of the rooms--for there were two at his disposal. He was
weary to death of the dismal view to be had through the barred windows.

"Did you see him?" asked her aunt, when Viola, much dispirited, returned
home.

"No, and I suppose you're glad of it!"

"I am. There's no use saying I'm not."

"Aunt Mary, I think it's perfectly horrid of you to think, even for a
moment, that Harry had anything to do with this terrible thing. He'd
never dream of it, not if he had quarreled with my father a dozen times.
And I don't see what they quarreled about, either. I'm sure I was with
Harry a good deal of the time before the game, and I didn't hear him and
my father have any words."

"Perhaps, as it was about you, they took care you shouldn't hear."

"Who says it was about me?"

"Can't you easily guess that it was, and that's why Harry doesn't want
to tell?" asked Miss Mary.

"I don't believe anything of the sort!" declared Viola.

"Well," sighed Miss Carwell, "I don't know what to believe. If your
poor, dear father wasn't a suicide, some one must have killed him, and
it may well have been--"

"Don't dare say it was Harry!" cried Viola excitedly. "Oh, this is
terrible! I'm going to see Colonel Ashley and ask him if he can't end
this horrible suspense."

"I wish that as eagerly as you do," said Miss Mary. "You'll find the
colonel in the library. He's poring over some papers, and Shag, that
funny colored man, is getting some fish lines ready; so it's easy enough
to guess where the colonel is going. If you want to speak to him
you'd better hurry. But there's another matter I want to call to your
attention. What about our business affairs? Have we money enough to go
on living here and keeping up our big winter house? We must think of
that, Viola."

"Yes, we must think of that," agreed the girl. "That's one of the
reasons why I wanted to come back. Father's affairs must be gone into
carefully. He left no will, and the lawyer says it will take quite a
while to find out just how things stand. If only Harry were here to
help. He's such a good business man."

"There are others," sniffed Miss Mary. "Why don't you ask the
colonel--or Captain Poland?"

"Captain Poland!" exclaimed Viola, startled.

"Yes. He helped us out in the matter of the bank when more
collateral was asked for, and he'll be glad to go over the affairs
with us, I'm sure."

"I don't want him to!" snapped Viola. "Mr. Blossom is the proper one
to do that. He is the chief clerk, and since he was going to form a
partnership with father he will, most likely, know all the details.
We'll have him up here and ask him how matters stand."

"Perhaps that will be wise," agreed Miss Carwell. "But I can't forget
how careless LeGrand Blossom was in the matter of the loan your father
had from the bank. If he's that careless, his word won't be worth much,
I'm afraid."

"Oh, any one is likely to make a mistake," said Viola. "I'll telephone
to Mr. Blossom and ask him to come here and have a talk with us. It will
give me something to think about. Besides--"

She did not finish, but went to the instrument and was soon talking to
the chief clerk in the office Mr. Carwell maintained while at his summer
home.

"He'll be up within an hour," Viola reported. "Now I'm going to have a
talk with the colonel," and she hastened to the library.

The old detective was smoking a cigar, which he hastened to lay aside
when Viola made her entrance, but she raised a restraining hand.

"Smoke as much as you like," she said. "I am used to it."

"Thank you," and he pulled forward a chair for her.

"Oh, haven't you found out anything yet?" she burst out. "Can't you say
anything definite?"

Colonel Ashley shook his head in negation.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm just as sorry about it as you are.
But I have seldom had a case in which there were so many clews that lead
into blind allies. I was just trying to arrange a plan of procedure that
I thought might lead to something."

"Can you?" she asked eagerly.

"I haven't finished yet. What I need most is a book on poisons-a
comprehensive chemistry would do, but I haven't been able to find one
around here," and he glanced at the books lining the library walls.
"Your father didn't go in for that sort of thing."

"No. But can't you send to New York for one?"

"I suppose I could--yes. I wonder if they might have one in the local
library?"

"I'm sure I don't know," and Viola leaned over to pick a thread from the
carpet. "I don't draw books from there. When it was first opened I took
out a card, but when I saw how unclean some of the volumes were I never
afterward patronized the place."

"Then you wouldn't know whether they had a book on poisons, or poison
plants or not?"

"I wouldn't in the least," she answered, as she arose. "As I said, I
don't believe I have been in the place more than twice, and that was two
years ago."

"Then I'll have to inquire myself," said the colonel, and he remained
standing while Viola left the room. And for some little time he stood
looking at the door as it closed after her. And on Colonel Ashley's face
there was a peculiar look.

LeGrand Blossom came to The Haven bearing a bundle of books and papers,
and with rather a wry face--for he had no heart for business of this
nature. Miss Mary Carwell sat down at the table with him and Viola.

"We want to know just where we stand financially," said Viola. "What is
the condition of my father's affairs, Mr. Blossom?"

The confidential clerk hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said
slowly:

"Well, the affairs are anything but good. There is a great deal of money
gone, and some of the securities left are pledged for loans."

"You mean my father spent a lot of money just before he died?" asked
Viola.

"He either spent it or--Well, yes, he must have spent it, for it is
gone. The car cost ten thousand, and he spent as much, if not more, on
the yacht."

"But they can be sold. I don't want either of them. I'm afraid in the
big car," said Viola, "and the yacht isn't seaworthy, I've heard. I
wouldn't take a trip in her."

"I don't know anything about that," said LeGrand Blossom. "But even
if the car and yacht were sold at a forced sale they would not bring
anything like what they cost. I have gone carefully over your father's
affairs, as you requested me, and I tell you frankly they are in bad
shape."

"What can be done?" asked Miss Carwell.

"I don't know," LeGrand Blossom frankly admitted. "You may call in an
expert, if you like, to go over the books; but I don't believe he would
come to any other conclusion than I have. As a matter of fact, I had a
somewhat selfish motive in looking into your father's affairs of late.
You know I was thinking of going into partnership with him, and--and--"
He did not finish.

Viola nodded.

"Perhaps I might say that he was good enough to offer me the chance,"
the young man went on. "And, as I was to invest what was, to me, a
large sum, I wanted to see how matters were. So I examined the books
carefully, as your father pressed me to do. At that time his affairs
were in good shape. But of late he had lost a lot of money."

"Will it make any difference to us?" and Viola included her aunt in her
gesture.

"Well, you, Miss Carwell," and Blossom nodded to the older lady, "have
your own money in trust funds. Mr. Carwell could not touch them. But he
did use part of the fortune left you by your mother," he added to Viola.

"I don't mind that," was her steady answer. "If my father needed my
money he was welcome to it. That is past and gone. What now remains to
me?"

"Very little," answered LeGrand Blossom. "I may be able to pull the
business through and save something, but there is a lot of money
lost--spent or gone somewhere. I haven't yet found out. Your father
speculated too much, and unwisely. I told him, but he would pay no heed
to me."

"Do you think he knew, before his death, that his affairs were in such
bad shape?" asked the dead man's sister.

"He must have, for I saw him going over the books several times."

"Do you think this knowledge impelled him to--to end his life?" faltered
Viola.

LeGrand Blossom considered a moment before answering. Then he slowly
said:

"It was either that, or--or, well, some one killed him. There are no two
ways about it."

"I believe some one killed him!" burst out Viola. "But I think the
authorities have made a horrible mistake in detaining Mr. Bartlett," she
added. "Don't you, Mr. Blossom?"

"I--er--I don't know what to think. Your father had some enemies, it is
true. Every business man has. And a person with a temper easily aroused,
such as--"

LeGrand Blossom stopped suddenly.

"You were about to name some one?" asked Viola.

"Well, I was about to give, merely as an instance, Jean Forette the
chauffeur. Not that I think the Frenchman had a thing to do with the
matter. But he has a violent temper at times, and again he is as meek as
any one I ever knew. But say a person did give way to violent passion,
such as I have seen him do at times when something went wrong with the
big, new car, might not such a person, for a fancied wrong, take means
of ending the life of a person who had angered him?"

"I never liked Jean Forette," put in Miss Carwell, "and I was glad when
I heard Horace was to let him go."

"Do you think--do you believe he had anything to do with my father's
death?" asked Viola quickly.

"Not the least in the world," answered the head clerk hastily. "I just
used him as an illustration."

"But he quarreled with my father," the girl went on. "They had words, I
know."

"Yes, they did, and I heard some of them," admitted LeGrand Blossom.
"But that passed over, and they were friendly enough the day of the
golf game. So there could not have been murder in the heart of that
Frenchman. No, I don't mean even to hint at him: but I believe some one,
angry at, and with a grudge against, your father, ended his life."

"I believe that, too!" declared Viola firmly. "And while I feel, as you
do, about Jean, still it is a clew that must not be overlooked. I'll
tell Colonel Ashley."

"I fancy he knows it already," said LeGrand Blossom. "There isn't much
that escapes that fisherman."



CHAPTER XIII. CAPTAIN POLAND CONFESSES


When LeGrand Blossom had taken his departure, carrying with him the
books and papers, he left behind two very disconsolate persons.

"It's terrible!" exclaimed Mr. Carwell's sister. "To think that poor
Horace could be so careless! I knew his sporting life would bring
trouble, but I never dreamed of this."

"We must face it, terrible as it is," said Viola. "Nothing would matter
if he--if he were only left to us. I'm sure he never meant to spend so
much money. It was just because--he didn't think."

"That always was a fault of his," sighed Miss Mary, "even when a boy.
It's terrible!"

"It's terrible to have him gone and to think of the terrible way he was
taken," sighed Viola. "But any one is likely to lose money."

She no more approved of many of her late father's sporting proclivities
than did her aunt, and there were many rather startling stories and
rumors that came to Viola as mere whispers to which she turned a deaf
ear. Since her mother's death her father had, it was common knowledge,
associated with a fast set, and he had been seen in company with persons
of both sexes who were rather notorious for their excesses.

"Well, Mr. Blossom will do the best he can, I suppose," said Miss
Carwell, with rather an intimation that the head clerk's best would be
very bad indeed.

"I'm sure he will," assented Viola. "He knows all the details of poor
father's affairs, and he alone can straighten them out. Oh, if we had
only known of this before, we might have stopped it."

"But your father was always very close about his matters," said his
sister. "He resented even your mother knowing how much money he made,
and how. I think she felt that, too, for she liked to have a share in
all he did. He was kindness itself to her, but she wanted more than
that. She wanted to have a part in his success, and he kept her
out--or she felt that he did. Well, I'm sure I hope all mistakes are
straightened out in Heaven. It's certain they aren't here."

Viola pondered rather long and deeply on what LeGrand Blossom had told
her. She made it a point to go for a drive the next afternoon with Jean
Forette in the small car, taking a maid with her on a pretense of doing
some shopping. And Viola closely observed the conduct of the chauffeur.

On her return, the girl could not help admitting that the Frenchman was
all a careful car driver should be. He had shown skill and foresight in
guiding the car through the summer-crowded traffic of Lakeside, and had
been cheerful and polite.

"I am sorry you are going to leave us, Jean," she said, when he had
brought her back to The Haven.

"I, too, am regretful," he said in his careful English. "But your father
had other ideas, and I--I am really afraid of that big new car. It is
not a machine, mademoiselle, it is--pardon--it is a devil! It will be
the death of some one yet. I could never drive it."

"But if we sold that car, Jean, as we are going to do--"

"I could not stay, Miss Viola. I have a new place, and to that I go in
two weeks. I am sorry, for I liked it here, though--Oh, well, of what
use?" and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Was there something you did not like? Did my father not treat you
well?" asked Viola quickly.

"Oh, as to that, mademoiselle, I should not speak. I liked your father.
We, at times, did have difference; as who has not? But he was a friend
to me. What would you have? I am sorry!" And he touched his hat and
drove around to the garage.

As Viola was about to enter the house she chanced to look down the
street and saw Minnie Webb approaching. She looked so thoroughly
downcast that Viola was surprised.

"Hello, Minnie!" she exclaimed pleasantly. "Anything new or startling?"

"Nothing," was the somewhat listless reply. "Is there anything new
here?" and Minnie Webb's face showed a momentary interest.

"I can't say that there is," returned Viola. She paused for a moment.
"Won't you come in?"

"I don't think so-not to-day," stammered the other girl. And then as she
looked at Viola her face began to flush. "I--I don't feel very well. I
have a terrible headache. I think I'll go home and lie down," and she
hurried on without another word.

"There is certainly something wrong with Minnie," speculated Viola, as
she looked after her friend. "I wonder if it is on account of LeGrand
Blossom."

She did not know how much Minnie Webb was in love with the man who had
been her father's confidential clerk and who was now in charge of Mr.
Carwell's business affairs, and, not knowing this, she could, of course,
not realize under what a strain Minnie was now living with so many
suspicions against Blossom.

Divesting herself of her street dress for a more simple gown, Viola
inquired of the maid whether Colonel Ashley was in the house. When
informed that he had gone fishing with Shag, the girl, with a little
gesture of impatience, took her seat near a window to look over some
mail that had come during her absence.

As she glanced up after reading a belated letter of sympathy she saw,
alighting from his car which had stopped in front of The Haven, Captain
Gerry Poland. He caught sight of her, and waved his hand.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Viola. "If he hadn't seen me I could have said I
was not at home, but now--"

She heard his ring at the door and resigned herself to meeting him, but
if the captain had not been so much in love with Viola Carwell he could
not have helped noticing her rather cold greeting.

"I called," he said, "to see if there was anything more I could do for
you or for your aunt. I saw Blossom, and he says he is working over the
books. I've had a good deal of experience in helping settle up estates
that were involved. I mean--" he added hastily--"where no will was left,
and, my dear Viola, if I could be of any assistance--"

"Thank you," broke in Viola rather coldly, "I don't know that there is
anything you can do. It is very kind of you, but Mr. Blossom has charge
and--"

"Oh, of course I realize that," went on Captain Poland quickly. "But I
thought there might be something."

"There is nothing," and now the yachtsman could not help noticing the
coldness in Viola's voice. He seemed to nerve himself for an effort as
he said:

"Viola"--he paused a moment before adding--"why can't we be friends?
You were decent enough to me some days ago, and now--Have I done
anything--said anything? I want to be friends with you. I want to be--"

He took a step nearer her, but she drew back.

"Please don't think, Captain Poland, that I am not appreciative of what
you have done for me," the girl said quickly. "But--Oh, I really don't
know what to think. It has all been so terrible."

"Indeed it has," said the captain, in a low voice. "But I would like to
help."

"Then perhaps you can!" suddenly exclaimed Viola, and there was a new
note in her voice. "Have you been to see Harry Bartlett in--in jail?"
and she faltered over that word.

"No, I have not," said the captain, and there was a sharp tone in his
answer. "I understood no one was allowed to see him."

"That is true enough," agreed Viola. "They wouldn't let me see him, and
I wanted to--so much. I presume you know how he comes to be in prison."

"It isn't exactly a prison."

"To him it is-and to me," she said. "But you know how he comes to be
there?"

"Yes. I was present at the inquest. By the way, they are to resume it
this week, I heard. The chemists have finished their analyses and are
ready to testify."

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Yes. But, speaking of Harry--poor chap--it's terrible, of course, but
he may be able to clear himself."

"Clear himself, Captain Poland? What do you mean?" and indignant Viola
faced her caller.

"Oh, well, I mean--" He seemed in some confusion.

"I want to know something," went on Viola. "Did you bring it to the
attention of the coroner or the prosecutor that Harry Bartlett saw my
father just before-before his death, and quarreled with him? Did you
tell that, Captain Poland?"

Viola Carwell was like a stem accuser now.

"Did you?" she demanded again.

"I did," answered Captain Poland, not, however, without an effort. "I
felt that it was my duty to do so. I merely offered it as a suggestion,
however, to one of the prosecutor's detectives. I didn't think it would
lead to anything. I happened to hear your father and Harry having some
words-about what I couldn't catch-and I thought it no more than right
that all the facts should be brought out in court. I made no secret
about it. I did not send word anonymously to the coroner, as I might
have done. He knew the source of the information, and he could have
called me to the stand had he so desired."

"Would you have told the same story on the stand?"

"I would. It was the truth."

"Even if it sent him--sent Harry to jail?"

"I would--yes. I felt it was my duty, and--"

"Oh-duty!"

Viola made a gesture of impatience.

"So-you-you told, Captain Poland! That is enough! Please don't try to
see me again."

"Viola!" he pleaded. "Please listen--"

"I mean it!" she said, sternly. "Go! I never want to see you again! Oh,
to do such a thing!"

The captain, nonplussed for a moment, lingered, as though to appeal from
the decision. Then, without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and
left the room.

Viola sank on a sofa, and gave way to her emotion.

"It can't be true! It can't!" she sobbed. "I won't believe it. It must
not be true! Oh, how can I prove otherwise? But I will! I must! Harry
never did that horrible thing, and I will prove it!

"Why should Captain Poland try to throw suspicion on him? It isn't
right. He had no need to tell the detective that! I must see Colonel
Ashley at once and tell him what I think. Oh, Captain Poland, if I--"

Viola twisted in her slender hands a sofa cushion, and then threw it
violently from her.

"I'll see Colonel Ashley at once!" she decided.

Inquiry of a maid disclosed the fact that the colonel was still fishing,
and from Patrick, the gardener, she learned that he had gone to try his
luck at a spot in the river at the end of the golf course where Patrick
himself had hooked more than one fish.

"I'll follow him there," said Viola. "I suppose he won't want to be
interrupted while he's fishing, but I can't help it! I must talk to some
one--tell somebody what I think."

She donned a walking skirt and stout shoes, for the way to the river was
rough, and set out. On the way she thought of many things, and chiefly
of the man pacing his lonely walk back and forth behind windows that had
steel bars on them.

Viola became aware of some one walking toward her as she neared the bend
of the river whither Patrick had directed her, and a second glance told
her it was the faithful Shag.

He bowed with a funny little jerk and took off his cap.

"Is the colonel there?" and she indicated what seemed to be an ideal
fishing place among the willows.

"He was, Miss Viola, but he done gone now."

"Gone? Where? Do you mean back to the house?"

"No'm. He done gone t' N'York."

"New York?"

"Yes'm. On de afternoon train. He say he may be back t'night, an' mebby
not 'twell mornin'."

"But New York-and so suddenly! Why did he go, Shag?"

"I don't know all de 'ticklers, Miss Viola, but I heah him say he got t'
git a book on poisons."

"A book on poisons?" and Viola started.

"Yes'm. He done want one fo' de case he's wukin' on, an' he can't git
none at de library, so he go to N'York after one. I'se bringin' back his
tackle. De fish didn't bite nohow, so he went away, de colonel did."

"Oh!"

Viola stood irresolute a moment, and then turned back toward the house,
Shag walking beside her.



CHAPTER XIV. THE PRIVATE SAFE


Divided as she was among several opinions, torn by doubts and sufferings
from grief, Viola Carwell found distinct relief in a message that
awaited her on her return to the house after her failure to find Colonel
Ashley. The message, given her by a maid, was to the effect:

"The safe man has come."

"The who?" asked Viola, not at first understanding.

"The safe man. He said you sent for him to open a safe and--"

"Oh, yes, I understand, Jane. Where is he?"

"In the library, Miss Viola."

Viola hastened to the room where so many fateful talks had taken place
of late, and found there a quiet man, beside whose chair was a limp
valise that rattled with a metallic jingle as his foot brushed against
it when he arose on her entrance.

"Have you come from the safe company?" she asked.

"Yes. I understood that there was one of our safes which could not be
opened, and they sent me. Here is the order," and he held out the paper.

He spoke with quiet dignity, omitting the "ma'am," from his salutation.
And Viola was glad of this. He was a relief from the usual plumber or
carpenter, who seemed to lack initiative.

"It is my father's private safe that we wish opened," she said. "He
alone had the combination to it, and he--he is dead," she added softly.

"So I understood," he responded with appreciation of what her grief must
be. "Well, I think I shall be able to open the safe without damaging it.
That was what you wanted, was it not?"

"Yes. Father never let any one but himself open the safe when he was
alive. I don't believe my mother or I saw it open more than ten times,
and then by accident. In it he kept his private papers. But, now that
he is--is gone, there is need to see how his affairs stand. The lawyer
tells me I had better open the safe.

"When we found that none of us knew the combination, and when it was not
found written down anywhere among father's other papers, and when his
clerk, Mr. Blossom, did not have it, we sent to the company."

"I understand," said the safe expert. "If you will show me--"

Viola touched a button on the wall, a button so cleverly concealed that
the ordinary observer would never have noticed it, and a panel slid
back, revealing the door of the safe.

"It was one of father's ideas that his strong box was better hidden this
way," said Viola, with a little wan smile. "Is there room enough for you
to work? The safe is built into the wall."

"Oh, there is plenty of room, thank you. I can very easily get at it.
It isn't the first safe I've had to work on this way. Many families have
safes hidden like this. It's a good idea."

He looked at the safe, noted the manufacturer's number, and consulted a
little book he carried with him. Then he began to turn the knob gently,
listening the while, with acute and trained ears, to the noise the
tumblers made as they clicked their way, unseen, amid the mazes of the
combination.

"Will it be difficult, do you think?" asked Viola. "Will it take you
long?"

"That is hard to say."

"Do you mind if I watch you?" she asked eagerly. She wanted something to
take her mind off the many things that were tearing at it as the not far
distant sea tore at the shore which stood as a barrier in its way.

"Not at all," answered the expert. Then he went on with his work.

In a way it was as delicate an operation as that which sometimes
confronts a physician who is in doubt as to what ails his patient. There
was a twisting and a turning of the knob, a listening with an ear to the
heavy steel door, as a doctor listens to the breathing of a pneumonia
victim. Then with his little finger held against the numbered dial, the
expert again twirled the nickel knob, seeking to tell, by the vibration,
when the little catches fell into the slots provided for them.

It was rather a lengthy operation, and he tried several of the more
common and usual combinations without result. As he straightened up to
rest Viola asked:

"Do you think you can manage it? Can you open it?"

"Oh, yes. It will take a little time, but I can do it. Your father
evidently used a more complicated combination than is usually set on
these safes. But I shall find it."

Viola's determination to open the safe had been arrived at soon after
the funeral, when it was found that, as far as could be ascertained, her
father had left no will. A stickler for system, in its many branches
and ramifications, and insisting for minute detail on the part of his
subordinates, Horace Carwell did what many a better and worse man has
done--put off the making of his will. And that made it necessary for
the surrogate to appoint an administrator, who, in this case, Viola
renouncing her natural rights, was Miss Mary Carwell.

"I'd rather you acted than I," Viola had said, though she, being of age
and the direct heir, could well and legally have served.

Miss Carwell had agreed to act. Then it became necessary to find out
certain facts, and when they were not disclosed by a perusal of the
papers of the dead man found in his office and in the safe deposit box
at the bank, recourse was had to the private safe. LeGrand Blossom knew
nothing of what was in the strong box-not even being entrusted with the
combination.

"There! It's open!" announced the expert at length, and he turned the
handle and swung back the door.

"Thank you," said Viola. Then, as she looked within the safe, she
exclaimed:

"Oh, there is an inner compartment, and that's locked, too!"

"Only with a key. That will give no trouble at all," said the man. He
proved it by opening it with the third key he tried from a bunch of many
he took from his valise.

That was all there was for him to do, save to set the combination with a
simpler system, which he did, giving Viola the numbers.

"Was it as easy as you thought?" she asked, when the expert was about to
leave.

"Not quite--no. The combination was a double one. That is, in two parts.
First the one had to be disposed of, and then the other worked."

"Why was that?"

"Well, it is on the same principle as the safe deposit boxes in a bank.
The depositor has one key, and the bank the other. The box cannot be
opened by either party alone. Both keys must be used. That insures that
no one person alone can get into the box. It was the same way with this
safe. The combination was in two parts."

"And did my father set it that way?"

"He must have done so, or had some one arrange the combination for him."

"Then he--he must have shared the combination with some one else!" There
was fright in Viola's eyes, and a catch in her voice.

"Yes," assented the expert. "Either that or he set it that way merely
for what we might call a 'bluff,' to throw any casual intruder off the
track. Your father might have possessed both combinations himself."

"And yet he might have shared them with--with another person?"

"Yes."

"And the other--the other person"--Viola hesitated noticeably over the
word--"would have to be present when the safe was opened?" She did not
say "he" or "she."

"Well, not necessarily," answered the expert. "He might have had the
combination in two parts, and used both of them himself. It is often
done. Though, of course, he could, at any time, have shared the secret
of the safe with some one else."

"That would only be in the event of there being something in it that
both he and some other person would want to take out at the same time;
something that one could not get at without the knowledge of the other;
would it not?"

"Naturally, yes. But, as I say, it might be the other way--that the
double combination was used merely as an additional precaution."

"Thank you," said Viola.

She sat for several minutes in front of the opened safe after the expert
had gone, and did not offer to take out any of the papers that were now
exposed to view. There was a strange look on her face.

"Two persons!" she murmured. "Two persons! Did he share the secrets of
this safe with some one--some one else?"

Viola reached forth her hand and took hold of a bundle of papers tied
with a red band-tape it was, of the kind used in lawyers' offices. The
bundle appeared to contain letters--old letters, and the handwriting was
that of a woman.

"I wonder if I had better get Aunt Mary?" mused the girl. "She is the
administrator, and she will have to know. But there are some things I
might keep from her--if I had to."

She looked more closely at the letters, and when she saw that they were
in the well-remembered hand of her mother she breathed more easily.

"If he kept--these--it must be--all right!" she faltered to herself. "I
will call Aunt Mary."

The two women, seeing dimly through their tears at times, went over
the contents of the private safe. There were letters that told of the
past--of the happy days of love and courtship, and of the early married
life. Viola put them sacredly aside, and delved more deeply into the
strong box.

"It was like Horace to keep something away from every one else," said
his sister. "He did love a secret. But we don't seem to be getting at
anything, Viola, that will tell us where there is any more money, and
that's what we need now, more than anything else. At least you do, if
LeGrand Blossom is right, and you intend to keep on living in the style
you're used to."

"I don't have to do that, Aunt Mary. Being poor would not frighten me."

"I didn't think it would. Fortunately I have enough for both of us,
though I won't spend anything on a big yacht nor a car that looks like a
Fourth of July procession, however much I love the Star Spangled Banner.

"Oh, no, we mustn't dream of keeping the big car nor the yacht," said
Viola. "They are to be sold as soon as possible. I only hope they will
bring a good price. But here are more papers, Aunt Mary. We must see
what they are. Poor father had so many business interests. It's going to
be a dreadful matter to straighten them all out."

"Well, LeGrand Blossom and Captain Poland will help us."

"Captain Poland?" questioned Viola.

"Yes. Why not? He is a fine business man, and he has large interests of
his own. Have you any objection?"

"Oh, I don't know. Of course not!" she added quickly, as she caught
sight of a rather odd look on her aunt's face. "If we have to--I mean if
you find it necessary, you can ask his advice, I suppose."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Why, yes, I believe I would--just as a matter of business."

Viola's voice was calm and cool, but it might have been because her
attention was focused on a bundle of papers she was taking from the
safe. And a casual perusal of these showed that they had a bearing on
subjects that might explain certain things.

"Look, Aunt Mary!" the girl exclaimed. "Father seems to have kept a
diary. It tells--it tells about that trouble he had with Harry--Rather,
it wasn't with Harry at all. It was Harry's uncle. It's that same old
trouble father so often referred to. He always declared he was cheated
in a certain business deal, but I always imagined it was because he
didn't make as much money as he thought he ought to. Father was like
that. But see-this puts a different face on it."

Together they looked over the papers, and among them-among the
memoranda, copies of contracts and other documents--was a diary, or
perhaps it might be called a business man's journal. Both Viola and her
aunt were familiar enough with business to understand the import of what
they read.

It was to the effect that Mr. Amos Bartlett, Harry's paternal uncle, had
been associated with Mr. Carwell in several transactions involving some
big business deals. Mr. Bartlett had been smart enough, by forming a
directorate within a directorate and by means of a dummy company, to get
a large sum to his credit, while Mr. Carwell was left to face a large
deficit.

"And Harry Bartlett acted as agent for his uncle in the transactions!"
exclaimed Miss Carwell as she looked over the papers.

"But I don't believe he knew anything wrong was being done!" declared
Viola. "I'm positive he didn't. Harry isn't that kind of a man."

"These papers don't say so."

"Naturally you wouldn't expect father to say a good word for one he
considered his business rival, not to say enemy. I don't believe Harry
had anything more to do with it than he had with--with poor father's
death."

Miss Carwell said nothing. She was busy looking over some other papers
which the opening of the private safe had revealed. And then, while her
aunt was engaged with these, Viola found a little bundle that had on it
her name.

For a moment she debated with herself whether or not to open it. The
handwriting was that of her father, and it seemed as though something
stayed her. But she broke the string at last and there tumbled into her
lap some photographs of herself, taken at different ages, a number
of them--in fact, most of them--amateur attempts, some snapped by her
mother and some by her father, as Viola knew from seeing them. She
recalled some very well--especially one taken on the back of a little
Shetland pony. On the reverse of this picture Mr. Carwell had written:
"My dear little girl!"

Viola burst into tears, and her aunt, seeing the cause, felt the strings
of her heart being tugged.

"Well, one thing seems to be proved," said the older woman, when they
were again going over the papers, sorting out some to be shown to the
lawyer who was advising them on the conduct of the estate, "and that is
that your father didn't think very much of Harry Bartlett."

"That was his fault--I mean father's," retorted Viola. "He had no reason
for it, even with what this paper says. I don't believe Harry would do
such a thing."

"Do you suppose the quarrel could have been about this?" and Miss
Carwell held out the journal.

"I don't know what to think," said Viola. "But here is another
memorandum. We must see what this is."

Together they bent over the remaining documents the safe had given
up--secrets of the dead.

As they read a strange look came over Viola's face.

Miss Carwell, perusing a document, recited:

"Memo. of certain matters between Captain Poland and myself.  And while
I think of it let me state that but for his timely and generous
financial aid I would have been ruined by that scoundrel Bartlett.
Captain Poland saved me.  And should the stock of the concern ever be on
a paying basis I intend to repay him not only all he advanced me but any
profit I may secure shall be divided with him in gratitude.  That there
will be a profit I very much doubt, though this does not lessen my
gratitude to Captain Poland for his aid."

There was a little gasp from Viola as she heard this.

"Captain Poland saved father from possible ruin," she murmured, "and
I--I treated him so! Oh! oh!"



CHAPTER XV. POOR FISHING


"Have a drink, Colonel?"

"Eh?"

"I said--Here, boy! A Scotch high and a mint julep."

Colonel Ashley, roused from his reverie as he sat in his club, gazing
out on the busy, fashionable, hurrying, jostling, worried, happy, sad,
and otherwise throngs that swept past the big Fifth avenue windows,
shifted himself in the comfortable leather chair, and looked at his
cigar. It had gone out, and he decided that it was not worth relighting.

"Cigars, too!" ordered Bruce Garrigan.

"Oh, were you speaking to me?" and the colonel seemed wholly awake now.

"Not only to you, but in your interests," went on Garrigan, with a
smile. "Hope I didn't disturb your nap, but--"

"Oh, no," the colonel hastened to assure his companion with his usual
affability. "I had finished sleeping."

"So I inferred. Do you know how many hours, minutes and seconds the
average human being has passed in sleep when he reaches the age of
forty-five years?" and Garrigan smiled quizzically.

"No, sir," answered Colonel Ashley, "I do not."

"Neither do I," confessed Mr. Garrigan as he sank down in a chair beside
the colonel and accepted the glass from a tray which the much-buttoned
club attendant held out to him. "I don't know, and I don't much care."

Then, when cigars were glowing and the smoke arose in graceful clouds,
an aroma as of incense shrouding the two as they gazed out on the
afternoon throngs, Garrigan remarked:

"I didn't know you were here. In fact, I didn't know you were a member
of this club."

"You wouldn't know it if my attendance here were needed to prove it,"
said the colonel with a smile. "I don't get here very often, but I
had to run up on some business, and I found this the most convenient
stopping place."

"Are you going back to Lakeside?"

"Oh, yes!" There was prompt decision in the answer.

"Then you haven't finished that unfortunate affair? You haven't found
out what caused the death of Mr. Carwell?"

"Oh, yes, I know what killed him."

"But not who?"

"Not yet."

"Do you hold to the suicide theory?"

"I don't hold to anything, my dear Mr. Garrigan," answered the colonel,
who was in a sufficiently mellow mood to be amused by the rather vapid
talk of his host--for such he had constituted himself on the ordering of
the drinks and cigars. "That is I haven't such a hold on any theory that
I can't let go and take a new one if occasion warrants it."

"I see. And so you came up to get away from the rather gruesome
atmosphere down there?"

"Not exactly. I came up on business--I have a business in New York you
know, in spite of the fact that I am here," and the colonel smiled as he
looked about the room where were gathered men of wealth and leisure, who
did not seem to have a care or worry in the world.

"Oh, yes, I know that," agreed Garrigan. "Well, has your trip been
satisfactory?"

"I can't say that it has. In fact it's pretty poor fishing around here,
and I'm thinking of going back. I want to hear the click of the reel and
the music of the brook. I wasn't cut out for a city man, and the longer
I stay here the worse I hate the place, even if I do have a business
here."

"Then you don't care for--this," and Garrigan waved his hand at the
congestion of automobiles and stages which had come to a halt opposite
the big windows of the exclusive and fashionable club.

It was four in the afternoon, just when traffic both of automobiles and
pedestrians is at its height on the avenue. Of horse-drawn equipages
they were so few as to be a novelty.

"I care so little for it that I am going back to-night," the detective
responded.

"Then you have found what you came looking for?"

"I told you the fishing was very poor," said the colonel with a smile.
"My friend Mr. Walton, were he alive now, would never forgive me for
deserting the place I left to come here. When did you come up?"

"Last night. They insisted I had to put in an appearance at the office
merely to take away the salary that's been accumulating for me--said it
cluttered up the place. So I obliged. Do you know how many automobiles
pass this window every twenty-four hours?" Garrigan asked suddenly.

"I do not."

"Neither do I. It would be interesting to know, however. I think I shall
count them, when I have nothing else to do. I understand there is a
checking or tabulating machine made for such purposes. But perhaps I am
keeping you from--"

"You are merely keeping me from ordering another portion of liquid
refreshment," interrupted the colonel with a smile. "Boy!"

And once again there was diffused the aroma of mint and the more
pronounced odor of the Scotch.

"Yes, it's pretty poor fishing," mused the colonel, when Garrigan had
gone off to engage in a game of billiards with some insistent friends,
whose advent the detective was thankful for, as he wanted to be alone.
He was gregarious by nature, but there were times when he had to be
alone, and it was because of this trait in his nature that he had taken
up with the rod and reel, becoming a disciple of Izaak Walton.

Until dusk began to fall, changing the character of the throngs on the
avenue, the colonel lingered in his easy chair before the broad, plate
windows. And then, as the electric lights began to sparkle, as had the
diamonds on some of the over-dressed women in the afternoon, he arose
and started out.

"Will you be dining here, sir?" asked one of the stewards.

"Mr. Garrigan asked me to inquire, sir, and, if you were, to say that he
would appreciate it if you would be his guest."

"Thank him for me, and tell him I can't stay." And the colonel, tossing
aside the cigar which had gone out and been frequently relighted, soon
found himself making a part of the avenue's night throng.

It was a warm summer evening-altogether too warm to be in New York when
one had the inclination and means to be elsewhere, but the colonel, in
spite of the fact that he had been in a hurry to leave the club, seemed
to find no occasion for haste now.

He sauntered along, seemingly without an object, though the rather
frequent consultations he made of his watch appeared to indicate
otherwise. Finally, he seemed either to have come to a sudden decision
or to have noted the demise of the time he was trying to kill, for with
a last quick glance at his timepiece he put it back into his pocket,
and, turning a corner where there was a taxicab stand, he entered one of
the vehicles and gave an order to the chauffeur.

"Columbia College-yes, sir!" and the driver looked rather oddly at the
figure of the colonel.

"Wonder what he teaches, and what he's going up there this time of night
for?" was the mental comment of the chauffeur. "Maybe they have evening
classes, but this guy looks as though he could give em a post-graduate
course in poker."

Colonel Ashley sat back in the corner of the cab, glad of the rather
long ride before him. He scarcely moved, save when the sway or jolt of
the vehicle tossed him about, and he sat with an unlighted cigar between
his teeth.

"Yes," he murmured once, "pretty poor fishing. I might better have
stayed where I was. Well, I'll go back to-morrow."

Leaving the taxicab, the colonel made his way along the raised plaza on
which some of the college buildings front, and turned into the faculty
club, where he stayed for some time. When he came out, having told his
man to wait, he bore under his arm a package which, even to the casual
observer, contained books.

"Pennsylvania station," was the order he gave, and again he sat back in
the corner of the cab, scarcely glancing out of the window to note the
busy scenes all about him.

It was not until he had purchased his ticket and was about to board the
last Jersey Shore train, to take him back to the scene of the death of
Horace Carwell, that Colonel Ashley, as he caught sight of a figure in
the crowd ahead of him, seemed galvanized into new life.

For a moment he gazed at a certain man, taking care to keep some women
with large hats between the object of his attention and himself. And
then, as he made sure of the identity, the colonel murmured:

"Poor fishing did I say? Well, it seems to me it's getting better."

He looked at his watch, made a rapid calculation that showed him he had
about five minutes before the train's departure, and then he hurried off
to his right and down the stairs that led to the lavatories.

It was Colonel Robert Lee Ashley, as Bruce Garrigan had seen him at the
Fifth Avenue club, who entered one of the pay compartments where so many
in-coming and out-going travelers may, for the modest sum of ten cents,
enjoy in the railroad station a freshening up by means of soap, towels
and plenty of hot water.

But it was a typical Southern politician, with slouch hat, long
frock coat, a moustache and goatee, who emerged from the same private
wash-room a little later, carrying a small, black valise.

"I don't like to do this," said Colonel Ashley, making sure the spirit
gum had set, so his moustache and goatee would not come off prematurely,
"but I have to. This fishing is getting better, and I don't want any of
the fish to see me."

Then he went down the steps to the train that soon would be whirling him
under the Hudson river, along the Jersey meadows, and down to the cool
shore. He passed through the string of coaches until he came to one
where he found a seat behind a certain man. Into this vantage point the
colonel, looking more the part than ever, slumped himself and opened his
paper.

"Yes, the fishing is getting better--decidedly better," he mused. "I
shouldn't wonder but what I got a bite soon."



CHAPTER XVI. SOME LETTERS


When Jean Forette, whose month was not quite up and who had not yet
completed arrangements for his new position, alighted from the Shore
Express at Lakeside and made his way-afoot and not in a machine--to the
Three Pines, the picturesque figure of the Southern gentleman followed.

"I wonder," mused Colonel Ashley, "whether he takes Scotch Highballs or
absinthe, and what dope he mixes with it? Absinthe is rather hard to get
out here, I should imagine, but they might have a green brand of whiskey
they'd sell for it. But that Frenchman ought to know the genuine stuff.
However, we'll see."

Carrying his limp, leather bag, which had served him in such good stead
when he entered the lavatory, the colonel slouched silently along the
road. It was close to midnight, and there would be no other trains to
the shore that day.

The lights of the Three Pines glowed in pleasant and inviting fashion
across the sandy highway. Out in front stood several cars, for the
tavern was one much patronized by summer visitors, and was a haven of
refuge, a "life-saving station," as it had been dubbed by those who
fancied they were much in need of alcoholic refreshment.

Jean Forette entered, and Colonel Ashley, waiting a little and
making sure that the "tap room," as it was ostentatiously called, was
sufficiently filled to enable him to mingle with the patrons without
attracting undue notice, followed.

He looked about for a sight of the chauffeur, and saw him leaning up
against the bar, sipping a glass of beer, and, between imbibitions,
talking earnestly to the white-aproned bartender.

"I'd like to hear what they're saying," mused the colonel. "I wonder if
I can get a bit nearer."

He ordered some rye, and, having disposed of it, took out a cigar, and
began searching in his pockets as though for a match.

"Here you are!" observed a bartender, as he held out a lighted taper.

The colonel had anticipated this, and quickly moved down the mahogany
rail toward the end where Jean Forette was standing. At that end was a
little gas jet kept burning as a convenience to smokers.

"I'll use that," said the colonel. "I don't like the flavor of burnt
wood in my smoke."

"Fussy old duck," murmured the barkeeper as he let the flame he had
ignited die out, flicking the blackened end to the floor.

And, being careful to keep his face as much as possible in the shadow of
his big, slouch hat, Colonel Ashley lighted his cigar at the gas flame.

And, somehow or other, that cigar required a long and most careful
lighting. The smoker got the tip glowing, and then inspected it
critically. It was not to his satisfaction, as he drew a few puffs on
it, and again he applied the end to the flame.

He sent forth a perfect cloud of smoke this time, and it seemed to veil
him as the fog, blowing in from the sea, veils the tumbling billows.
Once more there was a look at the end, but the "fussy old duck" was not
satisfied, and, again had recourse to the flame.

All this while Colonel Ashley was straining his ears to catch what Jean
Forette was saying to the attendant who had drawn the frothing glass of
beer for him.

But the men talked in too low a tone, or the colonel had been a bit too
late, for all he heard was a murmur of automobile talk. Jean seemed
to be telling something about a particularly fast car he had formerly
driven.

"The fishing isn't as good as I hoped," mused the colonel.

Then, as he turned to go out, he heard distinctly:

"Sure I remember you paying for the drink. I can prove that if you want
me to. Are they tryin' to double-cross you?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Well, you leave it to me, see? I'll square you all right."

"Thanks," murmured Jean, and then he, too, turned aside.

"There may be something in it after all," was the colonel's thought,
and then he, too, hurried from the Three Pines, passing beneath the big
trees, with their sighing branches, which gave the name to the inn.

On toward The Haven, through the silence and darkness of the night, went
the detective. And at a particularly dark and lonely place he stopped.
The pungent, clean smell of grain alcohol filled the air, and a little
later a man, devoid of goatee and moustache, passing out into the
starlight, while a black, slouch hat went into the bag, and a Panama,
so flexible that it had not suffered from having been thrust rather
ruthlessly into the valise, came out.

"I don't like that sort of detective work," mused the colonel, "but it
has its uses."

Viola Carwell, alone in her room, sat with a bundle of letters on a
table before her. They were letters she had found in a small drawer of
the private safe--a drawer she had, at first, thought contained nothing.
The discovery of the letters had been made in a peculiar manner.

Viola and Miss Carwell, going over the documents, had sorted them into
two piles--one to be submitted to the lawyer, the other being made up
of obviously personal matters that could have no interest for any but
members of the family.

Then Miss Carwell had been called away to attend to some household
matters, and Viola had started to return to the safe such of the papers
as were not to go to the lawyer.

She opened a small drawer, to slip back into it a bundle of letters her
mother had written to Mr. Carwell years before. Then Viola became aware
of something else in the drawer. It was something that caught on the end
of her finger nail, and she was stung by a little prick-like that of a
pin.

"A sliver-under my nail!" exclaimed Viola. "The bottom of the wooden
drawer must be loose."

It was loose, as she discovered as soon as she looked in the
compartment. But it was a looseness that meant nothing else than that
the drawer had a false bottom.

It was not such a false bottom as would have been made use of in the
moving pictures. That is to say it was very poorly made, and an almost
casual glance would have revealed it. All that had been done was to take
a piece of wood the exact size and shape of the bottom of the drawer,
and fit it in. This extra piece of wood covered anything that might be
put in the drawer under it, and then, on top of the false bottom other
things might be placed so that when they were taken out, and the person
doing it saw bare wood, the conclusion would naturally follow that all
the contents of the drawer had been removed.

But such was not the case. Beneath the smooth-fitting piece of wood,
which had sprung loose and been the means of driving a splinter under
Viola's nail, thus apprising her of the fact that there was something in
the drawer she had not seen, had been found some letters. And Viola had
not told her aunt about them.

"I want to see what they are myself, first," the girl decided.

Now they were spread out on her dressing table in front of her. She
sat with her glorious blue-black hair unbound, and falling over her
shoulders, which gleamed pink through the filmy thinness of her robe.

"I wonder if I shall be shocked when I read them?" she mused.

That was what Viola had been living in continual fear of since her
father's death--that some disclosure would shock her--that she might
come upon some phase of his past life which would not bear the full
light of day. For Horace Carwell had not stinted himself of the
pleasures of life as he saw them. He had eaten and drunk and he had made
merry. And he was a gregarious man--one who did not like to take his
pleasures alone.

And so Viola was afraid.

The letters were held together with an elastic band, and this gave some
hope.

"If they were from a woman, he wouldn't have used a rubber band on
them," reasoned Viola. "He was too sentimental for that. They can't be
mother's letters--they were in another compartment. I wonder--"

Viola had done much wondering since her mother's death, and considerable
of it had been due to the life her father led. That he would marry again
she doubted, but he was fond of the society of the men, and particularly
the women of their own set, and some sets with which Viola preferred to
have nothing to do.

And if Mr. Carwell had no intentions of marrying again, then his
interest in women--

But here Viola ceased wondering.

With a more resolute air she reached forth hand to the bundle of letters
and took one out. There was distinct relief in her manner as she quickly
turned to the signature and read: "Gerry Poland."

And then, quickly, she ascertained that all the letters comprised
correspondence between her father and the yacht club captain.

"But why did he hide these letters away?" mused Viola. "They seem to
be about business, as the others were--the others showing that Captain
Poland perhaps saved my father from financial ruin. Why should they be
under the false bottom of the drawer?"

She could not answer that question.

"I must read them all," she murmured, and she went through the entire
correspondence. There were several letters, sharp in tone, from both
men, and the subject was as Greek to Viola. But there was one note from
the captain to her father that brought a more vivid color to her dark
cheeks, for Captain Poland had written:

"You care little for what I have done for you, otherwise you would not
so oppose my attentions to your daughter.  They are most honorable, as
you well know, yet you are strangely against me.  I can not understand
it."

"Oh!" murmured Viola. "It is as if I were being bargained for! How I
hate him!"

Almost blinded by her tears she read another letter. It was another
appeal to her father to use his influence in assisting the captain's
suit.

But this letter--or at least that portion of it relating to Viola--had
been torn, and all that remained was:

"As members of the same lo--"

"What can that have meant?" she mused. "Is it the word 'lodge'?"

She read on, where the letter was whole again:

"I must ask you to reconsider your actions. Let me hear from you by the
twenty-third or--"

Again was that mystifying and tantalizing tear. Viola hastily searched
among the other letters, hoping the missing pieces might be found.

"I simply must see what it meant," she said. "I wonder if they can be in
another part of the safe? I'm going to look!"

She started for her bath robe, and, at that moment, with a suddenness
that unnerved her, there came a knock on her door.



CHAPTER XVII. OVER THE TELEPHONE


Viola's first movement was of concealment--to toss over the scattered
letters on her desk a lace shawl she had been wearing earlier in the
evening. Then satisfied that should the unknown knocker prove to be some
one whom she might admit--her Aunt Mary or one of the maids--satisfied
that no one would, at first glance, see the letters which might mean
nothing or much, Viola asked in a voice that slightly trembled:

"Who is it?"

"I did not mean to disturb you," came the answer, and with a sense of
relief Viola recognized the voice of Colonel Ashley. "But I have just
returned from New York, and, seeing a light under your door, I thought I
would-report, as it were."

"Oh, thank you-thank you!" the girl exclaimed, relief evident in her
voice.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" the colonel went on, as he stood
outside the closed door. "Has anything happened since I went away?"

"No--no," said Viola, rather hesitatingly. "There is nothing new to tell
you. I was sitting up--reading."

Her glance went to the desk where the letters were scattered.

"Oh," answered the colonel. "Well, don't sit up too late. It is getting
on toward morning."

"Have you anything to tell me, Colonel Ashley?" asked Viola. "Did you
discover anything?"

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, and then
came the answer, given slowly:

"No, nothing to report. I will have a talk with you in the morning."

And then the footsteps of the detective were heard, lessening in their
sound, as he made his way to his room.

Viola, perplexed, puzzled, and bewildered, went back to her desk. She
took up the letters again. The torn one with its strange reference: "As
members of the same--"

What could it be? Was it some secret society to which her father and
Gerry Poland belonged, the violation of the secrets of which carried a
death penalty?

No, it could not be anything as sensational as that. Clearly the captain
was in love with her--he had frankly confessed as much, and Viola knew
it anyhow. She was not at all sure whether he loved her for her position
or because she was good to look upon and desirable in every way.

As for her own heart, she was sure of that. In spite of the fact that
she had tried to pique him that fatal day, merely to "stir him up,"
as she phrased it, Viola was deeply and earnestly in love with Harry
Bartlett, and she was sure enough of his feeling toward her to find in
it a glow of delight.

Then there was in the letter the hint of a threat. "Let me hear from you
by the twenty-third, or--"

"Oh, what does it mean? What does it mean?" and Viola bent her weary
head down on the letters and her tears stained them. Puzzled as she
was over the contents of the letters--torn and otherwise--which she had
found hidden in the drawer of the private safe, Viola Carwell was not
yet ready to share her secret with her Aunt Mary or Colonel Ashley.
These two were her nearest and most natural confidants under the
circumstances.

"I would like to tell Harry, but I can't," she reasoned, when she
had awakened after a night of not very refreshing slumber. "Of course
Captain Poland could explain--if he would. But I'll keep this a secret a
little longer. But, oh! I wonder what it means?"

And so, when she greeted Colonel Ashley at the breakfast table she
smiled and tried to appear her usual self.

"I did not hear you come in," said Miss Carwell, as she poured the
coffee.

"No, I did not want to disturb any one," answered the colonel. "I saw a
light under Miss Viola's door, and reported myself to her," he went on.
"But I don't imagine you slept much more than I did, for your eyes are
not as bright as usual," and he smiled at the girl.

"Aren't they?" countered Viola. "Well, I did read later than I should.
But tell me, Colonel Ashley, are you making any progress at all?"

He did not answer for a moment. He seemed very much occupied in
buttering a piece of roll--trying to get the little dab of yellow in
the exact center of the white portion. Then, when it was arranged to his
satisfaction, he said:

"I am making progress, that is all I can say now."

"And does that progress carry with it any hope that Harry Bartlett will
be proved innocent?" asked Viola eagerly.

"That I can not say--now. I hope it will, though."

"Thank you for that!" exclaimed Viola earnestly.

Miss Carwell said nothing. She had her own opinion, and was going to
hold to it, detectives or no detectives.

"Will you send Shag to me?" the colonel requested a maid, as he arose
from the table. "Tell him we are going fishing."

"Isn't there anything you can do--I mean toward--toward the--case?"
faltered Viola. "Not that I mean--of course I don't want to seem--"

"I understand, my dear," said the colonel gently. "And I am not going
fishing merely to shirk a responsibility. But I have to think some of
these puzzles out quietly, and fishing is the quietest pastime I know."

"Oh, yes, I know," Viola hastened to add. "I shouldn't have said
anything. I wish I could get quiet myself. I'm almost tempted to take
your recipe."

"Why don't you?" urged the colonel. "Come along with me. I can soon
teach you the rudiments, though to become a finished angler, so that
you would be not ashamed to meet Mr. Walton, takes years. But I think it
would rest you to come. Shall I tell Shag to fit you out with one of my
rods?"

Viola hesitated a moment. This might give her an opportunity for talking
with the colonel in secret and confidence. But she put it aside.

"No, thank you," she answered. "I'll go another time. I must stop at
the office and leave some bills that have come here to the house. Mr.
Blossom attends to the payment."

"Let me leave them for you," offered the colonel. "I have to go into
town for some bait, and I can easily stop at the office for you."

"If you will be so good," returned Viola, and she got the bundle of
bills--some relating to Mr. Carwell's funeral and others that had been
mailed to the house instead of to the office.

The colonel might have sent Shag to purchase the shedder crabs he was
going to use for bait that day in fishing in the inlet, and the colored
servant might have left the bills. But the colonel was particular about
his bait, and would let none select it but himself. Consequently he had
Jean Forette drive him in, telling Shag to meet him at a certain dock
where they would drop down the inlet and try for "snappers," young
bluefish, elusive, gamy and delicious eating.

"You have not yet found a place?" asked the colonel of the chauffeur, as
they rolled along.

"No, monsieur--none to my satisfaction, though I have been offered many.
One I could have I refused yesterday."

"You liked it with Mr. Carwell, then?"

"Truly the situation was in itself delightful. But I could not manage
the big car as he liked, and we had to part. There was no other way."

The detective narrowly observed the driver beside whom he sat. Jean did
not look well. He had much of the appearance of the "morning after the
night before," and his hand was not very steady as he shifted the gear
lever.

"How much longer have you to stay here, Jean?"

"About two weeks. My month will be up then."

"And then you go--"

"I do not know, monsieur. Probably to New York. That is a great
headquarters."

"So I believe."

"If monsieur should hear of a family that--"

"Yes, I'll bear you in mind, Jean. You are steady and reliable, I
presume?" and the colonel smiled.

"I have most excellent letters!" he boasted, and for the moment he
seemed to rouse himself from the sluggishness that marked him that
morning.

"I'll bear it in mind," said the colonel again.

But as they drove on, and Colonel Ashley noted with what exaggerated
care Jean Forette passed other cars--giving them such a wide berth that
often his own machine was almost in the ditch--the impression grew on
the detective that the Frenchman was not as skillful as he would have it
believed.

"He drives Like an amateur, or a woman out alone in her machine for the
first time," mused the colonel. "He'd never do for a smart car. Wonder
what ails him. He wasn't drunk last night by any means, and yet--"

They reached the town, and paused at the only place where there was any
congestion of traffic--where two main seashore highways crossed in the
center of Lakeside. Jean held the runabout there so long, waiting for
other traffic to pass, that the officer who was on duty called:

"What's the matter--going to sleep there?"

Then Jean, with a start, threw in the clutch and shot ahead.

"That's queer," mused the colonel. "He seems afraid."

The purchase of the shedder crabs was gone into carefully, and having
questioned the bait-seller as to the best location in the inlet, the
detective again got into the machine and was driven to the office of
the late Horace Carwell. It was a branch of the New York office, and
thither, every summer, came LeGrand Blossom and a corps of clerks to
manage affairs for their employer.

Colonel Ashley, who by this time was known to the office boy at the
outer gate, was admitted at once.

"Mr. Blossom is at the telephone," said the lad, "but you can go right
in and wait for him."

This the colonel did, having left Jean outside in the car.

The telephone in LeGrand Blossom's private office was in a booth, put
there to get it away from the noise of traffic in the street outside.
And, as the boy had said, Blossom was in this booth as Colonel Ashley
entered.

It so happened that the chief clerk was standing in the booth with his
back turned to the main door, and did not see the colonel enter. And the
latter, coming in with easy steps, as he always went everywhere, heard a
snatch of the talk over the telephone that made him wonder.

Though the little booth was meant to keep sounds from entering, as well
as coming out, the door was not tightly closed and as LeGrand Blossom
spoke rather loudly Colonel Ashley heard distinctly.

"Yes," said the head clerk over the wire, "I'll pay the money tonight
sure. Yes, positive." There was a period of waiting, while he listened,
and then he went on: "Yes, on the Allawanda. I'll be there. Yes, sure!
Now don't bother me any more."

Colonel Ashley, through the glass door of the telephone booth, saw
LeGrand Blossom make a move as though to hang up the receiver. And then
the detective turned suddenly, and swung back, as though he had entered
the room at the moment Blossom had emerged from the booth.

"Oh!" exclaimed the head clerk, and, for a second, he seemed nonplused.
But Colonel Ashley took up the talk instantly.

"I will keep you but a minute," he said. "Miss Viola asked me to leave
these bills for you. I came in to town to buy some bait. There they are.
I'm going fishing," and before LeGrand Blossom could answer the colonel
was saying good-bye and making his way out.

"I wonder," mused the colonel, as he started for the car where Jean
awaited him, "what or who or where the Allawanda is? I must find out."

He found further cause for wonder as he started off in the car with the
French chauffeur for the boat dock, at the conduct of Jean himself.

For the man appeared to be a wholly different person. His face was all
smiles, and there was a jaunty air about him as though he had received
good news. His management of the car, too, left nothing to be desired.
He started off swiftly, but with a smoothness that told of perfect
mastery of the clutch and gears. He took chances, too, as he dashed
through town, cutting corners, darting before this car, back of the
other until, used as the colonel was to taxicabs in New York, he held
his breath more than once.

"What's the matter--in a hurry?" he asked Jean, as they narrowly escaped
a collision.

"Oh, no, monsieur, but this is the way I like to drive. It is much
more--what you call pep!"

"Yes," mused the colonel to himself, "it's pep all right. But I wonder
what put the pep into you? You didn't have it when we started out. Some
French dope you take, I'll wager. Well, it may put pep into you now, but
it'll take the starch out of you later on."

Jean left the colonel at the dock, whither Shag had already made his
way, coming in a more prosaic trolley car from The Haven, and soon they
were ready to row down the inlet in a boat.

"Shall I call for you?" asked Jean, as he prepared to drive back.

"No," answered the colonel, "I can't tell what luck I'll have. We'll
come home when it suits us."

"Very good, monsieur."

And so the colonel went fishing, and his thoughts were rather more on
the telephone talk he had overheard than on his rod and line.

Contrary to the poor luck that had held all week, so the dockman said,
the colonel's good luck was exceptional. Shag had a goodly string of
snappers of large size to carry back with him.

"How'd you do it?" asked the boatman, as he made fast the skiff.

"Oh, they just bit and I hauled 'em in," said the colonel. "By the way,"
he went on, "is there a place around here called Allawanda?"

"Yes, there's a little village named that, about ten miles back in the
country," said the boatman.

"Nothing there, though, but a few houses and one store."

"Oh, I thought it might be quite a place."

"No, and nobody'd know it was there if there wasn't a boat around here
named after it."

"Is there a boat called that?" asked the colonel, and he tried to keep
the eagerness out of his voice.

"Yes. The ferryboat that runs from Lakeside to Loch Elarbor is named
that. Seems that one of the men in the company that owns it used to live
at Allawanda when he was a boy, and he called the boat that. It's an old
tub of a ferry, though, about like the town itself, I guess. Well, you
sure did have good luck!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed the colonel, and his luck was better than the
boatman guessed, and of a different kind.

It was in pursuance of this same luck that caused the colonel, later
that day, when the shadows of evening were falling, to take his limp
satchel and slip out of the house. He went afoot to the ferry dock, and
when the Allawanda floundered in like a porpoise he went on board. It
was his first visit to this part of the inlet that separated Lakeside
from Loch Harbor, and this means of getting to the yachting center was
seldom used by any guests of The Haven. They went around by the highway
in automobiles.

"Well," mused the colonel, as he went to the men's cabin with his limp
valise, "I hope Mr. Blossom keeps his promise and comes here to-night. I
shall be interested in noting to whom he pays the money."

Then, seeing that the little cabin of the ramshackle boat was deserted
at that hour, the colonel went to a dark corner, and from it emerged,
a little later, with a beard on that would have done credit to the most
orthodox inhabitant of New York's Ghetto.

Still the colonel did not look like a Jew, and he was not going to
attempt that character. He made his way to the stern of the craft, where
he could watch all who came aboard, and finding a deck hand who was
sweeping, said:

"I'm not feeling very well. Thought maybe a ride back and forth across
the inlet would do me good if I stayed out in the air. So if you see me
here don't think I'm trying to beat my fare. Here's a dollar, you may
keep the change."

"Thanks--ride all you like," said the man. At five cents a trip, with
the boat stopping at midnight, there would still be a good tip in it for
him. The colonel ensconced himself in a dark corner and waited.

The first two trips over and back were fruitless as far as his object
was concerned. But just as the Allawanda was about to pull out for her
third voyage across the inlet, there came on board a woman, with a shawl
so closely wrapped about her that her features were completely hidden.
There were only a few oil lamps on the old-fashioned craft, and the
illumination was poor.

The colonel thought there was something vaguely familiar about the
figure, but he was not certain. He tried to get near enough to her, in
a casual walk up and down the deck, to view her countenance, but, either
by accident or design, she turned away and looked over the rail. He was
close enough, however, to note that the shawl was of fine texture and of
a peculiar pattern.

Retiring again to his corner in the stern of the boat, and noting that
the woman kept her place there, Colonel Ashley waited in patience. And
he had his reward.

The Allawanrda was whistling to tell the deck hands to cast off the
mooring ropes, when LeGrand Blossom came running down the inclined
gangway and got on board. He seemed in a hurry and excited, and,
apparently unaware of the presence of the detective in the dark corner,
he went directly to the woman in the shawl. The boat began to move from
her slip.

"Did you think I was never coming?" asked LeGrand Blossom.

"No, I was detained," the woman answered, and at the sound of her voice
Colonel Ashley started and uttered a smothered exclamation. "I but just
arrived," the woman went on. "Did you bring it?"

"Hush! Yes. Not so loud. Some one may hear you."

"There is no one here. One man, with a heavy beard, passed by me as I
came on board. At first I thought it was you, disguised, but when I saw
it was not I kept to myself. There is no one here."

"I hope not," murmured LeGrand Blossom, as he looked cautiously around.
The after deck was but dimly lighted.

For a time the woman and man talked in tones so low that the detective
could hear nothing, and he dared not leave his hidden corner to come
closer.

But, just as the Allawanda was nearing her slip on the other side, the
man spoke in louder tones. "And so we come to the end!" he said.

"No, please don't say that!" begged the woman.

"I must," Blossom answered. "We can't go on this way any longer. Here is
what I promised you. It is all I can raise, and I had a hard time doing
that. Every one is suspicious, and that detective is all eyes and ears.
It is the best I can do. You must not bother me any more."

The lights from a passing boat fell on the couple as they stood close to
the rail, and, from his vantage point in the darkness, the colonel
saw LeGrand Blossom hand the woman in the shawl a package. She took it
eagerly, and thrust it into her bosom. Then, turning to the man, she
said reproachfully:

"You say this is the end. Then you don't love me any more?"

LeGrand Blossom did not answer for a moment.

"You don't--do you?" the woman insisted.

"No," was the slow reply. "I might as well be brutally frank about it,
and say I don't. And you don't care either."

"Oh, I do! I do!" she eagerly protested.

"No, you only think you do. It is better for both of us to have it end
this way. But let us make sure that it is an end. There must be no more
of it. I have given you all I can. You must go away as you promised."

"Yes, I suppose I must," and her voice was broken. "Oh, I wish I had
never met you!"

"Perhaps it would have been better that way," was Blossom's cold
response. "However, it's too late for that now. Good-bye," he added, as
the boat was grating her way along the Loch Harbor slip. "I'm not going
to get off. Don't telephone me again. This is all I can ever give you."

"Oh, yes, I suppose, now you've finished, you can get rid of me. Well,
let it be so," she said bitterly. And then, as the boat bumped to a
landing she cried: "If I could only find--"

But the rattle of the chains and the clatter of the wheels on the ferry
bridge drowned her voice. She rushed away from LeGrand Blossoms's side
and, clutching her shawl close around her as if to make sure of the
package the man had given her, she disappeared into the interior of the
ferryboat.

Colonel Ashley started to follow, but as LeGrand Blossom remained
on board he decided to watch him instead of the woman, though he was
vaguely disquieted trying to remember where he had heard her voice
before.



CHAPTER XVIII. A LARGE BLONDE LADY


Reaching The Haven, Colonel Ashley, who had trailed LeGrand Blossom to
the latter's boarding place without anything having developed, was met
by Shag, who was up later than usual, for it was now close to midnight.

"What now, Shag!" exclaimed the colonel. "Don't tell me there are any
more detective cases for me to work on. I simply won't listen. I wish I
hadn't to this one. It's getting more and more tangled every minute, and
the fish are biting well. Hang it all, Shag, why did you let me take up
this golf course mystery?"

"I didn't do it, Colonel, no, sah!"

"What's the use of talking that way, Shag! You know you did!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel. Dat's whut I did!" confessed Shag with a grin. When
the colonel was in this mood there was nothing for it but to agree with
him.

"And it's the worst tangle you ever got me into!" went on Shag's master.
"There's no head or tail to it."

"Den it ain't laik a fish; am it?" asked Shag, with the freedom of long
years of faithful service.

"No, it isn't--worse luck!" stormed the colonel. "I never saw such a
case. The diamond cross mystery was nothing like it."

"But I thought, Colonel, sah, dat de mo' of a puzzle it were, de bettah
yo' laiked it!" ventured Shag.

Colonel Ashley tried to repress a smile.

"Get to bed, you black rascal!" he said with an affectionate pat on
Shag's back. "Get to bed! What are you staying up so late for, anyhow?"

"To gib yo' a message, Colonel, sah," answered Shag. "Miss Viola done
say I was t' wait up, an', when yo' come in, t' tell yo' dat she wants
t' see you."

"Oh, all right. Where is she?"

"In de liberry, Colonel, sah!"

The detective made his way through the dimly-lighted hall, and, on
tapping at the library door, was bidden by Viola to enter.

"Still up?" he asked. "It was time for you to be asleep long ago if you
want your eyes to keep as bright as they always are."

"They don't feel very bright," she answered, with a little laugh. "They
seem to be full of sticks. But I wanted to ask you something--to consult
with you--and I didn't want to go to sleep without doing it. I want you
to read these," and she spread out before him the letters she had found
hidden in the drawer of the safe.

Colonel Ashley, in silence, looked over one document after another,
including the torn ones. When he had finished he looked across the table
at Viola.

"What do you make of it?" she asked. "I don't know," he frankly
confessed.  "But we must find out if your father owed the captain
anything--for money advanced in an emergency, or for anything else. Who
would know about the money affairs?"

"Mr. Blossom. He has full charge of the office now, and access to all
the books. Aunt Mary and I have to trust to him for everything. It is
all we can do."

"Yes, I suppose so," agreed the detective. And he did not speak of the
scene of which he had recently been a witness.

"Then if you will come with me, we will go the first thing in the
morning to father's office and see LeGrand Blossom," decided Viola.
"We will ask Mr. Blossom if he knows anything about the debt between my
father and Captain Poland."

"It would be wise, I think."

And as the colonel retired that night he said, musingly:

"Another angle, and another tangle. I must read a little Izaak Walton to
compose my mind."

So he opened the little green book and read this observation from the
Venator:

"And as for the dogs that we use, who can commend their excellency to
that height which they deserve?  How perfect is the hound at smelling,
who never leaves or forsakes his first scent, but follows it through so
many changes and varieties of other scents, even over and in the water,
and into the earth."

"Ah," mused the colonel, "I think I must cling to my first scent, and
follow it through or over the water or into the earth."

Then, laying aside the little green book, with its atmosphere of calm
delight, he picked up a little thin volume, which bore on its title page
"The Poisonous Plants of New Jersey."

And in that he read:

     "The water hemlock (Cicuta maculata L.) is the most
     poisonous  plant in the flora of the United States, and has
     probably  destroyed more human lives than all our other
     toxic plants combined.  As a member of the parsley family
     (Umbellifera) it resembles in general appearance the carrot
     and parsnip of the same group of plants.  It grows in swampy
     land.  The poisoning of the human is chiefly with the fleshy
     roots.

     "The active principle of this cicuta is the volatile
     alkaloid canine, common also to the poison hemlock (Conium
     macula turn L.) The symptoms of the poisoning are many,
     including violent contraction of the muscles, dilated pupils
     and epilepsy... No antidote for canine poisoning is known...
     The active canine... was the poison employed by the Greeks
     in putting prisoners to death, Socrates being one of its
     illustrious victims."

And having read that much, Colonel Ashley looked at a little slip in the
book. It bore the penciled memorandum "58 C. H.--161*."

"I wonder--I wonder," mused the colonel, and so wondering, and with
fitful dreams attending his slumbers, he passed the night.

Jean Forette drove the colonel and Viola to the office. They arrived
rather early. In fact LeGrand Blossom was not yet in, and when he did
enter, a few minutes later, he was plainly surprised to see them.

"Is anything the matter?" asked the confidential clerk, as he quickly
opened his desk. "I am sorry I was late this morning. But I had some
matters to look after--"

"No apology necessary," said Colonel Ashley, quickly. "We have not been
waiting long. We have discovered something."

If his life had depended on it LeGrand Blossom could not, at that
moment, have concealed a start of surprise.

"You mean you have found out who killed Mr. Carwell?" he asked, and his
tongue went quickly around his dry lips.

"Not that," the colonel answered. "But we have found some letters that
seem to need explaining. Here they are."

Then when Viola had told how she discovered them, she asked:

"Did my father ever owe Captain Poland any money?"

"Yes," answered LeGrand Blossom, frankly, "he did."

"How much?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

"Was it ever paid back?" asked Colonel Ashley.

"That I cannot say," replied the head clerk. "The papers in that
particular transaction are missing. I looked for them the other day, but
failed to find them. I was intending to ask you, Miss Carwell, if you
knew anything about them. Now, it seems you do not. The fact remains
that your father was at one time indebted to the captain for fifteen
thousand dollars. Whether it was repaid I can not say."

"Who would know?" asked Colonel Ashley.

"Why, Captain Poland, of course," answered Mr. Blossom. "One would think
that it would be paid by check, but in that case the canceled one would
come back from the bank, which it has not. It is possible that Mr.
Carwell had an account in some other bank, or he may have paid the
captain in cash. In either case a receipt would be given, I should say.
Captain Poland is the only one who now would know."

"Then we had better see him," suggested Colonel Ashley. "Shall we call
on him, Viola?"

She hesitated a moment before answering, and then replied in a low
voice:

"I think it would be better. We must end this mystery!"

They left LeGrand Blossom and again entered the car. Jean Forette was
driving, and the detective again noticed the strange and sudden change
in his manner. Whereas he had been morose and sullen the first part of
the trip, timid and watchful of every crossing and turning, now he put
on full speed and drove with the confidence of an expert.

"He must have had another shot of dope," mused the colonel. "I'll have
to keep an eye on you, my Frenchie, else you may be ramming a stone wall
when you're feeling pretty well elated."

They were half way to the home of Captain Poland when Viola suddenly
changed her mind.

"I--I don't believe I care to go to see him," she said. "Can't you go
without me, Colonel Ashley? You can find out better than I can. I--I
really don't feel equal to it."

"Of course, I can," was the ready answer. "Drive Miss Carwell home,
Jean, and then I'll go on to see Captain Poland myself."

The car was swung around, and was soon in front of The Haven. The
colonel, with his usual gallantry, walked with Viola to the steps. As
the maid opened the door she said to her mistress:

"There is a lady to see you."

"A lady to see me?" exclaimed Viola, in some surprise.

"Yes. She is in the library, waiting. I said I did not know how long
you would be away, but she said she was a friend of the family and would
wait."

"Who is she?" asked Viola.

"I don't know. But she is a large, blonde lady."

"I can't imagine," murmured Viola. "Won't you come in, Colonel Ashley?
It may be some one I would want you to see, also."

As Viola, followed at a little distance by the colonel, entered the
library, a large, blonde woman arose to meet her.

"I am so glad to see you, my dear Miss Carwell," began the woman, and
then Colonel Ashley had one of his questions answered. The voice was
the same as that of the shawled woman LeGrand Blossom had met on the
ferryboat the night before, and it was the voice of Annie Tighe, alias
Maude Warren, alias Morocco Kate, one of the cleverest of New York's de
luxe crooks.

"So you have a hand in the game, have you, my dear?" mused the colonel,
as he caught the now well-remembered tones. "Well, I guess you don't
want to see me right away, and I don't want you to."

He had kept behind Viola during the walk down the hall, and the large
blonde had not noticed him, he hoped. He whispered to Viola, who stood
just at the entrance to the room:

"Learn all you can from her. I'll be back pretty soon--as soon as she
has gone. Find out where she's stopping. Don't mention me."

The hall was dimly lighted, and he had a chance to say this to
Viola without getting into full view of the caller, and without her
overhearing. Then, turning quickly, Colonel Ashley hurried out of the
house.

"Morocco Kate," he mused as he got into the car again, and told Jean
to drive to Captain Poland's. "Morocco Kate! I wonder if she is just
beginning her game, or if this is merely a phase of it, started before
Mr. Carwell's death? Another link added to the puzzle."

He was still pondering over this when he reached the captain's home. It
was a rather elaborate summer "cottage," with magnificent grounds,
and the captain's mother kept house for him. But there was a curious
deserted air about the place as Jean drove up the gravel road. A man was
engaged in putting up boards at the windows.

"Is the captain here?" asked the colonel.

"The place is being closed for the season, sir," answered the man,
evidently a caretaker.

"Closed? So early?" exclaimed the colonel, in surprise.

"The captain has gone away," the man went on. "I got orders yesterday to
close the place for the season. Captain Poland will not be back."

"Oh!" softly exclaimed the colonel. And then to himself he added: "He
won't be back! Well, perhaps I shall have to bring him back. Another
link! There may be three people in this instead of two!"



CHAPTER XIX. "UNKNOWN"


"So sweet of you to see me, Miss Carwell, in all your grief, and I must
apologize for troubling you."

Miss Tighe, alias Morocco Kate, fairly gushed out the words as she
extended a hand to Viola in the library. The first glance at the "large
blonde," as the maid had described her, shocked the girl. She could
hardly repress a shudder of disgust as she looked at the bleached hair.
But, nerving herself for the effort, Viola let her hand rest limply for
a moment in the warm moist grip of Miss Tighe.

"Won't you sit down?" asked Viola.

"Thank you. I won't detain you long. I called merely on business, though
I suppose you think I'm not a very business-like looking person. But I
am strictly business, all the way through," and she tittered. "I find it
pays better to really dress the part," she added.

"I was so sorry to hear about your dear father's death. I knew
him--quite well I may say--he was very good to me."

"Yes," murmured Viola, and somehow her heart was beating strangely.
What did it all mean? Who was this--this impossible person who claimed
business relations, yes, even friendliness, with the late Mr. Carwell?

"And now to tell you what I came for," went on Miss Tighe. "Your dear
father--and in his death I feel that I have lost a very dear friend and
adviser--your dear father purchased many valuable books of me. I sell
only the rarest and most expensive bindings, chiefly full morocco. Your
father was very fond of books, wasn't he?"

Viola could not help admitting it, as far as purchasing expensive, if
unread, editions was concerned. The library shelves testified to this.

"Yes, indeed, he just loved them, and he was always glad when I brought
his attention to a new set, my dear Miss Carwell. Well, that is what I
came about now. Just before his terrible death--it was terrible,
wasn't it? Oh, I feel so sorry for you," and she dabbed a much-perfumed
handkerchief to her eyes. "Just before his lamented death he bought a
lovely white morocco set of the Arabian Nights from me. Forty volumes,
unexpurgated, my dear. Mind you that--unexpurgated!" and Morocco Kate
seemed to dwell on this with relish. "As I say, he bought a lovely set
from me. It was the most expensive set I ever sold--forty-five hundred
dollars."

"Forty-five hundred dollars for a set of books!" exclaimed Viola, in
unaffected wonder.

"Oh, my dear, that is nothing. These were some books," and she winked
understandingly.

"It isn't everybody who could get them! The edition was limited. But I
happened on a set and I knew your father wanted them, so I got them
for him. He made the first payment, and then he died--I read it in the
papers. Naturally I didn't want to bother you while the terrible affair
was so fresh, so I waited. And now I'm here!"

She seemed to be--very much so, as she settled herself back in the big
leather chair, and made sure that her hair was properly fluffed around
her much-powdered face.

"You are here to--" faltered Viola. "To get the balance for the
books--that's it, dear Miss Carwell. Naturally I'm not in for my health,
and of course I don't publish books myself. I'm only a poor business
woman, and I work on commission. The firm likes to have all contracts
cleaned up, but in this case they didn't press matters, knowing Mr.
Carwell was all right; or, if he wasn't, his estate was. I've sold him
many a choice and rare book--books you don't see in every library, my
dear. Of course there were--ahem--some you wouldn't care to read, and
I can't say I care much about 'em myself. A good French novel is all
right, I say, but some of 'em well, you know!" and she winked boldly,
and dabbed her face with the handkerchief which was quickly filling the
room with an overpowering odor.

"You mean my father owes you money?" faltered Viola.

"Well, not me, exactly--the firm. But I don't mind telling you I get my
rake-off. I have to so I can live. The balance is only three thousand
dollars, and if you could give me a check--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Viola, "but I have nothing to do with the
business end of my father's affairs."

"You're his daughter, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And you'll get all his property?" Morocco Kate was getting vindictive
now.

"I cannot discuss that with you," said Viola, simply. "All matters
of business are attended to at the office. You will have to see Mr.
Blossom."

"Huh! LeGrand Blossom! No use seeing him. I've tried. But I'll try
again, and say you sent me." The voice was back to its original dulcet
tones now. "That's what I'll do, my dear Miss Carwell. I'll tell LeGrand
Blossom you sent me. He needn't think he can play fast and loose with
me as he has. If he doesn't want to pay this bill, contracted by your
father in the regular way--and I must say he was very nice to me--well,
there are other ways of collecting. I haven't told all I know."

"What do you mean?" demanded Viola hotly. "Oh, there's time enough
to tell later," was the answer. "I haven't been in the rare edition
business for nothing, nor just for my health. But wait until I see
LeGrand Blossom. Then I may call on you again!" And with this rather
veiled threat Morocco Kate took her leave.

"What horrible person was that?" asked Miss Mary Carwell, who met Viola
in the hail after her visitor's departure. "She was positively vulgar, I
should say, though I didn't see her."

"Oh, she was just a book agent. I sent her to Mr. Blossom."

"To Mr. Blossom, my dear! I didn't know he was literary."

"Neither was this person, Aunt Mary. I think I shall go and lie down. I
have a headache."

And as she locked herself in her room shed bitter tears on her pillow.
Who was this person who seemed to know Mr. Carwell so well, who boasted
of how "good" he was to her? Why did Colonel Ashley want to gain all the
information he could about her?

"Oh, what does it all mean?" asked Viola in shrinking terror. "Is there
to be some terrible--some horrible scandal?"

She put the question to Colonel Ashley a little later.

"Who is this woman?"

The colonel considered a moment before replying. Then, with a shrewd
look at Viola, he replied:

"Well, my dear, she isn't your kind, of course, but I've known her, and
known of her, for several years. She, and those she associates with,
work the de luxe game."

"The de luxe game? What is it?"

"In brief, it's a blackmailing scheme. A woman of the type of Miss
Tighe, to give her one of her names, associates herself with some men.
They arrange to have a set of some books--usually well known enough
and of a certain value--bound in expensive leather--full morocco--hand
tooled and all that. They call on rich men and women, and induce them to
buy the expensive and rare set, of which they say there is only one or
two on the market.

"Sometimes the sales are straight enough--particularly where women are
the buyers--but the books, even if delivered, are not worth anything
like the price paid.

"But, in the case of wealthy men the game is different."

"Different?"

"Yes, particularly where a woman like Morocco Kate is the agent. They
are not satisfied with the enormous profit made on selling a common
edition of books, falsely dressed in a garish binding, but they endeavor
to compromise the man in some business or social way, and then threaten
to expose him unless he pays a large sum,--ostensibly, of course, for
the books.

"Morocco Kate, who called on you, has more than one killing to her
credit in this game, and she has managed to keep out of jail because
her victims were afraid of the publicity of prosecuting. And it was
so foolish of them for, in most cases, it was just mere foolishness on
their part, and nothing criminally, or even morally, wrong, though they
may have been indiscreet."

"And you think my father--"

"I don't know anything about it, Viola, my dear!" was the prompt answer.
"Your father may have dealt in a legitimate way with this woman, buying
books from her because she cajoled him into it, though he could have
done much better with any reputable house. As I say, he may have simply
bought some books from her, and not have made the final payments on
account of his death. Whether the contract he entered into is binding or
not I can't say until I have seen it."

"But I found nothing about books among his papers!"

"No? Then perhaps it was a verbal contract. Or he may have been--" The
colonel stopped. Viola guessed what he intended to say.

"Do you think he was--Do you think this woman may make trouble?" she
asked bravely.

"I don't know. We must find out more about her. If she comes again, hold
her and send for me. I didn't want her to see me to-day to know that I
was on this case. But I don't mind now."

"Oh, suppose there should be some--some disgrace?"

"Don't worry about that, Viola. But now, I have some rather startling
news for you."

"Oh, more--"

"Not exactly trouble. But Captain Poland has gone away--his place is
closed."

"The captain gone away!" faltered the girl.

"Yes. I wondered if you knew he was going. Did he intimate to you
anything of the kind?"

The colonel watched Viola narrowly as he asked this question.

"No, I never knew he contemplated ending the season here so early,"
Viola said. "Usually he is the last to go, staying until late in
October. Is there anything--"

"That is all I know--he is gone," said the detective. "I wanted to
ask him about that fifteen-thousand-dollar matter, but I shall have to
write, I suppose. And the sooner I get the letter off the better."

"Please write it here," suggested Viola, indicating the table where
pens, ink and stationery were always kept. "I am going to look again
among the papers of the private safe to see if there was anything about
books--the Arabian Nights, she said it was."

"Yes, that's her favorite set. But don't worry, my dear. Everything will
come out all right."

And as Viola left him alone in the library, the detective added to
himself:

"I wonder if it will?"

Colonel Ashley wrote a brief, business-like letter to Captain Poland,
addressing it to his summer home at Lakeside, arguing that the yachtsman
would have left some forwarding address.

Then, lighting a cigar, the colonel sat back in a deep, leather
chair--the same one Morocco Kate had sat in and perfumed--and mused.

"There are getting to be too many angles to this," he reflected. "I need
a little help. Guess I'll send for Jack Young. He'll be just the chap
to look after Jean and follow that French dope artist to his new place,
provided he leaves here suddenly. Yes, I need Jack."

And having telephoned a telegram, summoning from New York one of his
most trusted lieutenants, Colonel Ashley refreshed himself by reading a
little in the "Compleat Angler."

Jack Young appeared at Lakeside the next day, well dressed, good
looking, a typical summer man of pleasing address.

"Another diamond cross mystery?" he asked the colonel.

"How is your golf?" was the unexpected answer.

"Oh, I guess I can manage to drive without topping," was the ready
answer. "Have I got to play?"

"It might be well. I'll get you a visitor's card at the Maraposa Club
here, and you can hang around the links and see what you can pick up
besides stray balls. Now I'll tell you the history of the case up to the
present."

And Jack Young, having heard, and having consumed as many cigarettes as
he considered the subject warranted, remarked:

"All right. Get me a bag of clubs, and I'll see what I can do. So you
want me to pay particular attention to this dope fiend?"

"Yes, if he proves to be one, and I think he will. I'll have my hands
full with Blossom, Morocco Kate and some others."

"What about Poland and Bartlett?"

"Well, Harry is still held, but I imagine he'll be released soon, Jack."

"Nothing on him?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You know my rule. Believe no one
innocent until proved not guilty. I can keep my eye on him. Besides,
he's pretty well anchored."

"You mean by Miss Viola?"

"Yes."

"How about the captain?"

"He's a puzzle, at present. But I wish you'd find out if that chauffeur
has a girl. That's the best way to do, or undo, a man that I know of.
Find out if he has a girl. That'll be your trick."

"All right--that and golf. I'm ready."

And Jack Young worked to such good advantage that three days later he
had a pretty complete report ready for his chief.

"Jean Forette has a girl," said Jack; "and she's a little beauty, too.
Mazi Rochette is her name. She's a maid in one of the swell families
here, and she's dead gone on our friend Jean. I managed to get a talk
with her, and she thinks he's going to marry her as soon as he gets
another place. A better place than with the Carwells, she says he must
have. This place was pretty much on the blink, she confided to me."

"Or words to that effect," laughed the colonel.

"Exactly. I'm not much on the French, you know. Still I got along pretty
well with her. She took a notion to me."

"I thought you might be able to get something in that direction," said
the colonel with a smile. "Did you learn where Jean was just prior to
the golf game which was the last Mr. Carwell played?"

"Yes, he was with her, the girl says, and she didn't know why I was
asking, either, I flatter myself. I led around to it in a neat way. He
was with her until just before he drove Mr. Carwell to the links. In
fact, Jean had the girl out for a spin in the new car, she says. She's
afraid of it, though. Revolutionary devil, she calls it."

"Hum! If Jean was with her just before he picked up Carwell to go to
the game--well, the thing is turning out a bit different from what I
expected. Jack, we still have plenty of work before us. Did I tell you
Morocco Kate was mixed up in this?"

"No! Is she?"

"Seems to be."

"Good night, nurse! Whew! If he fell for her--"

"I don't believe he did, Jack. My old friend was a sport, but not that
kind. He was clean, all through."

"Glad to hear you say so, Colonel. Well, what next?"

They sat talking until far into the night.

There was rather a sensation in Lakeside two days later when it became
known that the coroner's jury was to be called together again, to
consider more evidence in the Carwell case.

"What does it mean?" Viola asked Colonel Ashley. "Does it mean that
Harry will be--"

"Now don't distress yourself, my dear," returned the detective,
soothingly. "I have been nosing around some, and I happen to know that
the prosecutor and coroner haven't a bit more evidence than they had at
first when they held Mr. Bartlett."

"Does that mean Harry will be released?"

"I think so."

"Does it mean he will be proved innocent?"

"That I can't say. I hardly think the verdict will be conclusive in any
case. But they haven't any more evidence than at first--that he had a
quarrel with your father just before the fatal end. As to the nature
of the quarrel, Harry is silent--obstinately silent even to his own
counsel; and in this I can not uphold him. However, that is his affair."

"But I'm sure, Colonel, that he had nothing to do with my father's
death; aren't you?"

"If I said I was sure, my dear, and afterward, through force of evidence
and circumstance, were forced to change my opinion, you would not thank
me for now saying what you want me to say," was the reply. "It is better
for me to say that I do not know. I trust for the best. I hope, for your
sake and his, that he had nothing to do with the terrible crime. I want
to see the guilty person discovered and punished, and to that end I
am working night and day. And if I find out who it is, I will disclose
him--or her--no matter what anguish it costs me personally--no matter
what anguish it may bring to others. I would not be doing my full duty
otherwise."

"No, I realize that, Colonel. Oh, it is hard--so hard! If we only knew!"

"We may know," said the colonel gently.

"Soon?" she asked hopefully.

"Sooner than you expect," he answered with a smile. "Now I must attend
the jury session."

It was brief, and not at all sensational, much to the regret of
the reporters for the New York papers who flocked to the quiet and
fashionable seaside resort. The upshot of the matter was that the
chemists for the state reported that Mr. Carwell had met his death
from the effects of some violent poison, the nature of which resembled
several kinds, but which did not analyze as being any particular one
with which they were, at present, familiar.

There were traces of both arsenic and strychnine, but mingled with
them was some narcotic of strange composition, which was deadly in its
effect, as had been proved on guinea pigs, some of the residue from
the stomach and viscera of the dead man having been injected into the
hapless animals.

Harry Bartlett was not called to the stand, but, pale from his
confinement, sat an interested and vital spectator of the proceedings.

The prosecutor announced that the efforts of his detectives had resulted
in nothing more. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant accusing
any one else, and that against Harry Bartlett was of so slender and
circumstantial a character that it could not be held to have any real
value before the grand jury nor in a trial court.

"What is your motion, then?" asked the coroner.

"Well, I don't know that I have any motion to make," said Mr. Stryker.
"If this were before a county judge, and the prisoner's counsel demanded
it, I should have to agree to a nolle pros. As it is I simply say I have
no other evidence to offer at this time."

"Then the jury may consider that already before it?" asked Billy Teller.

"Yes."

"You have heard what the prosecutor said, gentlemen," went on the
coroner. "You may retire and consider your verdict."

This they did, for fifteen minutes--fifteen nerve-racking minutes for
more than one in the improvised courtroom. Then the twelve men filed
back, and in answer to the usual questions the foreman announced:

"We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison
administered by a person, or persons, unknown."

There was silence for a moment, and then, as Bartlett started from his
seat, a flush mantling his pale face, Viola, with a murmured "Thank
God!" fainted.



CHAPTER XX. A MEETING


Harry Bartlett walked from the court a free man, physically, but not
mentally. He felt, and others did also, that there was a stain on
him--something unexplained, and which he would not, or could not, clear
up--the quarrel with Mr. Carwell just before the latter's death. And
even to Viola, when, in the seclusion of her home, she asked Harry about
it after the trial, or rather, the verdict, he replied:

"I can not tell. It was nothing that concerns you or me or this case. I
will never tell."

And Colonel Ashley, hearing this, pondered over it more and more.

The little green book was all but forgotten during these days, and as
for the rods, lines, and reels, Shag arranged them, polished them and
laid them out, in hourly expectation of being called on for them, but
the call did not come. The colonel was after bigger fish than dwelt in
the sea or the rivers that ran into the sea.

It was a week after the rather unsatisfactory verdict of the coroner's
jury that Bartlett, out in his "Spanish Omelet," came most unexpectedly
on Captain Gerry Poland, some fifty miles from Lakeside. The captain was
in his big machine, and he seemed surprised on meeting Bartlett.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Then you are--"

"Out, at any rate," was the somewhat bitter reply. "Where have you been,
Gerry?"

"Away. I couldn't stand it around there."

"I suppose you know they have been looking for you?"

"Looking for me? Oh, you mean Colonel Ashley wanted some information
about certain business matters. Well, I didn't see that I owed him any
explanation about private matters between Mr. Carwell and myself, so I
didn't answer.

"You know what the imputation is, Gerry?" questioned Bartlett, as each
man sat in his car, near a lonely stretch of woods.

"I don't know that I do," was the calm reply.

"Well, Viola has told me of the finding of the papers in her father's
private safe. I told her I would see you, if I could, and get an
explanation. I did not think I would find you so soon."

"I didn't know you were looking, Harry, or I would have come to you.
What do you mean about papers in a private safe?"

"I mean those which indicate that Mr. Carwell owed you fifteen thousand
dollars."

"Well, he did owe me that," said the captain calmly.

"He did?" and Harry Bartlett accented the last word.

"Yes, but it was paid. He did not owe me a dollar at the time of his
death."

"That is astonishing news! There is no record of the money having been
paid!"

"Nevertheless the debt is canceled," insisted the captain. "I sent the
receipt and the canceled note to LeGrand Blossom."

"It's false!" cried Bartlett. "He hasn't any such documents!"

For a moment Captain Poland seemed about to leap from his car and
attack the man who had given him the lie direct. Then, by an effort, he
composed himself, and quietly answered:

"I can prove every word I say, and I will take immediate steps to do so.
Mr. Carwell paid me the fifteen thousand dollars on the twenty-third,
and I--"

"He paid you the money on the twenty-third? the very day he died?" cried
Harry.

"Yes."

"Then--Why, good heavens, man! Don't you see what this means? It means
you were with him just before his death, the same as I was. We're both
in the same boat as far as that goes!"

"Yes, I admit that I was with him, and that he paid me the fifteen
thousand dollars shortly before his unfortunate end," returned Captain
Poland. "But our meeting was a most peaceful one, even friendly, and--"

"You mean that I--Oh, I see!" and Bartlett's voice was full of meaning.
"So that's what you are driving at. Well, two can play at that game.
I've learned something, anyhow!"

There was a grinding of gears, and the "Spanish Omelet" shot away.
Captain Poland watched it for a moment, and then, with a shrug of his
shoulders, threw in the clutch and speeded down the road in the opposite
direction.

Harry Bartlett lost no time in acquainting Colonel Ashley with the
admission made by Captain Poland.

"So the wind is veering," the detective murmured. "I shall watch him.
I wondered why he didn't answer my letters. Now we must see LeGrand
Blossom."

"I'll come with you," offered Bartlett. "I want to see this thing
through now. Shall we tell her?" and he motioned toward Viola's room.

"Not now. We'll see Blossom first."

If the head clerk was perturbed at all by the visit to the office of
Colonel Ashley and Harry Bartlett, he did not disclose it. He welcomed
the two visitors, and took them to his private room.

Colonel Ashley went bluntly into the business in hand.

"Have you any papers to show that Captain Poland acknowledged the
receipt of the fifteen thousand dollars owed to him by Mr. Carwell?"

"I have not," was the frank answer. "I have been searching for something
to prove that the debt was paid, as I knew of its contraction. It was
not canceled as far as I can find."

"Yet Captain Poland says it was paid," said Bartlett, "and that he sent
you the receipt."

"I never got it!" insisted LeGrand Blossom. Harry Bartlett and Colonel
Ashley looked at one another, and then the detective, with an effort at
cheerfulness which he did not feel, said:

"Oh, well, perhaps in the confusion the papers were mislaid. I shall ask
Viola about them. Another search must be made."

And so the two went back to The Haven, not much more enlightened than
when they left it.

"'What is to be done?" asked Bartlett. "Blossom says he knows nothing of
it."

"Then I must know a little more about Mr. Blossom," mentally decided the
colonel. "I think I shall shadow him a bit. It may prove fruitful."

And when two nights later LeGrand Blossom left his boarding place and
met a veiled woman at a lonely spot on the beach, Colonel Ashley, who
had been waiting as he so well knew how to do, hid himself on the sand
behind some sedge grass and began to think that the game was coming his
way after all.

"For a man who pretends to be open and above board, his actions are
very queer," mused the detective, as he silently crawled nearer to where
LeGrand Blossom and the woman stood talking in low tones on the lonely
sands. "I don't see what object he could have in making away with
Carwell, and yet it begins to look black for him. Maybe there is more
than the fifteen thousand dollars involved. There are so many angles to
the case now. I must find out who this woman is."

And when she spoke in louder tones than usual, drawing from LeGrand
Blossom an impatient "Hush!" the colonel had his answer.

"Morocco Kate again! What's her part now?"

The detective was near enough now to hear some of the talk.

"Did you bring it?" asked the woman eagerly.

"Hush! can't you?" snapped LeGrand Blossom.

"Pooh! What's the harm? There's no one in this lonely place! It gives me
the creeps. Li'l ole Broadway for mine!"

"You never know who's anywhere these days!" muttered LeGrand. "That
infernal detective seems to be all over. He looks at me--oh, he looks at
me, and I don't like it."

Morocco Kate laughed.

"Shut up!" ordered the head clerk. "Do you think this is funny?"

"It used to be," was the answer. "It used to be funny, when you thought
you were in love with me. Oh, it was delicious!"

"I was a bigger fool than I ever thought I'd be!" growled LeGrand
Blossom.

"You aren't the only one," was the consoling answer. "But what I'm
interested in now, is--did you bring the mazumma--the cush--the dope?"

"All I could get," was the answer. "I'm in a devil of a mess, and the
estate hasn't been settled yet. I may get some more out of it then, but
you'll have to quit bleeding me. I'm through with you, I tell you!"

"But I'm not with you," was the sharp rejoinder. "I'll take this now,
but I'll need more. The game isn't going as it used to. Mind, I'll need
more, and soon."

"You won't get it!"

"Oh, won't I? Well, there are others that'll pay well for what I'm able
to tell, I guess. I rather think you'll see me again, Lee. So-long now,
but I'll see you again!"

She moved off in the darkness, laughing mirthlessly, and with muttered
imprecations LeGrand Blossom turned in the opposite direction, passing
within a few feet of the hidden detective. "Blackmail, or is it a
division of the spoils?" mused Colonel Ashley. "I've got to find out
which. Mr. Blossom, I think I'll have to stick to you until you fall
into the sear and yellow leaf."

The next day as Colonel Ashley sat trying to fix his attention on a
passage from Walton, a messenger brought him a note. It was from a young
man who, at the colonel's suggestion, had been given a clerical place
in the office of the late Horace Carwell. Not even Viola knew that the
young man was one of the colonel's aides.

"Blossom just sent out a note to a Miss Minnie Webb," the screed, which
the colonel perused, read. "He's going to meet her in the park at Silver
Lake at nine to-night. Thought I'd let you know."

"I'm glad he did," mused the detective. "I'll be there."

And he was, skillfully though not ostentatiously attired as a loitering
fisherman of the native type, of which there were many in and about
Lakeside.

The fisherman strolled about the little park in the center of which was
a body of fresh water known as Silver Lake. It was little more than a
pond, and was fed by springs and by drainage. In the park were trees and
benches, and it was a favorite trysting spot.

Up and down the paths walked Colonel Ashley, his clothes odorous of
fish, and he was beginning to think he might have his trouble for his
pains when he saw a woman coming along hesitatingly.

It needed but a second glance to disclose to the trained eyes of the
detective that it was none other than Minnie Webb, whom he had met
several times at the home of Viola Carwell. Minnie advanced until she
came to a certain bench, and she stopped long enough to count and make
sure that it was the third from one end of a row, and the seventh from
the other end.

"The appointed place," mused the colonel as he sauntered past. And then,
making a detour, he came up in the rear and hid in the bushes back of
the bench, where he could hear without being observed--in fact the bench
was in such shadow that even the casual passerby in front could not
after darkness had fallen tell who occupied it.

Minnie Webb sat in silence, but by the way she fidgeted about the
colonel, hearing the shuffling of her feet on the gravel walk, knew she
was nervous and impatient.

Then quick footsteps were heard coming along through the little park.
They increased in sound, and came to a stop in front of the bench on
which sat the shrouded and dark figure of the girl.

"Minnie?"

"LeGrand! Oh, I'm so glad you came! What is it? Why did you send me a
note to meet you in this lonely place? I'm so afraid!"

"Afraid? Lonely? Why, it's early evening, and this is a public park,"
the man answered in a low voice. "I wanted you to come here as it's the
best place for us to talk--where we can't be overheard."

"But why are you so afraid of being overheard?"

"Oh, things are so mixed up--one can't be too careful. Minnie, we must
settle our affairs."

"Settle them? You mean--?"

"I mean we can't go on this way. I must have you! I've waited long
enough. You know I love you--that I've never loved any one else as I've
loved you! I can't stand it any longer without you. I have asked you to
marry me several times. Each time you have put it off for some reason
or other. Now we must settle it. Are you going to marry me or not? No
matter what your folks say about me and this Carwell affair. Do you--do
you care for me?"

The answer was so low and so muffled that the colonel was glad he could
not hear it.

"Confound it all!" he murmured, "that's the worst of this business! I
don't mind anything but the love-making. I hate to break in on that!"

There was an eloquent silence, and then LeGrand Blossom said:

"I am very happy, Minnie."

"And so am I. Now what shall we do?"

"Get married as soon as possible, of course. I've got to wind up matters
here, and as soon as I can I may take up an offer that came from Boston.
It's a very good one. Would you go there with me?"

"Yes, LeGrand. I'd go anywhere with you--you know that."

"I'm glad I do, my dear. It may be necessary to go very soon, and--well,
we won't stop to say good-bye, either."

"Why! what do you mean," and the hidden detective knew that the girl had
drawn away from the young man.

"Oh, I mean that we won't bother about the fuss of a farewell-party.
I'm not tied to the Carwell business. In fact I'd be glad to chuck
it. There's nothing in it any more, since there's no chance for a
partnership. We'll just go off by ourselves and be happy--won't we,
Minnie?"

"I hope so, LeGrand. But must we go away? Can't you get something else
here?"

"I think we must, yes."

"You haven't had trouble with--with Viola, have you?"

"No. What made you think of that?"

"Oh, it was just a notion. Well, if we have to leave we will. I shall
hate to go, however. But, I'll be with you--" and again the words were
smothered.

"I wonder what sort of a double-cross game he's playing," mused the
colonel when the two had left the park and he, rather stiff from his
position, shuffled to the lonely spot where he had before made a change
of garments. Attired as his usual self, he went back to The Haven, and
spent rather a restless night.

Minnie Webb was perplexed. She loved LeGrand Blossom--there was no doubt
of that--but she did not see why he should have to leave the vicinity of
Lakeside where she had lived so many years--at least during the summer
months. All her friends and acquaintances were there.

"I wonder if Viola has given him notice to leave since she came into her
father's property," mused Minnie. "I'm going to ask her. He may never
get such a good place in Boston as he has here. I'll see if I can't find
out why he wants to leave. It can't be just because father does not care
much for him."

So she called on Viola, as she had done often of late, and found her
friend sitting silent, and with unseeing eyes staring at the rows of
books in the library.

"Oh, Minnie, it was so good of you to come! I'm very glad to see you.
Since father went it has been very lonely. You look extremely well."

"I am well--and--happy. Oh, Viola, you're the first I have told,
but--but Mr. Blossom has--asked me to marry him, and--"

"Oh, how lovely! And you've said 'yes!' I can tell that!" and Viola
smiled and kissed her friend impulsively. "Tell me all about it!"

"And so it's all settled," went on Minnie, after much talk and many
questions and answers. "Only I'm sorry he's going to leave you."

"Going to leave me!" exclaimed Viola. Her voice was incredulous.

"Well, I mean going to give up the management of your business. I'm sure
you'll miss him."

"I shall indeed! But I did not know Mr. Blossom was going to leave. He
has said nothing to me or Aunt Mary about it. In fact, I--"

"Oh, is there something wrong?" asked Minnie quickly, struck by
something in Viola's voice.

"Well, nothing wrong, as far as we know. But--"

"Oh, please tell me!" begged Minnie. "I am sure you are concealing
something."

"Well, I will tell you!" said Viola at last. "I feel that I ought to, as
you may hear of it publicly. It concerns fifteen thousand dollars,"
and she went into details about the loan, which one party said had been
paid, and of which Blossom said there was no record.

"Oh!" gasped Minnie Webb. "Oh, what does it mean?" and, worried and
heartsick, lest she should have made a mistake, she sat looking dumbly
at Viola...




CHAPTER XXI. THE LIBRARY POSTAL


"My dear, I am sorry if I have told you anything that distresses you,"
said Viola gently. "But I thought--"

"Oh, yes, it is best to know," was the low response. "Only--only I was
so happy a little while ago, and now--"

"But perhaps it may all be explained!" interrupted Viola. "It is only
some tiresome business deal, I'm sure. I never could understand them,
and I don't want to. But it does seem queer that there is no record of
that fifteen thousand dollars being paid back."

"What does Captain Poland say about it?"

"Oh, he told Harry, very frankly, that father paid the money, and that
the receipt was sent to Mr. Blossom. But the latter says it can not be
found."

"And do you suspect Mr. Blossom?" asked Minnie, and her voice held a
challenge.

"Well," answered Viola slowly, "there isn't much of which to suspect
him. It isn't as if Captain Poland claimed to have paid father the
fifteen thousand dollars, and the money couldn't be found. It's only a
receipt for money which the captain admits having gotten back that is
missing. But it makes such confusion. And there are so many other things
involved--"

"You mean about the poisoning?"

"Yes. Oh, I wish it were all cleared up! Don't let's talk of it. I must
find out about Mr. Blossom going away. We shall have to get some one in
his place. Aunt Mary will be so disturbed--"

"Don't say that I told you!" cautioned Minnie. "Perhaps I should not
have mentioned it. Oh, dear, I am so miserable!" And she certainly
looked it.

"And so am I!" confessed Viola. "If only Harry would tell what he is
keeping back."

"You mean about that quarrel with your father?"

"Yes. And he acts so strangely of late, and looks at me in such a queer
way. Oh, I'm afraid, and I don't know what I'm afraid of!"

"I'm the same way, Viola!" admitted Minnie.

"I wonder why we two should have all the trouble in the world?"

And the two were miserable together.

They were not the only ones to suffer in those days. Captain Gerry
Poland could not drive Viola from his mind. To the yachtsman, she was
the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and he wondered if fortune
would ever make it possible for him to approach her again on the subject
that lay so close to his heart.

And then there was Bartlett. It was true he walked the streets--or
rather rode around them in his "Spanish Omelet"--a free man; yet the
finger of suspicion was constantly pointed at him.

More than once in the town he met people who sneered openly at him, as
if to say, "You are guilty, but we can't prove it." And once on the golf
course he went up to three men who had formerly been quite friendly and
suggested a game of golf, upon which one after another the others made
trivial excuses and begged to be excused. Upon this occasion the young
man had rushed away, his face scarlet, and he had only calmed down after
a mad tour of many miles in his racing machine.

"It's an outrage!" he had muttered to himself. "A dastardly outrage! But
what is a fellow going to do?"

Meanwhile Colonel Ashley and Jack Young were puzzling their heads over
many matters connected with the golf course mystery. Jack had obeyed the
colonel's instructions to the letter. He had played many rounds on
the links and had gotten to a certain degree of friendship with Jean
Forette. He had even formed a liking for Bruce Garrigan, who, offhand,
informed him that the amount of India ink used in tattooing sailors
during the past year was less by fifteen hundred ounces than the total
output of radium salts for 1916, while the wheat crop of Minnesota for
the same period was 66,255 bushels. All of which information, useful in
a way, no doubt, was accepted by Jack with a smile. He was there to look
and listen, and, well, he did it.

"But I've got to pass it up," he told Colonel Ashley. "I've stuck to
that Jean chap until I guess he must think I want him for a chauffeur
if ever I'm able to own a car bigger than a flivver. And aside from the
fact that he does use some kind of dope, in which he isn't alone in this
world, I can't get a line on him."

"No, I didn't expect you would," said Colonel Ashley, with a smile.
"But are you well enough acquainted with him to have a talk with his
sweetheart?"

"You mean Mazi?"

"Yes."

"Well, I s'pose I might get a talk with her. But what's the idea?"

"Nothing special, only I'd like to see if she tells you the same story
she told me. Have a try at it when you get a chance."

"On the theory, I suppose, of in any trouble, look for the lady?"

"Somewhat, yes."

They were talking in The Haven, for Jack had been put up there as
a guest at the request of Colonel Ashley. And when the bell
rang, indicating some one at the door, they looked at one another
questioningly.

Then came the postman's whistle, for Lakeside, though but a summer
resort, with a population much larger in summer than in winter, boasted
of mail delivery.

A maid placed the letters in their usual place on the hall table, and
the colonel quickly ran through them, for he had reports sent him from
his New York office from time to time.

"Here's one for you, Jack," he announced, handing his assistant a
letter.

While Jack Young was reading it the colonel caught sight of a postal,
with the address side down, lying among the other missives. It was a
postal which bore several lines of printing, the rest being filled in by
a pen, and the import of it was that a certain library book, under the
number 58 C. H--161* had been out the full time allowed under the rules,
and must either be returned for renewal, or a fine of two cents a day
paid, and the recipient was asked to give the matter prompt attention.

The colonel turned the card over. It was addressed to Miss Viola
Carwell at The Haven.

"So the book is out on her card," murmured the detective. "I must look
for her copy of 'Poison Plants of New Jersey,' and see if it is like the
one I have."

"Were you speaking to me?" asked Jack, having finished his letter.

"No, but I will now. We've got to get busy on this case, and close it
up. I've been too long on it now. Shag is getting impatient."

"Shag?"

"Yes, he wants me to go fishing."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm ready. What are the orders?"

Two busy days on the part of Colonel Ashley and his assistant followed.
They went on many mysterious errands and were out once all night. But
where they went, what they did or who they saw they told no one.

It was early one evening that Colonel Ashley waited for his assistant in
the library of The Haven. Jack had gone out to send a message and was to
return soon. And as the colonel waited in the dim light of one electric
bulb, much shaded, he saw a figure come stealing to the portieres that
separated the library from the hall. Cautiously the figure advanced and
looked into the room. A glance seemed to indicate that no one was there,
for the colonel was hidden in the depths of a big chair, "slumping,"
which was his favorite mode of relaxing.

"I wonder if some one is looking for me?" mused the colonel. "Well, just
for fun, I'll play hide and seek. I can disclose myself later." And so
he remained in the chair, hardly breathing the silent figure parted the
heavy curtains, within, dropped something white on the floor, and then
quickly hurried away, the feet making no sound on the thick carpet of
the hall.

"Now," mused the colonel to himself, "I wonder that is a note for me,
or a love missive for one the maids from the butler or the gardener, who
too bashful to deliver it in person. I'd better look."

Without turning on more light the colonel picked up the thing that had
fluttered so silently to the floor. It was a scrap of paper, and as he
held it under the dimly glowing bulb he saw, scrawled in printed letters:

"Viola Carwell has a poison book."

"As if I didn't know it!" softly exclaimed the colonel.

And then, as he resumed his comfortable, but not very dignified
position, he heard some one coming boldly along the hall, and the voice
of Jack asked:

"Are you in here, Colonel?"

"Yes, come in. Did you get a reply?"

"Surely. Your friend must have been waiting for your telegram."

"I expected he would be. Let me see it," and the detective read a brief
message which said:

"Thomas much better after a long sleep."

"Ah," mused the colonel. "I'm very glad Thomas is better."

"Is Thomas, by any chance, a cat?" asked Jack, who read the telegram the
colonel handed him.

"He is--just that--a cat and nothing more. And now, Jack, my friend, I
think we're about ready to close in."

"Close in? Why--"

"Oh, there are a few things I haven't told you yet. Sit down and I'll
just go over them. I've been on this case a little longer than you have,
and I've done some elimination which you haven't had a chance to do."

"And you have eliminated all but--"

"Captain Poland and LeGrand Blossom."

At these words Jack started, and made a motion of silence. They were
still in the library, but more lights had been turned on, and the place
was brilliant.

"What's the matter?" asked the colonel, quickly. "I thought I heard a
noise in the hall," and Jack stepped to the door and looked out. But
either he did not see, or did not want to see, a shrinking figure which
quickly crouched down behind a chair not far from the portal.

"Guess I was mistaken," said Jack. "Anyhow I didn't see anything."
Did he forget that coming out of a light room into a dim hall was not
conducive to good seeing? Jack Young ought to have remembered that.

"One of the servants, likely, passing by," suggested the colonel. "Yes,
Jack, I think we must pin it down to either the captain or Blossom."

"Do you really think Blossom could have done it?"

"He could, of course. The main question is, did he have an object in
getting Mr. Carwell out of the way?"

"And did he have?"

"I think he did. I've been trailing him lately, when he didn't suspect
it, and I've seen him in some queer situations. I know he needed a lot
of money and--well, I'm going to take him into custody as the murderer
of Mr. Carwell. I want you to--"

But that was as far as the detective got, for there was a shriek in the
hall--a cry of mortal anguish that could only come from a woman--and
then, past the library door, rushed a figure in white.

Out and away it rushed, flinging open the front door, speeding down the
steps and across the lawn.

"Quick!" cried Colonel Ashley. "Who was that?"

"I don't know!" answered Jack. "Must have been the person I thought I
heard in the hall."

"We must find out who it was!" went on the detective. "You make some
inquiries. I'll take after her."

"Could it have been Miss Viola?"

The question was answered almost as soon as it was asked, for, at that
moment, Viola herself came down the front stairs.

"What is it?" she asked the two detectives. "Who cried out like that? Is
some one hurt?"

"I don't know," answered Colonel Ashley. "Mr. Young and I were talking
in the library when we heard the scream. Then a woman rushed out."

"It must have been Minnie Webb!" cried Viola. "She was here a moment
ago. The maid told me she was waiting in the parlor, and I was detained
upstairs. It must have been Minnie. But why did she scream so?"

Colonel Ashley did not stop to answer.

"Look after things here, Jack!" he called to his assistant. "I'm going
to follow her. If ever there was a desperate woman she is."

And he sped through the darkness after the figure in white.



CHAPTER XXII. THE LARGE BLONDE AGAIN


The trail was not a difficult one to follow. The night was particularly
black, with low-hanging clouds which seemed to hold a threat of rain,
and the wind sighed dolefully through the scrub pines. Against this dim
murkiness the figure of the woman in white stood out ghostily.

"Poor Minnie Webb!" mused Colonel Ashley, as he hurried on after her.
"She must be desperate now--after what she heard. I wonder--"

He did not put his wonder into words then, but his suspicion was
confirmed as he saw her head for the bridge that spanned a creek, not
far from where the ferry ran over to Loch Harbor.

At certain times this creek was not deep enough to afford passage for
small rowboats, but when the tide was in there was draught enough for
motor launches.

"And the tide is in now," mused the colonel, as he remembered passing
among the sand dunes late that afternoon, and noting the state of the
sea. "Too bad, poor little woman!" he added gently, as he followed her.
"Not so fast! Not so fast! There is no need of rushing to destruction.
It comes soon enough without our going out to meet it. Poor girl!"

He went on through the darkness, following, following, following
distracted Minnie, who, with the fateful words still ringing in her
ears, hardly knew whither she hurried.

Colonel Ashley, in spite of the desperate manner in which the chase had
begun, felt that he was safe from observation. He had on dark clothes,
which did not contrast so strongly with the night as did the light and
filmy dress of Minnie Webb. Besides, she was too distracted to notice
that she was being followed.

"She is going to the bridge, and the tide is in," mused the detective.
"I didn't think she had that much spunk--for it does take spunk to
attempt anything like this in the dark. However, I'll try to get there
as soon as she does."

The fleeing girl in white passed over an open moor, fleeced here and
there with scanty bushes, which gave the detective all the cover he
needed. But the girl did not look back, and the night was dark. The
clouds were thicker too, and the very air seemed so full of rain that
an incautious movement would bring it spattering about one's head, as a
shake of a tree, after a shower, precipitates the drops.

And then there suddenly loomed, like grotesque shadows on the night, two
other figures at the very end of the bridge that Minnie Webb sought to
cross. They seemed to bar her way, and yet they were as much startled as
she, for they drew back on her approach.

And Colonel Ashley, stealing his way up unseen, heard from Minnie Webb
the startled ejaculation:

"LeGrand! You here? And who--who is this?"

Then, as if in defiance, or perhaps to see who the challenger was, the
figure standing beside that of LeGrand Blossom flashed a little pocket
electric torch. And by the gleam of it Colonel Ashley saw the large
blonde woman again.

"Morocco Kate!" he murmured. "So she is mixed up in it after all! I
think I begin to see daylight in spite of the darkness. Morocco Kate!"

Then, crouching down behind some bushes, he waited and listened and
thought swiftly.

"Speak to me!" implored Minnie of the young man. "What does it mean,
LeGrand? Why are you here with--with--"

"He knows my name well enough, if he wants to tell it," broke in the
other. "I'm not ashamed of it, either. But who are you, I'd like to
know? I never saw you before!" and the blonde woman flashed her light
full on Minnie's white face.

And as the girl shrank back, Morocco Kate, so called, sneered:

"Some one else he's got on a string, I suppose! Ho! It's a merry life
you lead, LeGrand Blossom!"

"Stop!" the young man exclaimed. "I can't let you go on this way.
Minnie, please leave us for a moment. I'll come to you as soon as I
can."

"Oh, yes! Of course!" sneered the other. "She's younger and prettier
than I--quite a flapper. I was that way--once. And I suppose you said
the same thing to some one else you wanted to get rid of before you took
me on. Oh, to the devil with the men, anyhow!"

Minnie gasped.

"Shocked you, did I, kid? Well, you'll hear worse than that, believe me.
If I was to tell--"

"Stop!" and LeGrand Blossom snapped out the words in such a manner that
the desperate woman did stop.

"Minnie, go away," he pleaded, more gently. "I'll come to you as soon as
I can, and explain everything. Please believe in me!"

"I--I don't believe I can--again, LeGrand," faltered Minnie. "I--I heard
what you said to her just now--that you couldn't do anything more for
her. Oh, what have you been doing for her? Who is she? Tell me! Oh, I
must hear it, though I dread it!"

"Yes, you shall hear it!" cried LeGrand Blossom, and there was
desperation in his voice. "I was going to tell you, anyhow, before I
married you--"

"Oh, you're really going to marry her, are you?" sneered the blonde.
"Really? How interesting!"

"Will you be quiet?" said LeGrand, and there was that in his voice which
seemed to cow the blonde woman.

"Minnie," went on LeGrand Blossom, "its a hard thing for a man to talk
about a woman, but sometimes it has to be done. And it's doubly hard
when it's about a woman a man once cared for. But I'm going to take my
medicine, and she's got to take hers."

"I'm no quitter! I'm a sport, I am!" was the defiant remark. "So was Mr.
Carwell--Old Carwell we used to call him. But he had more pep than some
of you younger chaps.

"Leave his name out of this!" growled LeGrand, like some dog trying to
keep his temper against the attacks of a cur.

"This woman--I needn't tell you her name now, for she has several," he
went on to Minnie. "This woman and I were once engaged to be married.
She was younger then--and--different. But she began drinking and--well,
she became impossible. Believe me," he said, turning to the figure
beside him, "I don't want to tell this, but I've got to square myself."

"Yes," and the other's voice was broken. "I may as well give up now as
later. If anything can be saved out of the wreck--my wreck--go to it!
Shoot, kid! Tell the worst! I'll stand the gaff!"

"Well, that makes it easier," resumed Blossom. "We were going to be
married, but she got in with a fast crowd, and I couldn't stand the
pace. I admit, I wasn't sport enough."

"I'm glad you weren't," murmured Minnie, her breast heaving.

"The result was," went on Blossom, "that she and I separated. It was as
much her wish as mine--toward the end. And she married a Frenchman with
whom she seemed to be fascinated."

"Yes, he sure had me hypnotized," agreed the blonde woman. "It was more
my fault than yours, Lee. Perhaps if you'd taken a whip to me, and made
me behave--Some of us women need a beating now and then. But it's too
late now." Of a sudden she seemed strangely subdued.

LeGrand Blossom went on with the sordid tale.

"Well, the marriage didn't turn out happily. It was--"

"It was hell! I'm not afraid to use the word!" interrupted the blonde.
"It was just plain, unadulterated hell! And I went into it with my eyes
open. That's what it was--hell! I've had such a lot here on earth that
maybe they'll give me a discount when I get--well, when I get where I'm
going!" and she laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

Minnie shuddered, and drew nearer to LeGrand. And it did not seem to be
because of the chill night wind, either.

"It was the same old story," went on the clerk. "No need of going
over that, Minnie. It doesn't concern the question now. In the end the
Frenchman cast her off, and she had to live, somehow. She came to me,
and I, for the sake of old times, agreed to help her. I didn't think
I was doing anything wrong; but it seems I was. I thought the rare and
expensive book publishing business she said she was in was legitimate.
Instead it was--"

"Yes, it was a blackmailing scheme!" interrupted Morocco Kate, not
without some curious and perverted sense of pride. "I admit that. I got
you in wrong, LeGrand, but it wasn't because I hated you, for I didn't.
I really loved you, and I was a fool to take up with Jean. But that's
past and gone. Only I didn't really mean to make trouble for you. I
thought you might be able to wiggle out, knowing business men as you
did."

"Instead," said the clerk, "I only became the more involved. It began
to look as though I was a partner in the infernal schemes, and she and
those she worked with held the threat over my head to extort money from
me."

"Believe me, LeGrand, I didn't do that willingly," interrupted Morocco
Kate. "The others had a hold over me, and they forced me to use you
as their tool. They bled me, as I, in turn, bled you. Oh, it was all a
rotten game, and I'm glad the end's at hand. I suppose it's all up now?"
she asked Blossom.

"The end is, as far as it concerns you and me," he said. "I'm going
to confess, and take my medicine. Minnie, I've lied to give this woman
money to prevent her exposing me. Now I'm through. I've told my last
lie, and given my last dollar. Thank God--who has been better to me than
I deserve--thank God! I'm still young enough to make good the money
I've lost. The lies I can't undo, but I can tell the truth. I'm going to
confess everything!"

"Oh, LeGrand!" cried Minnie, and she held out her hands to him.
"Not--not everything!"

"Yes, the whole rotten business. That's the only way to begin over
again, and begin clean. I'll come through clean!"

"Oh!" murmured Minnie. "It will be so--so hard!"

"Yes," and LeGrand gritted his teeth, "it isn't going to be easy; but
it'll be a bed of roses compared to what I've been lying on the last
year. This woman had such a hold on me that I couldn't clear myself
before--that is, clear myself of grave charges. But now I can. This is
the end. I can prove that I wasn't mixed up in the Roswell de luxe book
case, and that's what she's been holding over me."

"The Roswell case!" faltered Minnie.

"Yes, you don't know about it, but I'll tell you, later. Now I'm free.
This is the end. I came here to-night to tell her so. How you happened
to follow me I don't know."

"I didn't follow, LeGrand. It was all an accident."

"Then it's a lucky accident, Minnie. This is the end. From now on--"

"Yes, it's the end!" bitterly cried the other woman. "It's the end of
everything. Oh, if I could only make it the end for Jean Carnot, I'd be
satisfied. He made me what I am--an outcast from the world. If I could
find Jean Carnot--"

And then, with the suddenness of a bird wheeling in mid air, the blonde
woman turned and rushed away in the darkness.

For an instant Colonel Ashley hesitated in his hiding place. And then he
murmured:

"I guess you'll keep, LeGrand Blossom, and you, too, Minnie Webb.
Morocco Kate needs watching. And I think, now, she'll lead me right
where I've been wanting to go for a long time. The darkness is fast
fading away," which was a strange thing to say, seeing that the night
was blacker than ever.

Back on the desolate moor, near the bridge under which the black tide
was now hurrying, murmuring and whispering to the rushes tales of the
deep and distant sea, stood two figures.

"Do you believe in me, Minnie?" asked the man brokenly.

There was a pause. The murmuring of the tide grew louder, and it seemed
to sing now, as it rose higher and higher.

"Do you?" he repeated, wistfully.

"Yes," was the whispered reply. "And, Lee, I'll help you to come
through--clean! I believe in you!"

And the tide washed up the shores of the creek so that, even in the
darkness, the white sands seemed to gleam.



CHAPTER. XXIII. MOROCCO KATE, ALLY


"Who are you? Who is trailing me? Is that you, LeGrand?"

The challenge came sharply out of the darkness, and Colonel Ashley,
who had been following Morocco Kate, plodding along through the sand,
stumbling over the hillocks of sedge grass, halted.

"Who's there?" was the insistent demand. "I know some one is following
me. Is it you, LeGrand Blossom? Have you--have you--"

The voice died out in a choking sob. "She's gamer than I thought," mused
the detective. "And, strange as it may seem, I believe she cares." Then
he answered, almost as gently as to a grieving child:

"It is not LeGrand Blossom. But it is a friend of his, and I want to be
a friend to you. Wait a moment."

Then, as he came close to her side and flashed on his face a gleam from
an electric torch he always carried, she started back, and cried:

"Colonel Ashley! Heavens!"

"Exactly!" he chuckled. "You didn't expect to see me here, did you?
Well, it's all right."

"Then you're not after me for--" She gasped and could not go on. "That
last deal was straight. I'm not the one you want."

"Don't get Spotty's habit, and throw up your hands just because you
see me, Kate," went on the colonel soothingly. "I'm not after you
professionally this time. In fact, if things turn out the way I want, I
may shut my eyes to one or two little phases of your--er--let us call
it career. I may ignore one or two little things that, under other
circumstances, might need explaining."

"You mean you want me for a stool pigeon?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And suppose I refuse?"

"That's up to you, Kate. I may be able to get along without you--I don't
say I can, but I may. However it would mean harder work and a delay, and
I don't mind, seeing it's you, saying that I'd like to get back to my
fishing. So if you'll come to reason, and tell me what I want to know,
it will help you and--Blossom."

"Blossom!" she gasped. "Then you know--"

"I may as well tell you that I was back there--a while ago," and the
colonel nodded vaguely to the splotch of blackness from whence Morocco
Kate had rushed with that despairing cry on her lips.

"I'm a friend of LeGrand Blossom's--at least, I am now since I overheard
what he had to say to you and Miss Webb," went on the detective. "Now
then, if you'll tell me what I want to know, I'll help him to come
across--clean, and I'll help you to the extent I mentioned."

Morocco Kate seemed to be considering as she stood in the darkness. Then
a long sigh came from her lips, and it was as though she had come to the
end of everything.

"I'll tell," she said simply. "What do you want to know? But first, let
me say I didn't no more have an idea that Sport Carwell was going to die
than you have. Do you believe that?" she asked fiercely.

"I believe you, Kate. Now let's get down to brass tacks. Who is Jean
Carnot, and where can I find him?"

"Oh!" she murmured. "You want him?"

"Very much, I think. Don't you?"

"Yes, I do! I--I would like to tear out his eyes! I'd like to--"

"Now, Kate, be nice! No use losing your temper. That's got you into
trouble more than once. Try to play the lady--you can do it when you
have to. Calling names isn't going to get us anywhere. Just tell me
where I can find your former husband--or the one you thought was your
husband--Jean Carnot."

"You're right, Colonel Ashley, I did think him my husband," said
Morocco Kate simply. "And when I found out he had tricked me by a false
marriage, and wouldn't make it good--well, I just went to the devil and
hell--that's all."

"I know it, Kate, and I appreciate your position. I'm not throwing any
stones at you. I've seen enough of life to know that none of us can do
that with impunity. Now tell me all you can. And I'll say this--that
after this is all over, if you want to try and do as Blossom is going to
do--come through clean--I'll help you to the best of my ability."

"Will you, Colonel?" the big blonde woman asked eagerly.

"I will--and here's my hand on it!"

He reached out in the darkness, but there was no answering clasp. The
woman seemed to shrink away. And then she said:

"I don't believe it would be of any use. I guess I'm too far down to
crawl up. But I'll help you all I can."

"Don't give up, Kate!" said the detective gently. "I've seen lots worse
than you--you notice I'm not mincing words--I've seen lots worse than
you start over again. All I'll say is that I'll give you the chance if
you want it. There's nothing in this life you're leading. You know the
end and the answer as well as I do. You've seen it many a time."

"God help me--I have!" she murmured. "Well, I--I'll think about it."

"And, meanwhile, tell me about this Jean Carnot," went on the colonel.
"You were married to him?"

"I thought I was."

"What sort of man was he? Come, sit down on this sand dune and tell me
all about it. I think I want that man."

"No more than I do," she said fiercely. "He left me as he would an old
coat he couldn't use any more! He cast me aside, trampled on me, left me
like a sick dog! Oh, God--"

For a moment she could not go on. But she calmed herself and resumed.
Then, by degrees, she told the whole, sordid story. It was common
enough--the colonel had listened to many like it before. And when it was
finished, brokenly and in tears, he put forth his hand on the shoulder
of Morocco Kate and said:

"Now, Kate, let's get down to business. Are you willing to help me
finish this up?"

"I'll do all I can, Colonel Ashley. But I don't see how we're going to
find this devil of a Jean."

"Leave that to me. Now where can I find you when I want you--in a hurry,
mind. I may want you in a great hurry. Where can I find you?"

"I'm stopping in the village. I'll arrange to be within call for the
next few days. Will it take long?"

"No, not very. If I can I'll clean it all up tomorrow. Things are
beginning to clear up. And now allow me the pleasure of walking back
to town with you. It's getting late and beginning to rain. I have an
umbrella, and you haven't."

And through the rain which began to fall, as though it might wash
away some of the sordid sin that had been told of in the darkness, the
strangely different couple walked through the dark night, Morocco Kate
as an ally of Colonel Ashley.

The clean, fresh sun was shining in through the windows of Colonel
Ashley's room at The Haven when he awakened the next morning. As
he sprang up and made ready for his bath he called toward the next
apartment:

"Are you up, Jack?"

"Just getting. Any rush?"

"Well, I think this may be our busy day, and again it may not. Better
tumble out."

"Just as you say. How you feeling, Colonel?"

"Never better. I feel just like fishing, and you--"

"'Nough said. I'm with you."

And then, as he started toward his bath, the colonel saw a dirty slip of
paper under the door of his room.

"Ha!" he ejaculated. "Another printed message. The writer is getting
impatient. I think it's time to act."

And he read:

"Why does not the great detective arrest the poisoner of her father?  If
he will look behind the book case he will find something that will prove
everything--the poison book and--something else."

The printed scrawl was signed: "Justice."

"Well, 'Justice,' I'll do as you say, for once," said the colonel
softly, and there was a grim smile on his face.

And so it came about that after his bath and a breakfast Colonel Ashley,
winking mysteriously to Jack Young, indicated to his helper that he was
wanted in the library.

"What is it?" asked Jack, when they were alone in the room. "A new
clew?"

"No, just a blind trail, but I want to clean it up. Help me move out
some of the bookcases."

"Good night! Some job! Are you looking for a secret passage, or is there
a body concealed here?" and Jack laughed as he took hold of some of the
heavy furniture and helped the colonel move it.

Not until they had lifted out the third massive case of volumes was
their search successful. There was a little thud, as though something
had fallen to the floor, and, looking, the colonel said:

"I have it."

He reached in and brought out a thin volume. Its title page was
inscribed "The Poisonous Plants of New Jersey."

Something was in the book--something more bulky than a mere marker; and,
opening the slender volume at page 4, a spray of dried leaves and some
thin, whitish roots were disclosed.

"Somebody trying to press wild flowers?" asked Jack. "Why all this
trouble for that? Hum! Doesn't smell like violets," he added, as he
picked up the spray of leaves and roots.

"No, it doesn't," agreed the colonel. "But if you are not a little
careful in handling it you'll be a fit subject for a bunch of
violets--tied with crepe."

"You mean--"

Jack was startled, and he dropped the dried leaves on the library floor.

"A specimen of the water hemlock," went on the colonel. "One of the
deadliest poisons of the plant world. And as we don't want any one else
to suffer the fate of Socrates, I'll put this away."

He looked at the compound leaves, the dried flowers, small, but growing
in the characteristic large umbels, and at the cluster of fleshy roots,
though now pressed flat, and noted the hollow stems of the plant itself.
The bunch of what had been verdure once had made a greenish, yellow
stain in the book, which, as the colonel noted, was from the local
public library, and bore the catalogue number 58 C. H.--161*.

"Well, maybe you see through it, but I don't," confessed Jack. "Now,
what's the next move?"

"Get these book cases back where they belong."

This was done, and then the colonel, sitting down to rest, for the labor
was not slight, went on:

"You are sure that the French chauffeur has been told that The Haven is
to be closed, and that he will be no longer required here, nor in the
city? That he must leave at once though his month is not up?"

"Oh, yes, I heard Miss Viola tell him that herself. She told me she
didn't see why you wanted that done, but as you had charge of the case
the house would be closed, even if they had to open it again, for they
stay here until late in the fall, you know.

"Yes, I know. Then you are sure Forette thinks they are all going away
and that he will have to go, too?"

"Oh, yes, he's all packed. Been paid off, too, I believe, for he was
sporting a roll of bills."

"And he is to see Mazi--when?"

"This evening."

"Very good. Now I don't want you to let him out of your sight. Stick to
him like a life insurance agent on the trail of a prospect. Don't let
him suspect, of course, but follow him when he goes to see the pretty
little French girl to-night, and stay within call."

"Very good. Is that all?"

"For now, yes."

"What are you going to do, Colonel?"

"Me? I'm going fishing. I haven't thrown a line in over a week, and I'm
afraid I'll forget how. Yes, I'm going fishing, but I'll see you some
time to-night."

And a little later Shag was electrified by his master's call:

"Get things ready!"

"Good lan' ob massy, Colonel, sah! Are we suah gwine fishin'?"

"That's what we are, Shag. Lively, boy!"

"I'se runnin', sah, dat's whut I'se doin'! I'se runnin'!" And Shag's
hands fairly trembled with eagerness, while the colonel, opening a
little green book, read:

      "Of recreation there is none
      So free as fishing is alone;
      All other pastimes do no less
      Than mind and body both possess;
      My hand alone my work can do,
      So I can fish and study too!"

"Old Isaac never wrote a truer word than that!" chuckled the colonel.
"And now for a little studying."

And presently he was beside a quiet stream.

Luck was with the colonel and Shag that day, for when they returned to
The Haven the creel carried by the colored man squeaked at its willow
corners, for it bore a goodly mess of fish.

"Oh, Colonel, I've been so anxious to see you!" exclaimed Viola, when
the detective greeted her after he had directed Shag to take the fish to
the kitchen.

"Sorry I delayed so long afield," he answered with a gallant bow. "But
the sport was too good to leave. What is it, my dear? Has anything
happened?" Her face was anxious.

"Well, not exactly happened," she answered; "but I don't know what
it means. And it seems so terrible! Look. I just discovered this--or
rather, it was handed to me by one of the maids a little while ago," and
she held out the postal from the library, telling of the overdue book.

"Well?" asked the colonel, though he could guess what was coming.

"Why, I haven't drawn a book from the library here for a long time,"
went on Viola. "I did once or twice, but that was when the library was
first opened, some years ago. This postal is dated a week ago, but the
maid just gave it to me."

"Very likely it was mislaid."

"That's what I supposed. But I went at once to the library, and I found
that the book had been taken out on my card. And, oh, Colonel Ashley, it
is a book on--poisons!"

"I know it, my dear."

"You know it! And did you think--"

"Now don't get excited. Come, I'll show you the very book. It's been
here for some time, and I've known all about it. In fact I have a copy
of it that I got from New York. There isn't anything to be worried
about."

"But a book on poisons--poisonous plants it is, as I found out at the
library--and poor father was killed by some mysterious poison! Oh--"

She was rapidly verging on an attack of hysterics, and the colonel led
her gently to the dining room whence, in a little while, she emerged,
pale, but otherwise self-possessed.

"Then you really want Aunt Mary and me to go away?" she asked.

"Yes, for a day or so. Make it appear that the house is closed for the
season. You dismissed Forette, didn't you, as I suggested?"

"Yes, and paid him in full. I never want to see him again. He's been so
insolent of late--he'd hardly do a thing I asked him. And he looked at
me in such a queer, leering, impudent way."

"Don't worry about that, my dear. Everything will soon be all right."

"And will--will Harry be cleared?"

The colonel did not have time to answer, for Miss Mary Carwell appeared
just then, lamenting the many matters that must be attended to on the
closing of the house for even a short time. The colonel left her and
Viola to talk it over by themselves.

On slowly moving pinions, a lone osprey beat its way against a
quartering south-east wind to the dead tree where the little birds
waited impatiently in the nest, giving vent to curious, whistling
sounds. Slowly the osprey flew, for it had played in great luck that
day, and had swooped down on a fish that would make a meal for him and
his mate and the little ones. The fish was not yet dead, but every now
and then would contort its length in an effort to escape from the talons
which were thrust deeper and deeper into it, making bright spots of
blood on the scaly sides.

And a man, walking through the sand, looked up, and in the last rays of
the setting sun saw the drops of blood on the sides of the fish.

"A good kill, old man! A good kill!" he said aloud, and as though the
osprey could hear him. "A mighty good kill!"

When it was dark a procession of figures began to wend its way over the
lonely moor and among the sand dunes to where a tiny cottage nestled in
a lonely spot on the beach. From the cottage a cheerful light shone, and
now and then a pretty girl went to the door to look out. Seeing nothing,
she went back and sat beside a table, on which gleamed a lamp.

By the light of it a woman was knitting, her needles flying in and out
of the wool. The girl took up some sewing, but laid it down again and
again, to go to the door and peer out.

"He is not coming yet, Mazi?" asked the woman in French.

"No, mamma, but he will. He said he would. Oh, I am so happy with him! I
love him so! He is all life to me!"

"May you ever feel like that!" murmured the older woman.

Soon after that, the first of the figures in the procession reached the
little cottage. The girl flew to the door, crying:

"Jean! Jean! What made you so late?"

"I could not help it, sweetheart. I but waited to get the last of my
wages. Now I am paid, and we shall go on our honeymoon!"

"Oh, Jean! I am so happy!"

"And I, too, Mazi!" and the man drew the girl to him, a strange light
shining in his eyes.

They sat down just outside the little cottage, where the gleam from the
lamp would not reflect on them too strongly, and talked of many things.
Of old things that are ever new, and of new things that are destined to
be old.

The second figure of the procession that seemed to make the lonely
cottage on the moor a rendezvous that evening, was not far behind that
of the lover. It was a figure of a man in a natty blue serge suit. A
panama hat of expensive make sat jauntily on top of his head on which
curled close, heavy black hair.

"I wonder if the colonel is coming?" mused Jack Young, as he stopped
to let Jean Forette hurry on a little in advance. Then a backward glance
told him that two other figures were joining the procession. These
last two--a man and a woman--walked more slowly, and they did not talk,
except now and then to pass a few words.

"Then the marriage was legal, after all?" the woman asked.

"Yes, Kate, it was," answered Colonel Ashley. "You are his lawful wife."

"And he only told me I wasn't, so as to shame me--to make me leave him,
and render me desperate?"

"That, and for other reasons. But the fact remains that you are his
wife."

"And this other ceremony--this other woman?"

"No legal wife at all."

"I am sorry for her."

"Yes, she is but a girl. If I had known in time I might have stopped it.
But it is too late now. Is he there, Jack?" he asked, as he joined the
man in the panama hat.

"Yes, sitting outside with Mazi. Going to close in?"

"Might as well. Watch him carefully. He's desperate, and--"

"I know--full of dope. Well I'm ready for him."

And so the trio--the last of the procession, if we except Fate--went
closer to the cottage whence so cheerfully gleamed the light.

"Who is there? What do you want?"

It was the snarling voice of Jean Forette, late chauffeur for the
Carwells, challenging.

"Who is it?" he cried.

The three figures came on.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and the gleam from a powerful
electric torch shone in the faces of Jack Young, Morocco Kate and
Colonel Ashley.

There was a gasp of surprise and terror from the man beside Mazi--the
man who had thrust out the torch to see who it was advancing and closing
in on him through the darkness.

"Ah!" sneered the Frenchman, recovering his self-possession. "It is my
friend the officer. Ah, I am glad to see you--but just now--not!" and he
seemed to spit out the words.

"Maybe not. I can't always come when I'm expected, nor where I'm
wanted," said Colonel Ashley coolly. "Now, my friend--Jack!" he cried
sharply.

"I've got him, Colonel," was the cool answer, and there was a cry of
agony from the chauffeur as his wrist was turned, almost to the breaking
point, while there dropped from his paralyzed hand a magazine pistol,
thudding to the sand at his feet.

"Go on, Colonel," said Jack, who had slipped off to one side, out of the
focus of the glaring light, just in time to prevent Jean Forette from
using the weapon he had quickly taken from a side pocket. "Go on, close
in. I've drawn his stinger."

"Messieurs, what does this mean?" demanded the girl beside Jean. "Who
are you? What do you want? Ah, it is you--and you!" and she turned first
to Colonel Ashley and then to Jack Young. "You who have talked so kindly
to me--who have asked me so much about--about my husband! It is you who
come like thieves and assassins! Speak to them, Jean! Tell them to go!"

The Frenchman was breathing heavily, for Jack had a merciless grip on
him.

"Speak to them, Jean!" implored the girl, while her mother, standing in
the door with her knitting, looked wonderingly on. "Why do they come to
take you like a traitor?"

"It--it's all a mistake!" panted the chauffeur.

"You've got me wrong, messieurs. I--I didn't do it. It was all an
accident. He--I--Oh, my God! You!" and he started back as Morocco Kate
stepped toward him, pulling from her face the veil that had covered it
when the glaring light showed. Jack Young now held the electric torch.

"You!" he murmured hoarsely.

"Yes, I!" she cried. "The woman you kicked out like a sick dog!
I've found you at last, and now I'll make you suffer all I did and
more--you--devil!"

"Softly, Kate, softly!" murmured the colonel. But she did not heed him.

"You--you spawn of hell!" she cried. "It was you who sent me down where
I am--where not a decent woman will look at me and a decent man won't
speak to me. You did it--you left me to rot in my shame so you could
find some one else--some one younger and prettier to fondle and kiss
and--Oh, God!"

She sank in a shuddering heap on the sand at the feet of the man who had
broken her body and spirit, and lay there, sobbing out her anger.

"Let her stay there a little," said the colonel softly. "She'll feel
better after this outburst."

"Jean! Jean! What is it all about?" begged the girl who still maintained
her place beside him. "Oh, speak to me! Tell me! Who is she?" and she
pointed to the huddled figure on the sand.

"I'll tell you who she is," said Colonel Ashley. "She is the legal wife
of Jean Carnot, alias Jean Forette, and--"

A scream from Mazi stopped him.

"Tell me it isn't true, Jean! Tell me it isn't true!" begged the girl.

Jean Carnot did not speak.

"He knows it is true," said the colonel. "And now, my French auto
friend, I've come to take you into custody on a charge of--"

"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" cried the man. "I swear I didn't
do it. I was going to throw the glass away but he grabbed it from me,
and--"

"I arrest you on a charge of bigamy," went on the calm voice of Colonel
Ashley. And then, as he saw Mazi stagger as though about to fall, he
added:

"All right, Jack. I'll take care of her. You put the bracelets on him.
And see that they're good and tight. We don't want him slipping out
and getting married again. He doesn't have much regard for bonds of any
sort, matrimonial or legal."

And then he lifted poor, little Mazi up and carried her into the
cottage, while Morocco Kate got slowly to her feet and sat down on the
bench in the darkest shadows, sobbing.



CHAPTER XXIV. STILL WATERS


"The records show that Henri Margot, alias Jean Carnot alias Jean
Forette was married to Isabel Pelubit in Paris on March 17, four years
ago, and that she died under suspicious circumstances three months
later, leaving her husband all of a snug little fortune she possessed.

"All lies, monsieur--all lies! I do not believe anything you tell me!"

"Well, that's very foolish of you, Mazi, for you can easily prove for
yourself everything I tell you, and it will be better for you, in the
end, if you do believe."

"I do not. But go on with--more lies!" She shrugged her shoulders
contemptuously.

Colonel Ashley leafed over a sheaf of papers he had spread out on the
table in front of him. He and Mazi sat in a room in police headquarters
in Lakeside. It was the day following the procession to the cottage on
the moor.

"The records show," went on the detective, "that Henri Margot was
arrested in Paris, charged with having poisoned his wife so that he
might spend on another woman the money she possessed. But he was not
convicted, chiefly because the chemists could not agree on the kind of
poison that had caused death."

"All lies--I do not believe," said Mazi, stolidly.

"Um!" mused the colonel. "Well, Mazi, you're more stubborn than I
thought. But it doesn't make any difference to me, you know. I'm paid
for all this. Now let's see--what's next? Oh, yes. Then the records
show that Henri, or Jean, whichever you choose to call him, came to this
country. He fell in love with a pretty girl--she wasn't as pretty as
you, Mazi, I'll say that--but he fell in love with her and married
her--or pretended to. However, it was a fake ceremony, and she couldn't
prove anything when he had spent all her money and tossed her aside. So
there wasn't anything we could do to him that time."

"More lies," said Mazi, calmly--or at least with the appearance of
calmness.

"The records show," went on the inexorable voice of Colonel Ashley,
"that next Jean Carnot, as he called himself then, became infatuated
with a pretty girl--and this time I'll say she was just about as pretty
as you, Mazi--and her name was Annie Tighe. She was an Irish girl, and
she insisted on being married by a priest, so there wasn't any faking
there. Jean was properly married at least."

"What do I care for all these lies?" sneered the girl, impatiently
tapping her foot on the floor. "Why do you bore me? I am not interested!
I should like to see Jean. Ha! Where have you put him?"

"You'll see him soon enough, Mazi. I've got just a few more records
to show you, and then I'm done. Now we come to the time when, after he
found he couldn't get out of a legal marriage, Jean put his foot in it,
so to speak. He was tied right, this time, so he took refuge in a lie
when he wanted to shake off the bonds of matrimony, as my friend Jack
Young would say. He told his wife--and she was his wife, and is yet--he
told her the ceremony was a fake, that the priest was a false one, in
his pay."

"All lies! What do I care?" sneered Mazi, again shrugging her shoulders.

"Well, now let's get along. After our friend Jean found he was tired of
his wife he shamed her into leaving him and she went--well, that isn't
pleasant to dwell on, either. Except that he's the villain responsible
for her going to the dogs. He sent her there just as he would have sent
you, Mazi, except for what has happened."

"You mean he is not my husband?"

"Not in the least."

"I do not believe you. It is all lies. These women are but jealous.
Proceed."

"That's about all there is to it, Mazi, except to show you the letter
from your own priest, who confirms the fact that the priest who married
Jean Carnot and Annie Tighe was legally authorized to do so, both by the
laws of his own church and those of New York State, where the ceremony
took place. You will believe Father Capoti, won't you?" and he laid
beside the girl a letter which she read eagerly.

This time she said nothing about lies, but her face turned deadly pale.

"And this is the last exhibit," went on the colonel, as he laid a
photograph before Mazi. It showed a man and a girl, evidently in their
wedding finery, and the face of the man was that of Jean Forette, and
that of the girl was of the woman who had groveled on the sand at the
feet of the chauffeur the night before,--Morocco Kate.

"Look on the back," suggested the detective, and when Mazi turned the
photograph over she read:

"The happiest day of my life--Jean Carnot."

"If you happen to have any love letters from him--and I guess you have,"
went on the colonel, "you might compare the writing and--"

"I have no need, monsieur," was the low answer. "I--God help me.--I
believe now! Oh, the liar! If I could see him now--"

"I rather thought you'd want to," murmured the colonel. "Bring him in!"
he called.

The door opened, and, handcuffed to a stalwart officer, in slunk Jean of
the many names.

Mazi sprang to her feet, her face livid. She would have leaped at the
prisoner, but the colonel held her back. But he could not hold back the
flood of voluble French that poured from her lips.

"Liar! Dog!" she hissed at him. "And so you have deceived me as you
deceived others! You lied--and I thought he lied!" and she motioned to
the colonel. "Oh, what a silly fool I've been! But now my eyes are open!
I see! I see!"

With a quick gesture, before the colonel could stop her, she tore in
half the picture that had swept away all her doubts.

"Mustn't do that!" chided the colonel, as he picked up the pieces which
she was about to grind under her feet. "I'll need that at the trial."

"You--you beast!" whispered the girl, but the whisper seemed louder than
a shout would have been. "You beast! No longer will I lie for you. Why
you wanted me to, I do not know. Yes, I do! It was so that you might
be with some one else when you should have been with me. Listen, all of
you!" she cried, as she flung her arms wide. "No longer will I shield
him. He told me to say that he was with me when that golf man--Monsieur
Carwell died--before he died--but he was not. No more will I lie for
you, Jean of the many names! You were not with me! I did not even see
you that day. Bah! You were kissing some other fool maybe! Oh, my God!
I--I--"

And the colonel gently laid the trembling, shrieking girl down on a
bench, while the eyes of the shrinking figure of Jean the chauffeur
followed every movement.

He raised his free hand, and seemed to be struggling to loosen his
collar that appeared to choke him. For a moment the attention of Colonel
Ashley was turned toward Mazi, who was sobbing frantically. Then, when
he saw that she was becoming quieter, he turned to the prisoner.

"You heard all that went on, I know," said the detective. "That's why I
put you in the next room."

"Yes, I heard," was the calm answer. "But what of it? You can prove
nothing only that women are fools. I shall hire a good lawyer and--poof!
What would you have--a man must live. Bigamy, it is not such a serious
charge."

"Oh, no, there are worse," said the colonel calmly. "You're going to
hear one presently. She told me just what I wanted to know, as I thought
she would if I could get her roused up enough against you. So, you
weren't riding, as you said, with her the day Mr. Carwell came to his
end. I never thought you were, Jean of the many names. And now, officer,
if you'll take him back and lock him up, I guess this will be about all
to-day."

"But I want to get bail!" exclaimed the prisoner. "I have a right to be
bailed. My lawyer says so."

"There isn't any bail in your case," said the detective.

"Pooh! Nonsense! Bigamy, it is not such a serious charge."

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I meant to," said the colonel gently. "You're
under another accusation now. Jean Forette, to call you by your latest
alias, you're under arrest, charged with the murder, by poison, of
Horace Carwell, and I think we'll come pretty near convicting you by the
testimony of Mazi. Ah, would you--not quite!"

He struck down the hand the prisoner had raised to his mouth, and there
rolled over the floor a little capsule. The top came off and a white
powder spilled out.

"Don't step on it!" warned the colonel as several other officers came in
to assist in handling the prisoner, who was struggling violently.
"It's probably the same poison, mixed with French dope, that killed Mr.
Carwell. Jean had it hidden in the collar band of his shirt ready for
emergencies. But you shan't cheat the chair, Jean of the many names!"

They led the Frenchman away, struggling and screaming that he was
innocent, that it was all a mistake. By turns he prayed and blasphemed
horribly.

"That's the way they usually do when they can't get a shot of their
dope," said the jail physician, after he had visited the prisoner and
given him a big dose of bromide. "He'll be a wreck from now on. He's
rotten with some French drug, the like of which I've never seen used
before."

The coroner's jury had been called together again. Once more the sordid
evidence was gone over, but this time there was more of it, and it had
to do with a story told weepingly on the stand by Mazi, and corroborated
by Colonel Ashley.

And a little later, when the jury filed in, it was to report:

"We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison
administered by Jean Carnot, alias Jean Forette, with intent to kill."

And a little later, when the grand jury had indicted him, the man's
nerve failed him completely, because his supply of drug was kept from
him and he babbled the truth like a child, weeping.

He had stolen two hundred dollars from the pocketbook of Mr. Carwell
the day before the championship golf game, and, the crime having been
detected by Viola's father, the chauffeur had been given twenty-four
hours in which to return the money or be exposed. He was in financial
straits, and, as developed later, had stolen elsewhere, so that he
feared arrest and exposure and was at his wit's end. He had spent much
of the money on Mazi, whom he induced to go through a secret marriage
ceremony with him.

Then Jean, like a cornered rat, and crazy from the drug he had filled
himself with, conceived the idea of poisoning Mr. Carwell. That would
prevent arrest and exposure, he reasoned.

The chauffeur found his opportunity when he was ordered to stop the
big red, white and blue car at a roadhouse just prior to the game. Mr.
Carwell was thirsty, and in bad humor, and ordered the chauffeur to
bring out some champagne. It was into this that Jean slipped the poison,
mixed with some of his own drug which he knew would retard the action of
the deadly stuff for some time. And it worked just as he had expected,
dropping Mr. Carwell in his tracks about two hours later, as he made the
stroke that won the game.

"But how did a chauffeur know so much about poison and dope as to be
able to mix a dose that would fool the chemists?" asked Jack Young of
his chief, a little later.

"Jean's father was a French chemist, and a clever one. It was there
that Jean learned to mix the powder dope he took, and he learned much
of other drugs. I suspect, though I can't prove it, that he poisoned his
first wife. A devil all the way through," answered the colonel.

"But what did Bartlett and Mr. Carwell quarrel about so seriously that
Bartlett wouldn't tell?"

"It was about Morocco Kate. Harry learned that she had sold Mr. Carwell
a set of books, and, knowing her reputation, he feared she might have
compromised Mr. Carwell because of his sporting instincts. So Harry
begged Viola's father to come out plainly and repudiate the book
contract. But Mr. Carwell was stiff about it, and told Harry to mind his
own business. That was all. Naturally, after Harry found that Morocco
Kate really was mixed up in the case--though innocently enough--he
didn't want to tell what the quarrel was about for fear of bringing out
a scandal. As a matter of fact there never was any shadow of one."

"And the mysterious notes to you about Viola having a poison book?"

"All sent by Jean, of course, to throw suspicion on her. I heard it
rumored, in more than one quarter, that Viola strongly disapproved of
her father's sporty life, and it was said she had stated that she would
rather see him dead than disgraced. Which was natural enough. I've said
that myself many a time about friends.

"Jean found Miss Carwell's library card, and took out the poison book in
her name, afterward anonymously sending me word about it. I admit that,
for a moment, I was staggered, but it was only for a moment. Here is
what I found in his room."

Colonel Ashley held out a piece of paper. There was no writing on
it, but it bore the indentations, identical with one of the penciled,
printed notes.

"He wrote it on a pad," said the colonel, "and tore off the top sheet.
But he used a hard pencil, and the impression went through. Just one of
the few mistakes he made."

"Fine work on your part, Colonel."

"As for Captain Poland, the money transactions did look a bit queer,
but we've since found the receipt and it's all right. A new clerk in
Carwell's office had mislaid it. It wasn't Blossom's fault, either. He's
a weak chap, but not morally bad. The worst thing he did was to fall for
Morocco Kate. But better men than he have done the same thing. However,
they won't again."

"Why, she hasn't--"

"Oh, no; nothing as rash as that. She's going to take a new route,
that's all. She's a natural born saleswoman, and I've gotten her a place
with a big firm that owes me some favors."

"And did Blossom come through 'clean' as he said he would?"

"He did, and he didn't. It seems that a year or so ago he inherited
eleven thousand dollars. He invested half of the money in copper and
made quite a little on the deal. Then, a short while before Carwell
died, he got Blossom to lend him some money, which he was to pay back
inside of a month or two. When Carwell's death occurred, Blossom was
in financial difficulties on account of the demands of Morocco Kate. He
could not get hold of the money he had invested, nor could he get hold
of the money he had loaned Carwell. In his quandary he took certain
securities belonging to Carwell and hypothecated them, expecting, later
on, to make good as soon as he got some of his own money back. Of course
the whole transaction was a rather shady one, and yet I still believe
the young fellow wanted to be honest."

"How does he stand now?"

"Oh, he has managed to get hold of some of his money, and with that got
back the Carwell securities. And, of course, the Carwell estate will
have to settle with him later on, and Viola and Miss Mary Carwell are
going to keep him in his present position.

"He and Minnie Webb are to be married very soon--which reminds me that I
have an invitation for you."

"For me?"

"Yes. It's to the wedding of Viola and Harry Bartlett. The affair
is going to be very quiet, so you can come without worrying about a
dress-suit, which I know you hate as much as I do."

"I should say so!"

"And did Bartlett's uncle really mulct Mr. Carwell in that insurance
deal?"

"Well, that's according to how you look at the ins and outs of modern
high finance. It was a case of skin or be skinned, and I guess Harry's
uncle skinned first and beat Mr. Carwell to it. It was six of one and a
half dozen of the other. The deal would have been legitimate either way
it swung, but it made Mr. Carwell sore for a time, and that, more
than anything else, made him quarrel with Harry when Morocco Kate was
mentioned."

The letters in the secret drawer, which had so worried Viola, proved to
be very simple, after all. They referred to a certain local committee,
organized for an international financial deal which Mr. Carwell was
endeavoring to swing with Captain Poland. The latter thought, because of
his intimate association with Viola's father, that the latter might use
his influence in the captain's love affair. But that was not to be. So
Viola's worry was for naught in this respect.

And so the golf course mystery was cleared up, though even to the end,
when he had paid the penalty for his crime, the chauffeur would not
reveal the nature of the poison he had mixed with the dope which had
made him a wreck.

Beside the still water, that ran in a deep eddy where the stream curved
under the trees, Colonel Ashley sat fishing. Beside him on the grass a
little boy, with black, curling hair, and deep, brown eyes, sat clicking
a spare reel. Off to one side, in the shade, a colored man snored.

"Hey, Unk Bob!" lisped the little boy. "Don't Shag make an awful funny
noise?"

"He certainly does, Gerry! He certainly does!"

"Just 'ike a saw bitin' wood."

"That's it, Gerry! I'll have to speak to Shag about it. But now, Gerry,
my boy, you must keep still while Unk Bob catches a big fish."

"Ess, I keep still. But you tell me a 'tory after?"

"Yes, I'll tell you a story."

"Will you tell me how you was a fissin', an' a big white ball comed an',
zipp! knocked ze fiss off your hook? Will you tell me dat fiss 'tory?"

"Yes, Gerry, I'll tell you that if you'll be quiet now."

And Shag's snores mingled with the gentle whisper of the water and the
sighing of the wind in the willows.

And then, when the creel had been emptied and Colonel Robert Lee Ashley
sat on the porch with Gerry Ashley Bartlett snugly curled in his lap
and told the story of the golf ball and the fish, while Shag cleaned the
fish fresh from the brook, two figures stood in the door of the house.

"Look, Harry!" softly said the woman's voice. "Isn't that a picture?"

"It is, indeed, my dear. Gerry adores the colonel."

"No wonder. I do myself. Oh, by the way, Harry, I had a letter from
Captain Poland today."

"Did you? Where is he now?" asked Harry Bartlett, as his eyes turned
lovingly from the figure of his little son in the colonel's lap to that
of his wife beside him.

"In the Philippines. He says he thinks he'll settle there. He was so
pleased that we named the Boy after him."

"Was he?" and then, as his wife went over to steal up behind her little
son and clasp her hands over his eyes, the man, standing alone on the
porch, murmured:

"Poor Gerry!" And it was of the lonely man in the Philippines he was
speaking.

In the silent shadows Colonel Robert Lee Ashley fished again. This time
he was alone, save for the omnipresent Shag. And as the latter netted a
fish, and slipped it into the grass-lined creel, he spoke and said:

"Mr. Young, he done ast me to-day when we gwine back t' de city. He
done say dere's a big case waitin' fo' you, Colonel, sah. When is we-all
gwine back?"

"Never, Shag!"

"Nevah, Colonel, sah?"

"No. I'm going to spend all the rest of my life fishing. I've resigned
from the detective business! I'll never take another case Never!"

And Shag chuckled silently as he closed the creel.





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