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 haye 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.—I6I*

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.—I6I*



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! Comm' 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 Carxvell 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.—i6i* 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.—I6I*

"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—i6i*

"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 bad 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 toto 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: hut 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—"