The Golf Course Mystery

CHAPTER IX. 58 C. H.—161*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not in a—a cell?”

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

“He'll be in jail, though, won't he?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Aunt Mary!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Shag. I haven't even begun yet.”

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

The next day he went fishing.

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

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

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:

“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.—171*

CHAPTER X. A WATER HAZARD

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

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

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

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

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

“And you will stay—”

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

And so Viola and Miss Carwell went away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there the colonel threw in his bait and waited.

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

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

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

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

Then came the question: “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you mean?”

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

“Did he go fast?”

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

“What did the chauffeur say?”

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

“Seemed afraid, did he?”

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

“He might have taken something other than drink.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dope!”

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

“Then he really seemed afraid to speed the Dilat car?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shag, the fishing here is miserable!”

“Yes, sah, Colonel. Shall we-all move?”

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

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

“Shag, I'm a most monumental liar!”

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

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

“Yes, sah!”

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

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

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

“Get ready now, Shag!” ordered the colonel.

“Yes, sah, I'se all ready!”

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

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

“Shag!”

“Yes, sah, Colonel!”

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

“Done! Come on, we'll take a look!”

CHAPTER XI. POISONOUS PLANTS

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

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

“Yes, sah!”

“Do you know what that was?”

“No, sab, Colonel, I don't.”

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

“Good land ob massy!” gasped Shag. “Does yo'—does yo' mean a—ghost?”

“You might call it that, Shag. Yes, a ghost.”

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

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

“By Jove!” exclaimed the fisherman. “If it was that—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you interfere with it?” stormed the colonel. “You just naturally knocked it all to the devil, sir! That's what you did!” And then, as he saw a curious look on the faces of the two men, he added:

“I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. I'm an interloper, I realize—a trespasser. It's my own fault for fishing so near the golf course. But I—”

“Excuse me,” broke in the other man. “But you are Colonel Ashley, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“My name is Sharwell—Tom Sharwell, and this is Bruce Garrigan. I thought I had seen you at the club. Pray excuse our interruption of your sport. We had no idea any one was fishing here.”

“It's entirely my fault,” declared the colonel, as he removed his cap and bowed, a courtesy the two golfers, after a moment of hesitation, returned. “I was taking chances when I threw in here.”

“And did we scare the fish?” asked Garrigan. “I suppose so. Never was much of a fisherman myself. All I know about them is seventeen million, four hundred and eighty-eight thousand nine hundred and twenty one boxes of sardines were imported into the United States last year. I read it in the paper so it must be true. I know I ate the one box.”

“Be quiet, Bruce,” said Sharwell in a low voice, but the colonel smiled. There was no affront to his dignity, as the golfer had feared.

“I had on a most beautiful catch,” said the colonel, “and then what I thought, at first, was the embodied spirit of Izaak Walton suddenly came zipping into the water just as Shag was about to land the beauty, and knocked it off the hook. Since then I have been informed by my servant that it was no spirit, but a golf ball.”

“It was mine,” confessed Garrigan. “I'm all kinds of sorry about it. Never had the least notion any one was here. Never saw any one fish here before; did we, Tom?”

“Well, I thought there were fish here, and events proved I was right,” said the colonel. “I hope the water isn't posted?” he inquired anxiously, for he was a stickler for the rights of others.

“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Garrigan hastened to add. “You're welcome to fish here as long and as often as you like. Only, as this water hazard is often played from the fifth hole, it would be advisable to post a sign just outside the trees, or station your man there to give notice.”

“I'll do it after this,” said the colonel, as he reeled in.

“You're not going to quit just because I was so unfortunate as to spoil your first catch, are you?” asked Garrigan.

“I think I'd better,” the colonel said. “I don't believe I could land anything after what happened. The fish must have thought it was a thunderbolt, from the way that ball landed.”

“I did drive rather hard,” admitted Garrigan. “But we can cut this out of our game, take a stroke apiece and go on with the play. That is, I'm willing. I don't feel very keen for the game to-day. How about you, Tom?”

“I'm ready to quit, and I think the least we can do, considering that we have spoiled Colonel Ashley's day, is to ask him if he won't share with us the bottle I won from you on the water hazard.”

“Done!” exclaimed Garrigan. “There were eleven million, four hundred and ten thousand six hundred and six dollars' worth of soya beans imported into the United States in 1917,” he added, “which, of course, has nothing to do with the number of cold bottles of champagne the steward, at the nineteenth hole, has on the ice for us. So I suggest that we adjourn and—”

“I will, on one condition,” said Sharwell.

“What is it?” asked his companion.

“That you kindly refrain from telling us how many spools of thread were sent to the cannibals of the Friendly Islands for the fiscal year ending June 30, 1884.”

“Done!” cried Garrigan with a laugh. “I'll never hint of it. Colonel, will you accept our hospitality? I believe you are already put up at the club?”

“Yes, Miss Carwell was kind enough to secure a visitor's card for me.”

“Then let's forget our sorrows; drown them in the bubbling glasses with hollow stems!” cried Garrigan, gayly.

“Here, Shag,” called the colonel, as he gave his rod to his colored servant. “I don't know when I'll be back.”

“Well said!” exclaimed Sharwell.

Then they adjourned to the nineteenth hole.

If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it was certainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat on the shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things, and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr. Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had been called off on the day of his funeral. But now those last rites were over, the clubhouse was the same gay place it had been. Though more than one veteran member sat in silent reverie over his cigar as he recalled the friend who never again would tee a ball with him.

“It certainly is queer why Harry Bartlett doesn't come out and say what it was that he and Mr. Carwell had words about,” commented Sharwell. “There he stays, in that rotten jail. Bah! I can smell it yet, for I called to see if I could do anything. And yet he won't talk.”

“It is queer,” said Garrigan. “If he'd only let his friends speak for him it could be cleared. We all know what the quarrel was about.”

“What?” asked the colonel. He had his own theory, but he wanted to see how it jibed with another's.

“It's an old story,” went on Bruce Garrigan. “It goes back to the time, about three years ago, when the fair Viola and Harry began to be talked about as more than ordinary friends. Just about then Mr. Carwell lost a large sum of money in a stock deal, or a bond issue, or something—I've forgotten what—and he always said that Harry and his clique engineered the plan by which he was mulcted.”

“And did Mr. Bartlett have anything to do with it?” asked the colonel.

“Well, some say he did, and some say he didn't. Harry himself denied all knowledge of it. Anyhow the colonel lost a stiffish sum, and some of Harry's people took in a goodly pile. Naturally there was a bit of coldness between the families, and I did hear Harry was told his presence around Viola wasn't desired.

“If he was so warned he didn't heed it, for they went out together as much as ever, though I can't say he called at the house very often.”

“And you think it was about this he and Mr. Carwell quarreled just before Mr. Carwell was stricken?” asked the colonel.

“I think so, yes,” answered Garrigan. “And I think Harry refuses to admit it, from a notion that it would be dragging in a lady's name. But it wouldn't be airing anything that isn't already pretty well known. Mr. Carwell has a violent temper—or he had one—and Harry isn't exactly an angel when he's roused, though I'll say say for him that I have rarely seen him angry. And there you are. Boy, another bottle, and have it colder than the last.”

“Yes,” mused the colonel, “there you are—or aren't, according to your viewpoint.”

And so the day grew more sunshiny and mellow, and Colonel Ashley did not regret the fish that the golf ball cheated him of, for he added several new cards to his index file and jotted down, mentally, new facts on some already in it.

“Will return to-morrow. Viola too restless here.”

That was the telegram Colonel Ashley received the day following his acquaintance at the nineteenth hole with Bruce Garrigan and Tom Sharwell.

“She stayed away longer than I thought she would,” mused the detective, “Yes, sah!”

“See if that French chauffeur, Forette, can drive me into town.”

“Yes, sah, Colonel.”

A little later Jean brought the roadster to the front of the house and waited for Colonel Ashley. The latter came forth holding a slip of paper in his hand, and, to the chauffeur, he said:

“Do you know where Dr. Baird lives?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Take me there, please. He was one of the physicians called in when Mr. Carwell was poisoned, was he not?”

“Yes,” and the chauffeur nodded and smiled. “You are not ill, I hope, monsieur. If you are, there is a physician nearer—”

“Oh, no. I'm all right. I just want to have a talk with the doctor. Did you ever consult him?”

“Me? Oh, no, monsieur, I have no need of a doctor. I am never sick. I feel most excellent!” and certainly he looked it. There was a sparkle in his eyes—perhaps too brilliant a sparkle, but he did not look like a “dope fiend.”

“If you are in a hurry,” went on the chauffeur, “I can—”

“No, no hurry,” responded the colonel. “Why, do you feel like driving fast?”

“Very fast, monsieur. I always like to drive fast, only there is seldom call for it. Mr. Carwell, he at times would like speed, and again he was like the tortoise. But as for me—poof! What would you?” and he shrugged his shoulders and reverted to his own tongue.

“Hum,” mused the colonel. “Rather a different story from the garage man's. However, we shall see.”

Dr. Baird was in. In fact, being a very young doctor indeed, he was rather more in than out—too much in to suit his own inclination and pocketbook, for, as yet, the number of his patients was small.

“I did not come to see you for myself, professionally,” said Colonel Ashley, as he took a seat in the office, and introduced himself. “I am trying to establish, for the satisfaction of Miss Carwell, that her father was not a suicide, and—”

“What else could it be?” asked Dr. Baird.

“I do not know. But I read with great interest the interview, you gave the Globe on the effects and detection of various poisons.”

“Yes?” and young Dr. Baird rubbed his hands in delight, and stroked his still younger moustache.

“Yes. And I called to ask what poison or chemical symbol that might be.”

The colonel extended a paper on which was inscribed: 58 C. H.—161*

“That! Hum, why that is not a chemical symbol at all!” promptly declared Dr. Baird.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Could it be some formula for poison?”

“It could not. Of course that is not to say it could not be some person's private memorandum for some combination of elements. C might stand for carbon and H for hydrogen. But that would not make a poison in the ordinary accepted meaning of the term. I am sure you are mistaken if you think that is a chemical symbol.”

“I am sure, also,” said the detective with a smile. “I just wanted your opinion, that is all. Then those letters and figures would mean nothing to you?”

“Nothing at all. Wait though—”

Young Dr. Percy Baird looked at the slip again. “No, it would mean nothing to me,” he said finally.

“Thank you,” said the colonel.

He came out of the physician's office to find Jean Forette calmly reading in his side of the car. The paper was put away at once, and with a whirr from the self-starter the motor throbbed.

“It there a free public library in town, Jean?” asked the detective.

“Yes, monsieur.

“Take me there.”

The library was one built partly with the money donated by a celebrated millionaire, and contained a fair variety of books. To the main desk, behind which sat a pretty girl, marched Colonel Ashley.

“Have you any books on poisons?” he asked.

“Poisons?” She looked up at him, startled, a flush mantling her fair cheeks.

“Yes. Any works on poisons—a chemistry would do.”

“Oh, yes, we have books on poisons. I'll jot down the numbers for you. We have not many, I'm afraid. It is—it isn't a pleasant subject.”

“No, I imagine not.”

She busied herself with the card index, and came back to him in a moment with a slip of paper.

“I'm sorry,” said the pretty girl, “but we seem to have only one book on poisons, and I'm afraid that isn't what you want. It is entitled 'Poisonous Plants of New Jersey,' and is one of the bulletins of the New Jersey Agricultural Experiment Station at New Brunswick. But it is out at present. Here is the number of it, and if it comes in—”

“I should be glad to see it,” interrupted the colonel pleasantly.

“Here is the number,” and the pretty girl extended to him a slip which read: 58 C. H—161*

“What is the star for?” asked the colonel.

“It indicates that the book was donated by the state and was not purchased with the endowment appropriation,” she informed him.

“And it is out now. I wonder if you could tell me who has it?”

“Why, yes, sir. Just a moment.”

She looked at some more cards, and came back to him. She looked a bit disturbed.

“The book, 'Poisonous Plants of New Jersey' was taken out by Miss Viola Carwell,” said the girl.