Etext of The Golf Course Mystery
by Chester K. Steele


THE GOLF COURSE MYSTERY
by Chester K. Steele




CONTENTS


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





CHAPTER I

PUTTING OUT


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

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

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

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

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

"Out of keeping? What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then Mrs. Carwell is dead?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"New horn?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does Viola run it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Couldn't you forget it just once?"

"I don't see how!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, not exactly."

"Have you lost money?"

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

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

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

"It's something!" insisted Minnie.

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Has Mr. Carwell mentioned it of late?"

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

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

Meanwhile, Viola Carwell was not enjoying her ride with Captain Poland
as much as she had expected she would.  As a matter of fact it had been
undertaken largely to cause Bartlett a little uneasiness; and as the
Seeing this, the latter changed his mind concerning something he had
fully expected to speak to Viola about that day, if he got the chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fore!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Taken !" exclaimed Garrigan, with a grin.

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

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

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

"Where?" inquired the captain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER II

THE NINETEENTH HOLE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll get him !" some one offered

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

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

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

"He fell," some one said.

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

"Oh!" and Viola herself reeled unsteadily.

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

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

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

"Almost, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed several.

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

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

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

"Positive.  The heart action has entirely stopped."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's true !" several agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She questioned almost as a little child might have done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, you may leave it all to me.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III

"WHY?"


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

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

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

"In the library, ma am.

"Very well.  I'll see him."

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

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

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

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

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

"Mysterious death, Captain Poland!"

Mary Carwell seemed to swell up like a fretful turkey.

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

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

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

"And who is he?"

"Dr. Rowland."

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

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

"Oh, then it will be very simple."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Poland was interrupted by a ring at the door.

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

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

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

"I will do so, Miss Carwell."

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

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

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

"Is anything the matter?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainty of what?"

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

"Suicide!"

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

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

And then suddenly he became strangely thoughtful.




CHAPTER IV

VIOLA'S DECISION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The older medical man shook his head.

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

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

"I hope so," murmured Dr. Lambert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The truth, Viola ?" he questioned gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You mustnot take on so, Vi.  I know it is hard, but you must meet the
issue squarely.  At the same time you must realize that even the most
suspicious circumstances may be explained away.  While it does look as
though your father had deliberately taken the poison, it may easily be
established by an investigation that it was an accident - an accident
of which even your father was ignorant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"I - I heard you."

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

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

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

"What!  That my father committed suicide?"

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



CHAPTER V

HARRY'S MISSION


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

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

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

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

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

"What did Minnie know?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The papers!" broke in Viola.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is that?"

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

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

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



CHAPTER VI

BY A QUIET STREAM


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hum! Asleep, weren't you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will, Colonel."

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

"I'll jest natchully knock `em down, Colonel! Dat's what I'll do!"
exclaimed the colored man, as cheerfully as though he would relish such
"Well, I can't advise that, of course," said the colonel with a smile,
"but you may use your own judgment.  I came here for a rest, and I don't
want to run into another diamond cross mystery, or anything like it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VII

THE INQUEST


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

"Yes, sah! All ready!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"From Spotty."  And again Bartlett smiled.

"What?  Spotty Morgan ?"
 
"Yes."

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

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

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

"I beg pardon," said Harry politely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry Bartlett was not a successful business man for nothing.  He knew
how to make an appeal.  "I came to see you at the request of Miss Viola
Carweil," 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, asthe 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 subpcena 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 tothe 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
willanswer 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