SOME LETTERS
When Jean Forette, whose month was not quite up and who had not yet completed arrangements for his new position, alighted from the Shore Express at Lakeside and made his way-afoot and not in a machine - to the Three Pines, the picturesque figure of the Southern gentleman followed.
"I wonder," mused Colonel Ashley, "whether he takes Scotch Highballs or absinthe, and what dope he mixes with it? Absinthe is rather hard to get out here, I should imagine, but they might have a green brand of whiskey they'd sell for it.But that Frenchman ought to know the genuine stuff.However, we'll see."Carrying his limp, leather bag, which had served him in such good stead when he entered the lavatory, the colonel slouched silently along the road.It was close to midnight, and there would be no other trains to the shore that day.
The lights of the Three Pines glowed in pleasant and inviting fashion across the sandy highway.Out in front stood several cars, for the tavern was one much patronized by summer visitors, and was a haven of refuge, a "life-saving station," as it had been dubbed by those who fancied they were much in need of alcoholic refreshment.
Jean Forette entered, and Colonel Ashley, waiting a little and making sure that the "tap room," as it was ostentatiously called, was sufficiently filled to enable him to mingle with the patrons without attracting undue notice, followed.
He looked about for a sight of the chauffeur, and saw him leaning up against the bar, sipping a glass of beer, and, between imbibitions, talking earnestly to the white-aproned bartender.
"I'd like to hear what they're saying," mused the colonel."I wonder if I can get a bit nearer."He ordered some rye, and, having disposed of it, took out a cigar, and began searching in his pockets as though for a match.
"Here you are!" observed a bartender, as he held out a lighted taper.
The colonel had anticipated this, and quickly moved down the mahogany rail toward the end where Jean Forette was standing.At that end was a little gas jet kept burning as a convenience to smokers.
"I'll use that," said the colonel."I don't like the flavor of burnt wood in my smoke.""Fussy old duck," murmured the barkeeper as he let the flame he had ignited die out, flicking the b1ackened end to the floor.
And, being careful to keep his face as much as possible in the shadow of his big, slouch hat, Colonel Ashley lighted his cigar at the gas flame.
And, somehow or other, that cigar required a long and most careful lighting.The smoker got the tip glowing, and then inspected it critically.It was not to his satisfaction, as he drew a few puffs on it, and again he applied the end to the flame.
He sent forth a perfect cloud of smoke this time, and it seemed to veil him as the fog, blowing in from the sea, veils the tumbling billows.Once more there was a look at the end, but the "fussy old duck" was not satisfied, and, again had recourse to the flame.
All this while Colonel Ashley was straining his ears to catch what Jean Forette was saying to the attendant who had drawn the frothing glass of beer for him.
But the men talked in too low a tone, or the colonel had been a bit too late, for all he heard was a murmur of automobile talk.Jean seemed to be telling something about a particularly fast car he had formerly driven.
"The fishing isn't as good as I hoped," mused the colonel.Then, as he turned to go out, he heard distinctly:
"Sure I remember you paying for the drink.I can prove that if you want me to.Are they tryin' to double-cross you?""Something like that, yes."
"Well, you leave it to me, see? I'll square you all right." "Thanks," murmured Jean, and then he, too, turned aside.
"There may be something in it after all," was the colonel's thought, and then he, too, hurried from the Three Pines, passing beneath the big trees, with their sighing branches, which gave the name to the inn.
On toward The Haven, through the silence and darkness of the night,went the detective.And at a particularly dark and lonely place he stopped.The pungent, clean smell of grain alcohol filled the air, and a little later a man, devoid of goatee and moustache, passing out into the starlight, while a black, slouch hat went into the bag, and a Panama, so flexible that it had not suffered from having been thrust rather ruthlessly into the valise, came out.
"I don't like that sort of detective work," mused the colonel, "but it has its uses."Viola Carwell, alone in her room, sat with a bundle of letters on a table before her.They were letters she had found in a small drawer of the private safe - a drawer she had, at first, thought contained nothing.The discovery of the letters had been made in a peculiar manner.
Viola and Miss Carwell, going over the documents, had sorted them into two piles - one to be submitted to the lawyer, the other being made up of obviously personal matters that could have no interest for any but members of the family.
