CHAPTER XI. POISONOUS PLANTS
Colonel Ashley still stood, holding his now useless rod and line,gazing first at that, then at Shag and, anon, at the little swirl of thewaters, marking where the big fish had disappeared from view.
"Shag!" exclaimed the colonel in an ominously, quiet voice.
"Yes, sah!"
"Do you know what that was?"
"No, sab, Colonel, I don't."
"Well, that was a spirit manifestation of Izaak Walton. It was jealousof my success and took that revenge. It was the spirit of the oldfisherman himself."
"Good land ob massy!" gasped Shag. "Does yo'--does yo' mean a--ghost?"
"You might call it that, Shag. Yes, a ghost."
The colored man looked frightened for a moment, and then a broad grinspread over his face.
"Well, sah, Colonel," he began, deferentially, "maybe yo' kin callit dat, but hit looks t' me mo' laik one ob dem li'l white balls degen'mens an' ladies done knock aroun' wif iron-headed clubs. Dat's whutit looks laik t' me, sah, Colonel," and Shag picked up a golf ball fromthe water, where it floated.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the fisherman. "If it was that--"
His indignant protest was interrupted by the appearance, breakingthrough the underbrush on the edge of the stream, of two men, each onecarrying a bag of golf clubs.
"Did you--" began one, and then, as he caught sight of Shag holding upin his black fingers the white ball, there was added:
"I see you did! Thank you. You were right, Tom. I did go into the water.I sliced worse than I thought."
Then the two men seemed, for the first time, to have caught sight ofColonel Ashley. They noticed his attitude, the dangling line and hisdisappointed look.
"I beg pardon," said the one who had already spoken, "but did weinterfere with your fishing?"
"Did you interfere with it?" stormed the colonel. "You just naturallyknocked it all to the devil, sir! That's what you did!" And then, as hesaw a curious look on the faces of the two men, he added:
"I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. I'm an interloper, Irealize--a trespasser. It's my own fault for fishing so near the golfcourse. But I--"
"Excuse me," broke in the other man. "But you are Colonel Ashley, aren'tyou?"
"I am."
"My name is Sharwell--Tom Sharwell, and this is Bruce Garrigan. Ithought I had seen you at the club. Pray excuse our interruption of yoursport. We had no idea any one was fishing here."
"It's entirely my fault," declared the colonel, as he removed his capand bowed, a courtesy the two golfers, after a moment of hesitation,returned. "I was taking chances when I threw in here."
"And did we scare the fish?" asked Garrigan. "I suppose so. Never wasmuch of a fisherman myself. All I know about them is seventeen million,four hundred and eighty-eight thousand nine hundred and twenty one boxesof sardines were imported into the United States last year. I read it inthe paper so it must be true. I know I ate the one box."
"Be quiet, Bruce," said Sharwell in a low voice, but the colonel smiled.There was no affront to his dignity, as the golfer had feared.
"I had on a most beautiful catch," said the colonel, "and then what Ithought, at first, was the embodied spirit of Izaak Walton suddenly camezipping into the water just as Shag was about to land the beauty, andknocked it off the hook. Since then I have been informed by my servantthat it was no spirit, but a golf ball."
"It was mine," confessed Garrigan. "I'm all kinds of sorry about it.Never had the least notion any one was here. Never saw any one fish herebefore; did we, Tom?"
"Well, I thought there were fish here, and events proved I wasright," said the colonel. "I hope the water isn't posted?" he inquiredanxiously, for he was a stickler for the rights of others.
"Oh, no, nothing like that!" Garrigan hastened to add. "You're welcometo fish here as long and as often as you like. Only, as this waterhazard is often played from the fifth hole, it would be advisable topost a sign just outside the trees, or station your man there to givenotice."
"I'll do it after this," said the colonel, as he reeled in.
"You're not going to quit just because I was so unfortunate as to spoilyour first catch, are you?" asked Garrigan.
"I think I'd better," the colonel said. "I don't believe I could landanything after what happened. The fish must have thought it was athunderbolt, from the way that ball landed."
"I did drive rather hard," admitted Garrigan. "But we can cut this outof our game, take a stroke apiece and go on with the play. That is,I'm willing. I don't feel very keen for the game to-day. How about you,Tom?"
"I'm ready to quit, and I think the least we can do, considering that wehave spoiled Colonel Ashley's day, is to ask him if he won't share withus the bottle I won from you on the water hazard."
"Done!" exclaimed Garrigan. "There were eleven million, four hundred andten thousand six hundred and six dollars' worth of soya beans importedinto the United States in 1917," he added, "which, of course, hasnothing to do with the number of cold bottles of champagne the steward,at the nineteenth hole, has on the ice for us. So I suggest that weadjourn and--"
"I will, on one condition," said Sharwell.
"What is it?" asked his companion.
"That you kindly refrain from telling us how many spools of thread weresent to the cannibals of the Friendly Islands for the fiscal year endingJune 30, 1884."
"Done!" cried Garrigan with a laugh. "I'll never hint of it. Colonel,will you accept our hospitality? I believe you are already put up at theclub?"
"Yes, Miss Carwell was kind enough to secure a visitor's card for me."
"Then let's forget our sorrows; drown them in the bubbling glasses withhollow stems!" cried Garrigan, gayly.
"Here, Shag," called the colonel, as he gave his rod to his coloredservant. "I don't know when I'll be back."
"Well said!" exclaimed Sharwell.
Then they adjourned to the nineteenth hole.
If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it wascertainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat onthe shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things,and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr.Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had beencalled off on the day of his funeral. But now those last rites wereover, the clubhouse was the same gay place it had been. Though more thanone veteran member sat in silent reverie over his cigar as he recalledthe friend who never again would tee a ball with him.
"It certainly is queer why Harry Bartlett doesn't come out and say whatit was that he and Mr. Carwell had words about," commented Sharwell."There he stays, in that rotten jail. Bah! I can smell it yet, for Icalled to see if I could do anything. And yet he won't talk."
"It is queer," said Garrigan. "If he'd only let his friends speak forhim it could be cleared. We all know what the quarrel was about."
"What?" asked the colonel. He had his own theory, but he wanted to seehow it jibed with another's.
"It's an old story," went on Bruce Garrigan. "It goes back to the time,about three years ago, when the fair Viola and Harry began to be talkedabout as more than ordinary friends. Just about then Mr. Carwell lost alarge sum of money in a stock deal, or a bond issue, or something--I'veforgotten what--and he always said that Harry and his clique engineeredthe plan by which he was mulcted."
"And did Mr. Bartlett have anything to do with it?" asked the colonel.
"Well, some say he did, and some say he didn't. Harry himself deniedall knowledge of it. Anyhow the colonel lost a stiffish sum, and someof Harry's people took in a goodly pile. Naturally there was a bitof coldness between the families, and I did hear Harry was told hispresence around Viola wasn't desired.
"If he was so warned he didn't heed it, for they went out together asmuch as ever, though I can't say he called at the house very often."
"And you think it was about this he and Mr. Carwell quarreled justbefore Mr. Carwell was stricken?" asked the colonel.
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bsp; "I think so, yes," answered Garrigan. "And I think Harry refuses toadmit it, from a notion that it would be dragging in a lady's name. Butit wouldn't be airing anything that isn't already pretty well known. Mr.Carwell has a violent temper--or he had one--and Harry isn't exactly anangel when he's roused, though I'll say say for him that I have rarelyseen him angry. And there you are. Boy, another bottle, and have itcolder than the last."
"Yes," mused the colonel, "there you are--or aren't, according to yourviewpoint."
And so the day grew more sunshiny and mellow, and Colonel Ashley did notregret the fish that the golf ball cheated him of, for he added severalnew cards to his index file and jotted down, mentally, new facts on somealready in it.
"Will return to-morrow. Viola too restless here."
That was the telegram Colonel Ashley received the day followinghis acquaintance at the nineteenth hole with Bruce Garrigan and TomSharwell.
"She stayed away longer than I thought she would," mused the detective,"Yes, sah!"
"See if that French chauffeur, Forette, can drive me into town."
"Yes, sah, Colonel."
A little later Jean brought the roadster to the front of the house andwaited for Colonel Ashley. The latter came forth holding a slip of paperin his hand, and, to the chauffeur, he said:
"Do you know where Dr. Baird lives?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Take me there, please. He was one of the physicians called in when Mr.Carwell was poisoned, was he not?"
"Yes," and the chauffeur nodded and smiled. "You are not ill, I hope,monsieur. If you are, there is a physician nearer--"
"Oh, no. I'm all right. I just want to have a talk with the doctor. Didyou ever consult him?"
"Me? Oh, no, monsieur, I have no need of a doctor. I am never sick. Ifeel most excellent!" and certainly he looked it. There was a sparklein his eyes--perhaps too brilliant a sparkle, but he did not look like a"dope fiend."
"If you are in a hurry," went on the chauffeur, "I can--"
"No, no hurry," responded the colonel. "Why, do you feel like drivingfast?"
"Very fast, monsieur. I always like to drive fast, only there is seldomcall for it. Mr. Carwell, he at times would like speed, and again he waslike the tortoise. But as for me--poof! What would you?" and he shruggedhis shoulders and reverted to his own tongue.
"Hum," mused the colonel. "Rather a different story from the garageman's. However, we shall see."
Dr. Baird was in. In fact, being a very young doctor indeed, he wasrather more in than out--too much in to suit his own inclination andpocketbook, for, as yet, the number of his patients was small.
"I did not come to see you for myself, professionally," said ColonelAshley, as he took a seat in the office, and introduced himself. "Iam trying to establish, for the satisfaction of Miss Carwell, that herfather was not a suicide, and--"
"What else could it be?" asked Dr. Baird.
"I do not know. But I read with great interest the interview, you gavethe Globe on the effects and detection of various poisons."
"Yes?" and young Dr. Baird rubbed his hands in delight, and stroked hisstill younger moustache.
"Yes. And I called to ask what poison or chemical symbol that might be."
The colonel extended a paper on which was inscribed: 58 C. H.--161*
"That! Hum, why that is not a chemical symbol at all!" promptly declaredDr. Baird.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Could it be some formula for poison?"
"It could not. Of course that is not to say it could not be someperson's private memorandum for some combination of elements. C mightstand for carbon and H for hydrogen. But that would not make a poison inthe ordinary accepted meaning of the term. I am sure you are mistaken ifyou think that is a chemical symbol."
"I am sure, also," said the detective with a smile. "I just wanted youropinion, that is all. Then those letters and figures would mean nothingto you?"
"Nothing at all. Wait though--"
Young Dr. Percy Baird looked at the slip again. "No, it would meannothing to me," he said finally.
"Thank you," said the colonel.
He came out of the physician's office to find Jean Forette calmlyreading in his side of the car. The paper was put away at once, and witha whirr from the self-starter the motor throbbed.
"It there a free public library in town, Jean?" asked the detective.
"Yes, monsieur.
"Take me there."
The library was one built partly with the money donated by a celebratedmillionaire, and contained a fair variety of books. To the main desk,behind which sat a pretty girl, marched Colonel Ashley.
"Have you any books on poisons?" he asked.
"Poisons?" She looked up at him, startled, a flush mantling her faircheeks.
"Yes. Any works on poisons--a chemistry would do."
"Oh, yes, we have books on poisons. I'll jot down the numbers for you.We have not many, I'm afraid. It is--it isn't a pleasant subject."
"No, I imagine not."
She busied herself with the card index, and came back to him in a momentwith a slip of paper.
"I'm sorry," said the pretty girl, "but we seem to have only one bookon poisons, and I'm afraid that isn't what you want. It is entitled'Poisonous Plants of New Jersey,' and is one of the bulletins of the NewJersey Agricultural Experiment Station at New Brunswick. But it is outat present. Here is the number of it, and if it comes in--"
"I should be glad to see it," interrupted the colonel pleasantly.
"Here is the number," and the pretty girl extended to him a slip whichread: 58 C. H--161*
"What is the star for?" asked the colonel.
"It indicates that the book was donated by the state and was notpurchased with the endowment appropriation," she informed him.
"And it is out now. I wonder if you could tell me who has it?"
"Why, yes, sir. Just a moment."
She looked at some more cards, and came back to him. She looked a bitdisturbed.
"The book, 'Poisonous Plants of New Jersey' was taken out by Miss ViolaCarwell," said the girl.