CHAPTER XVI. SOME LETTERS
When Jean Forette, whose month was not quite up and who had not yetcompleted arrangements for his new position, alighted from the ShoreExpress at Lakeside and made his way-afoot and not in a machine--to theThree Pines, the picturesque figure of the Southern gentleman followed.
"I wonder," mused Colonel Ashley, "whether he takes Scotch Highballs orabsinthe, and what dope he mixes with it? Absinthe is rather hard to getout here, I should imagine, but they might have a green brand of whiskeythey'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 steadwhen he entered the lavatory, the colonel slouched silently along theroad. It was close to midnight, and there would be no other trains tothe shore that day.
The lights of the Three Pines glowed in pleasant and inviting fashionacross the sandy highway. Out in front stood several cars, for thetavern was one much patronized by summer visitors, and was a haven ofrefuge, a "life-saving station," as it had been dubbed by those whofancied they were much in need of alcoholic refreshment.
Jean Forette entered, and Colonel Ashley, waiting a little andmaking sure that the "tap room," as it was ostentatiously called, wassufficiently filled to enable him to mingle with the patrons withoutattracting undue notice, followed.
He looked about for a sight of the chauffeur, and saw him leaning upagainst 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 ifI can get a bit nearer."
He ordered some rye, and, having disposed of it, took out a cigar, andbegan 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 mahoganyrail toward the end where Jean Forette was standing. At that end was alittle gas jet kept burning as a convenience to smokers.
"I'll use that," said the colonel. "I don't like the flavor of burntwood in my smoke."
"Fussy old duck," murmured the barkeeper as he let the flame he hadignited die out, flicking the blackened end to the floor.
And, being careful to keep his face as much as possible in the shadow ofhis big, slouch hat, Colonel Ashley lighted his cigar at the gas flame.
And, somehow or other, that cigar required a long and most carefullighting. The smoker got the tip glowing, and then inspected itcritically. It was not to his satisfaction, as he drew a few puffs onit, and again he applied the end to the flame.
He sent forth a perfect cloud of smoke this time, and it seemed to veilhim 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 notsatisfied, and, again had recourse to the flame.
All this while Colonel Ashley was straining his ears to catch what JeanForette was saying to the attendant who had drawn the frothing glass ofbeer for him.
But the men talked in too low a tone, or the colonel had been a bit toolate, for all he heard was a murmur of automobile talk. Jean seemedto be telling something about a particularly fast car he had formerlydriven.
"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 wantme 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 bigtrees, with their sighing branches, which gave the name to the inn.
On toward The Haven, through the silence and darkness of the night, wentthe detective. And at a particularly dark and lonely place he stopped.The pungent, clean smell of grain alcohol filled the air, and a littlelater a man, devoid of goatee and moustache, passing out into thestarlight, while a black, slouch hat went into the bag, and a Panama,so flexible that it had not suffered from having been thrust ratherruthlessly into the valise, came out.
"I don't like that sort of detective work," mused the colonel, "but ithas its uses."
Viola Carwell, alone in her room, sat with a bundle of letters on atable before her. They were letters she had found in a small drawer ofthe 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 intotwo piles--one to be submitted to the lawyer, the other being made upof obviously personal matters that could have no interest for any butmembers of the family.
Then Miss Carwell had been called away to attend to some householdmatters, and Viola had started to return to the safe such of the papersas were not to go to the lawyer.
She opened a small drawer, to slip back into it a bundle of letters hermother had written to Mr. Carwell years before. Then Viola became awareof something else in the drawer. It was something that caught on the endof her finger nail, and she was stung by a little prick-like that of apin.
"A sliver-under my nail!" exclaimed Viola. "The bottom of the woodendrawer must be loose."
It was loose, as she discovered as soon as she looked in thecompartment. But it was a looseness that meant nothing else than thatthe drawer had a false bottom.
It was not such a false bottom as would have been made use of in themoving pictures. That is to say it was very poorly made, and an almostcasual glance would have revealed it. All that had been done was to takea piece of wood the exact size and shape of the bottom of the drawer,and fit it in. This extra piece of wood covered anything that might beput in the drawer under it, and then, on top of the false bottom otherthings might be placed so that when they were taken out, and the persondoing it saw bare wood, the conclusion would naturally follow that allthe contents of the drawer had been removed.
But such was not the case. Beneath the smooth-fitting piece of wood,which had sprung loose and been the means of driving a splinter underViola's nail, thus apprising her of the fact that there was something inthe drawer she had not seen, had been found some letters. And Viola hadnot told her aunt about them.
"I want to see what they are myself, first," the girl decided.
Now they were spread out on her dressing table in front of her. Shesat with her glorious blue-black hair unbound, and falling over hershoulders, which gleamed pink through the filmy thinness of her robe.
"I wonder if I shall be shocked when I read them?" she mused.
That was what Viola had been living in continual fear of since herfather's death--that some disclosure would shock her--that she mightcome upon some phase of his past life which would not bear the fulllight of day. For Horace Carwell had not stinted himself of thepleasures of life as he saw them. He had eaten and drunk and he had mademerry. And he was a gregarious man--one who did not like to take hispleasures alone.
And so Viola was afraid.
The letters were held together with an elastic band, and this gave somehope.
"If they were from a woman, he wouldn't have used a rubber band onthem," reasoned Viola. "He was too sentimental for that. They can't bemother's letters--they were in another compartment. I wonder--"
Viola had done much wondering since her mother's death, and considerableof it had been due to the life her father led. That he would marry againshe doubted, but he was fond of the society of the men, and particularlythe women of their own set, and some sets with which Viola preferred tohave nothing to do.
And if Mr. Carwell had no intentions of marrying again, then hisinterest in women--
But here Viola ceased wondering.
With a more resolute air she reached forth hand to the bundle of lettersand took one out. There was d
istinct relief in her manner as she quicklyturned to the signature and read: "Gerry Poland."
And then, quickly, she ascertained that all the letters comprisedcorrespondence between her father and the yacht club captain.
"But why did he hide these letters away?" mused Viola. "They seem tobe about business, as the others were--the others showing that CaptainPoland perhaps saved my father from financial ruin. Why should they beunder the false bottom of the drawer?"
She could not answer that question.
"I must read them all," she murmured, and she went through the entirecorrespondence. There were several letters, sharp in tone, from bothmen, and the subject was as Greek to Viola. But there was one note fromthe captain to her father that brought a more vivid color to her darkcheeks, for Captain Poland had written:
"You care little for what I have done for you, otherwise you would notso oppose my attentions to your daughter. They are most honorable, asyou well know, yet you are strangely against me. I can not understandit."
"Oh!" murmured Viola. "It is as if I were being bargained for! How Ihate him!"
Almost blinded by her tears she read another letter. It was anotherappeal to her father to use his influence in assisting the captain'ssuit.
But this letter--or at least that portion of it relating to Viola--hadbeen torn, and all that remained was:
"As members of the same lo--"
"What can that have meant?" she mused. "Is it the word 'lodge'?"
She read on, where the letter was whole again:
"I must ask you to reconsider your actions. Let me hear from you by thetwenty-third or--"
Again was that mystifying and tantalizing tear. Viola hastily searchedamong the other letters, hoping the missing pieces might be found.
"I simply must see what it meant," she said. "I wonder if they can be inanother part of the safe? I'm going to look!"
She started for her bath robe, and, at that moment, with a suddennessthat unnerved her, there came a knock on her door.