There were many cards in the colonel's index, and he ran rapidly over
them as he waited for a bite. They bore the names of many members of
the golf and yachting clubs of which Mr. Carwell had been a member.
There were also the names of the household servants, and the dead man's
nearest relatives, including his sister and Viola. But the colonel did
not linger long over any of these memoranda. The card of Viola Carwell,
however, had mentally penciled on it the somewhat mystic symbol
58 C. H. - i6i* and this the colonel looked at from every angle.

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

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

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

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

"Shag, the fishing here is miserable!"

"Yes, sah, Colonel. Shall we-all move?"

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