course in poker."

Colonel Ashley sat back in the corner of the cab, glad of the rather
long ride before him. He scarcely moved, save when the sway or jolt of
the vehicle tossed him about, and he sat with an unlighted cigar between
his teeth.

"Yes," he murmnred once, "pretty poor fishing. I might better have
stayed where I was. Well, I'll go back to-morrow."

Leaving the taxicab, the colonel made his way along the raised plaza on
which some of the college buildings front, and turned into the faculty
club, where he stayed for some time. When he came out, having told his
man to wait, he bore under his arm a package which, even to the casual
observer, contained books.

"Pennsylvania station," was the order he gave, and again he sat back in
the corner of the cab, scarcely glancing out of the window to note the
busy scenes all about him.

It was not until he had purchased his ticket and was about to board the
last Jersey Shore train, to take him back to the `scene of the death of
Horace Carwell, that Colonel Ashley, as he caught sight of a figure in
the crowd ahead of him, seemed galvanized into new life.

For a moment he gazed at a certain man, taking care to keep some women
with large hats between the object of his attention and himself. And
then, as he made sure of the identity, the colonel murmured:

"Poor fishing did I say? Well, it seems to me it's getting better."