arry is not guilty. Please do something!"

"I am trying to," mused the colonel as he got into bed, and turned his
thoughts to a passage he had read in Walton just before switching off
his light. It was an old rhyme, the source of which was not given, but
which seemed wonderfully comforting under the circumstances. It was
a bit of advice given by our friend Izaak, and as part of what a good
fisherman should provide specified:

"My rod and my line, my float and my lead,
My hook and my plummet, my whetstone and knife.
My basket, my baits, both living and dead,
My net and my meat (for that is the chief):
Then I must have thread, and hairs green and small,
With mine angling purse--and so you have all."

"And," reflected Colonel Ashley, as he dozed off, "I guess I'll need all
that and more to solve this mystery."

The detective was up betimes the next morning, as he would have said
had he been discoursing in the talk of Mr. Walton, and on going to the
window to fill his lungs with fresh air, he saw a letter slipped under
his door.

"From Viola, I imagine," he mused, as he picked it up. "Unless it's from
Shag, telling me the fish are biting unusually well. I hope they're not,
for I must do considerable to-day, and I don't want to be tempted to
stray to the fields.

"It isn't from Shag, though. He never could muster as neat a pen as
this. Nor yet is it from Viola. Printed, too! The old device to prevent
detection of the handwriting. Well, mysterious missive, what have you to
say this fine morning?"

He opened the envelope carefully, preserving it and not tearing the
address, which, as he had said, was printed, not written. It bore his
name, and nothing else.

Within the envelope was a small piece of paper on which was printed
this:

"Ask Miss Viola what this means. 58 C. H.--161*."

Colonel Ashley read the message through three times without saying a
word. Then he held the paper and envelope up to the light to see if they
bore a water mark. Neither did, and the paper was of a cheap, common
variety which might be come upon in almost any stationery store. The
colonel read the message again, looked at the back and front of the
envelope, and then, placing both in his pocket, went down to breakfast,
the bell for which he heard just as he finished his simple breathing
exercises.

The morning papers were at his place, which was the only one at the
table. Either Viola and her aunt had