s over in his
mind the various persons who had come under his observation, as possible
perpetrators of the crime.

"Let us begin with one the law already suspects," mused the fisherman.
"Not that that is any criterion, but that it disposes of him in a
certain order--disposes of him or--involves him more deeply," and the
colonel looked to where a ground spider had woven a web in which a small
but helpless grass hopper was then struggling.

"Could Harry Bartlett have given the poison?" the colonel asked himself.
And the answer, naturally, was that such could have been the case.

Then came the question: "Why?"

"Had he an object? What was the quarrel about, concerning which he
refuses to speak? Why is Viola so sure Harry could not have done it? I
think I can see a reason for the last. She loves him as much as he does
her. That's natural. She's a sweet girl!"

And, being unable to decide definitely as to the status of Harry
Bartlett, Colonel Ashley mentally passed that card in his file and took
up another, bearing the name Captain Gerry Poland.

"Could he have had an object in getting Horace Carxvell out of the way?"
mused the detective. "At first thought I'd say he could not, and, just
because I would say so, I must keep him on my list. He also is in love
with Viola,--just as much as Bartlett is. I shall list Captain Poland as
a remote possibility. I can't afford to eliminate him altogether, as it
may develop that Mr. Carwell objected to his paying his attentions to
Viola. Well, we shall see."

The next mental index card bore the name Jean Forette; and concerning
him Colonel Ashley had secured some information the day before. He had
got, by adroit questioning, a certain knowledge of the French chauffeur,
and this was now spread out on the card that, in fancy, Colonel Ashley
could see in his filing cabinet.

"Forette? Oh, yes, I know him," the mechanician of the best garage in
Lakeside had told the detective. "He's a good driver, and knows more
about an ignition system than I ever shall. He's a shark at it. But he's
a queer Dick."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes he's a regular devil at driving. Once he had a big
Rilat car in here for repairs. He had to tell me what was wrong with it,
as I couldn't dope it out. Then when we got it running for him, he took
it out for a trial run on the road. Drive! Say, it's a wonder I have any
hair on my head!"

"Did he go fast?"

"Fast? Say, a racing man had nothing