d I don't want any of
the fish to see me."

Then he went down the steps to the train that soon would be whirling him
under the Hudson river, along the Jersey meadows, and down to the cool
shore. He passed through the string of coaches until he came to one
where he found a seat behind a certain man. Into this vantage point the
colonel, looking more the part than ever, slumped himself and opened his
paper.

"Yes, the fishing is getting better--decidedly better," he mused. "I
shouldn't wonder but what I got a bite soon."

CHAPTER XVI. SOME LETTERS

When Jean Forette, whose month was not quite up and who had not yet
completed arrangements for his new position, alighted from the Shore
Express at Lakeside and made his way-afoot and not in a machine--to the
Three Pines, the picturesque figure of the Southern gentleman followed.

"I wonder," mused Colonel Ashley, "whether he takes Scotch Highballs or
absinthe, and what dope he mixes with it? Absinthe is rather hard to get
out here, I should imagine, but they might have a green brand of whiskey
they'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 stead
when he entered the lavatory, the colonel slouched silently along the
road. It was close to midnight, and there would be no other trains to
the shore that day.

The lights of the Three Pines glowed in pleasant and inviting fashion
across the sandy highway. Out in front stood several cars, for the
tavern was one much patronized by summer visitors, and was a haven of
refuge, a "life-saving station," as it had been dubbed by those who
fancied they were much in need of alcoholic refreshment.

Jean Forette entered, and Colonel Ashley, waiting a little and
making sure that the "tap room," as it was ostentatiously called, was
sufficiently filled to enable him to mingle with the patrons without
attracting undue notice, followed.

He looked about for a sight of the chauffeur, and saw him leaning up
against 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 if
I can get a bit nearer."

He ordered some rye, and, having disposed of it, took out a cigar, and
began searching in his pockets as though for a match.

"Here you are!" observed a bartender, as he held out a lighted taper.

The col