onel had anticipated this, and quickly moved down the mahogany
rail toward the end where Jean Forette was standing. At that end was a
little gas jet kept burning as a convenience to smokers.

"I'll use that," said the colonel. "I don't like the flavor of burnt
wood in my smoke."

"Fussy old duck," murmured the barkeeper as he let the flame he had
ignited die out, flicking the blackened end to the floor.

And, being careful to keep his face as much as possible in the shadow of
his big, slouch hat, Colonel Ashley lighted his cigar at the gas flame.

And, somehow or other, that cigar required a long and most careful
lighting. The smoker got the tip glowing, and then inspected it
critically. It was not to his satisfaction, as he drew a few puffs on
it, and again he applied the end to the flame.

He sent forth a perfect cloud of smoke this time, and it seemed to veil
him as the fog, blowing in from the sea, veils the tumbling billows.
Once more there was a look at the end, but the "fussy old duck" was not
satisfied, and, again had recourse to the flame.

All this while Colonel Ashley was straining his ears to catch what Jean
Forette was saying to the attendant who had drawn the frothing glass of
beer for him.

But the men talked in too low a tone, or the colonel had been a bit too
late, for all he heard was a murmur of automobile talk. Jean seemed
to be telling something about a particularly fast car he had formerly
driven.

"The fishing isn't as good as I hoped," mused the colonel.

Then, as he turned to go out, he heard distinctly:

"Sure I remember you paying for the drink. I can prove that if you want
me to. Are they tryin' to double-cross you?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Well, you leave it to me, see? I'll square you all right."

"Thanks," murmured Jean, and then he, too, turned aside.

"There may be something in it after all," was the colonel's thought,
and then he, too, hurried from the Three Pines, passing beneath the big
trees, with their sighing branches, which gave the name to the inn.

On toward The Haven, through the silence and darkness of the night, went
the detective. And at a particularly dark and lonely place he stopped.
The pungent, clean smell of grain alcohol filled the air, and a little
later a man, devoid of goatee and moustache, passing out into the
starlight, while a black, slouch hat went into the bag, and a Panama,
so flexible that it had not suffered from having been thrust ra