“Columbia College-yes, sir!” and the driver looked rather oddly at the figure of the colonel.
“Wonder what he teaches, and what he's going up there this time of night for?” was the mental comment of the chauffeur. “Maybe they have evening classes, but this guy looks as though he could give em a post-graduate 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 murmured 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.”
He looked at his watch, made a rapid calculation that showed him he had about five minutes before the train's departure, and then he hurried off to his right and down the stairs that led to the lavatories.