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 colonel 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.