Colonel Ashley wrote a brief, business-like letter to Captain Poland, addressing it to his summer home at Lakeside, arguing that the yachtsman would have left some forwarding address.
Then, lighting a cigar, the colonel sat back in a deep, leather chair—the same one Morocco Kate had sat in and perfumed—and mused.
“There are getting to be too many angles to this,” he reflected. “I need a little help. Guess I'll send for Jack Young. He'll be just the chap to look after Jean and follow that French dope artist to his new place, provided he leaves here suddenly. Yes, I need Jack.”
And having telephoned a telegram, summoning from New York one of his most trusted lieutenants, Colonel Ashley refreshed himself by reading a little in the “Compleat Angler.”
Jack Young appeared at Lakeside the next day, well dressed, good looking, a typical summer man of pleasing address.
“Another diamond cross mystery?” he asked the colonel.
“How is your golf?” was the unexpected answer.
“Oh, I guess I can manage to drive without topping,” was the ready answer. “Have I got to play?”
“It might be well. I'll get you a visitor's card at the Maraposa Club here, and you can hang around the links and see what you can pick up besides stray balls. Now I'll tell you the history of the case up to the present.”
And Jack Young, having heard, and having consumed as many cigarettes as he considered the subject warranted, remarked: