“And yet, Colonel Ashley, the person who sent me will have no one but you. She says you are the only one who can get at the bottom of the puzzling case.”
In spite of himself the colonel's face lighted up at the words “puzzling case,” but as his eyes fell on the creel containing his fish he turned aside. “No,” he said, “I am sorry, but I can not listen to you. Shag, kindly—”
Harry Bartlett was not a successful business man for nothing. He knew how to make an appeal. “I came to see you at the request of Miss Viola Carwell,” he said slowly. “She sent me to find you—told me not to come back to her without you. A change came over the colonel's face at the mention of Viola's name.
“You came from her—from the daughter of Horace Carwell?” he asked quickly.
“I did,” answered Bartlett.
“Well, of course, that might make a difference. I hope my old friend is not in trouble—nor his daughter,” and there was a new quality in the voice.
“Mr. Carwell's troubles are all over—if he had any,” returned Bartlett simply.
“You mean—”
“He is dead.”
The colonel uttered an exclamation.