“His sporting proclivities were somewhat different from mine,” said the old detective dryly. “You needn't explain. Every man must live his own life. But tell me more.”
Thereupon Bartlett gave the details as he knew them, bearing on the death of the father of the girl he loved.
“And she sent you to find me?” asked the detective.
“Yes. Miss Viola said you were an old friend of her father's, and if any one could solve the mystery of his death you could. For that there is a mystery about it, many of us believe.”
“There may be. Poison is always more or less of a mystery. But just what do you want me to do?”
“Come back with me if you will, Colonel Ashley. Miss Carwell wants you to aid her—aid all of us, for we are all at sea. Will you? She sent me to plead with you. I went to your New York office, and from Spotty Morgan learned you were here. I—”
“I suppose I shall have to forgive Spotty,” murmured the fisherman.
“They told me at the hotel you had come here,” went on Bartlett, “so I followed. I was lucky in finding you.”
“I don't know about that,” murmured the colonel, smiling. “It may be unfortunate. Well, I am deeply shocked at my old friend's death—and such a tragic taking off. Horace Carwell was my very good friend. He once did me a great service, when I needed money badly, by helping me make an investment in copper that turned out extremely well. I feel myself under obligations to him; and, since he is no more, I must transfer that obligation to his daughter.”
“Then you'll come with me to see her, Colonel Ashley?”