“Ask Miss Viola what this means. 58 C. H.—161*.”
Colonel Ashley read the message through three times without saying a word. Then he held the paper and envelope up to the light to see if they bore a water mark. Neither did, and the paper was of a cheap, common variety which might be come upon in almost any stationery store. The colonel read the message again, looked at the back and front of the envelope, and then, placing both in his pocket, went down to breakfast, the bell for which he heard just as he finished his simple breathing exercises.
The morning papers were at his place, which was the only one at the table. Either Viola and her aunt had already breakfasted, or would do so later. The colonel ate and read.
There was not much new in the papers. Harry Bartlett was still held as a witness, and the prosecutor's detectives were still working on the case. As yet no one had connected Colonel Ashley officially with the matter. The reporters seemed to have missed noting that a celebrated—not to say successful—detective was the guest of Viola Carwell. It was an hour after the morning meal, and the colonel was in the library, rather idly glancing over the titles of the books, which included a goodly number on yachting and golfing, when Viola entered.
“Oh, I didn't know you were here!” she exclaimed, drawing back.
“Oh, come in! Come in!” invited the colonel. “I am just going out. I was wondering if there happened to be a book on chemistry here—or one on poisons.”
“Poisons!” exclaimed the girl, half drawing back.
“Yes. I have one, but I left it in New York. If there happened to be one—Or perhaps you can tell me. Did you ever study chemistry?”
“As a girl in school, yes. But I'm afraid I've forgotten all I ever knew.”
“My case, too,” said the colonel with a laugh. “Then there isn't a book giving the different symbols of chemicals?”