And so Viola and Miss Carwell went away.
It was after the sufficiently imposingly somber funeral of Horace Carwell, for since the adjourned inquest—adjourned at the request of the prosecutor—it was not considered necessary to keep the poor, maimed body out of its last resting place any longer. It had been sufficiently viewed and examined. In fact, parts of it were still in the hands of the chemists.
“And now, Shag, that we're left to ourselves—” said Colonel Ashley, when Viola and Miss Carwell had departed the day following the funeral, “now that we are by ourselves—”
“I reckon as how you'll fix up as to who it were whut done killed de gen'man, an' hab him 'rested, won't yo', Colonel, sah?” asked Shag, with the kindly concern and freedom of an old and loved servant.
“Indeed I'll do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Colonel Ashley. “I'm going fishing, Shag, and I'll be obliged to you if you'll lay out my Kennebec rod and the sixteen line. I think there are some fighting fish in that little river that runs along at the end of the golf course. Get everything ready and then let me know,” and the colonel, smoking his after-breakfast cigar, sat on the shady porch of The Haven and read:
“O, Sir, doubt not that angling is an art: is it not an art to deceive a trout with an artificial fly? a trout! that is more sharp-sighted than any hawk you have named, and more watchful and timorous than your high-mettled merlin is bold; and yet I doubt not to catch a brace or two to-morrow for a friend's breakfast.”
“Um,” mused the colonel. “Too bad it isn't the trout season. That passage from Walton just naturally makes me hungry for the speckled beauties. But I can wait. Meanwhile we'll see what else the stream holds. Shag, are you coming?”
“Yes, sah! Comin' right d'rectly, sah! Yes, sah, Colonel!” and Shag shuffled along the porch with the fishing tackle.
And so Colonel Ashley sat and fished, and as he fished he thought, for the sport was not so good that it took up his whole attention. In fact he was rather glad that the fish were not rising well, for he had entered into this golf course mystery with a zest he seldom brought to any case, and he was anxious to get to the bottom.
“I didn't want to get into that diamond cross affair, but I was dragged in by the heels,” he mused. “And now, just because some years ago Horace Carwell did me a favor and enabled me to make money in the copper market, I am trying to find out who killed him, or if, in a fit of despondency, he killed himself.”