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At the spring they stopped to drink and to examine the deer tracks in the soft, black muck. From there the trail led off, zigzaging down the gentle slope. On either side of the path the wild grasses and ferns grew in rank profusion, while scattered here and there on the soft, green carpet were great numbers of dainty Maraposa lilies.
Rather an unpromising show that, as the property consisted of a tavern, built of canvas upon Colonel Fremont's Maraposa grant, on the principle of squatter sovereignty. Near by the squatter had dug a promising hole, and if only money and machinery could be had, perhaps he might realize something from it.
Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls, matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs and pockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurrying here and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes, and of diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at the Maraposa Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and Harry Bartlett were racing their cars toward it.
It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on it were to be played several matches, not the least in importance being that of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes in hotly contested contests on the home links.
If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it was certainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat on the shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things, and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr. Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had been called off on the day of his funeral.
"The better the day the worse the deed, I suppose," and Harry Bartlett smiled as he leaned forward preparatory to throwing the switch of his machine's self-starter, for both automobiles had come to a stop to watch the osprey. "Oh, well, I don't know that the day has anything to do with it," said the captain a courtesy title, bestowed because he was president of the Maraposa Yacht Club.
"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."
Carwell's white ball had sailed well up on the putting green of the first hole, a shot seldom made at Maraposa. "A few more strokes like that and he'll win the match," murmured Bartlett. "And when he does, don't forget what I told you," whispered Viola to him. He found her hand, hidden at her side in the folds of her dress, and pressed it.
Carwell closed around to help him to his feet-to render what aid was needed. Among them were Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett, and as the latter stepped forward he glanced up, for an instant, at the blue sky. Far above the Maraposa golf links circled a lone osprey on its way to the inlet or ocean.
"'He wasn't, Colonel Ashley. Mr. Carwell died very suddenly on the Maraposa Golf Club links, after making a stroke that gave him the championship." "Heart disease or apoplexy?" "Neither one. It was poison." "You amaze me, Mr. er Mr. "Bartlett. Yes, Mr. Carwell died of poison, as the autopsy showed." "'Was he did he " "That is what we want to find out," interrupted the messenger eagerly.
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