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Updated: July 31, 2024
Jean Forette entered, and Colonel Ashley, waiting a little and making sure that the "tap room," as it was ostentatiously called, was sufficiently filled to enable him to mingle with the patrons without attracting undue notice, followed.
He ordered some rye, and, having disposed of it, took out a cigar, and began searching in his pockets as though for a match. "Here you are!" observed a bartender, as he held out a lighted taper. The colonel had anticipated this, and quickly moved down the mahogany rail toward the end where Jean Forette was standing. At that end was a little gas jet kept burning as a convenience to smokers.
"It's an outrage!" he had muttered to himself. "A dastardly outrage! But what is a fellow going to do?" Meanwhile Colonel Ashley and Jack Young were puzzling their heads over many matters connected with the golf course mystery. Jack had obeyed the colonel's instructions to the letter. He had played many rounds on the links and had gotten to a certain degree of friendship with Jean Forette.
"I really must get a book on chemistry," he mused. "I may need it to find out what kind of dope Forette uses if he takes any." And thus the colonel sat in the shade, beside the quiet stream, the little green book by his side. But he did not open it now, and though his gaze was on his line, where it cut the water in a little swirl, he did not seem to see it.
"You're under another accusation now. Jean Forette, to call you by your latest alias, you're under arrest, charged with the murder, by poison, of Horace Carwell, and I think we'll come pretty near convicting you by the testimony of Mazi. Ah, would you not quite!" He struck down the hand the prisoner had raised to his mouth, and there rolled over the floor a little capsule.
"You were about to name some one?" asked Viola. "Well, I was about to give, merely as an instance, Jean Forette the chauffeur. Not that I think the Frenchman had a thing to do with the matter. But he has a violent temper at times, and again he is as meek as any one I ever knew.
And a little later, when the jury filed in, it was to report: "We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison administered by Jean Carnot, alias Jean Forette, with intent to kill." And a little later, when the grand jury had indicted him, the man's nerve failed him completely, because his supply of drug was kept from him and he babbled the truth like a child, weeping.
That was the telegram Colonel Ashley received the day following his acquaintance at the nineteenth hole with Bruce Garrigan and Tom Sharwell. "She stayed away longer than I thought she would," mused the detective, "Yes, sah!" "See if that French chauffeur, Forette, can drive me into town." "Yes, sah, Colonel."
Carwell imported." "So they say. Forette was to leave at the end of the month. Well, I'm much obliged to you. A friend of mine was going to engage him, but if he has such a reputation not reliable, you know, I guess I'll look farther. Much obliged," and the colonel, who, it is needless to say, had not revealed his true character to the garage owner, turned aside.
When Jean Forette, whose month was not quite up and who had not yet completed arrangements for his new position, alighted from the Shore Express at Lakeside and made his way-afoot and not in a machine to the Three Pines, the picturesque figure of the Southern gentleman followed. "I wonder," mused Colonel Ashley, "whether he takes Scotch Highballs or absinthe, and what dope he mixes with it?
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