"Yes, it's pretty poor fishing," mused the colonel, when Garrigan had gone off to engage in a game of billiards with some insistent friends, whose advent the detective was thankful for, as he wanted to be alone.He was gregarious by nature, but there were times when he had to be alone, and it was because of this trait in his nature that he had taken up with the rod and reel, becoming a disciple of Izaak Walton.
Until dusk began to fall, changing the character of the throngs on the avenue, the colonel lingered in his easy chair before the broad, plate windows.And then, as the electric lights began to sparkle, as had the diamonds on some of the over-dressed women in the afternoon, he arose and started out.
"Will you be dining here, sir?" asked one of tke stewards.
"Mr.Garrigan asked me to inquire, sir, and, if you were, to say that he would appreciate it if you would be his guest.""Thank him for me, and tell him I can't stay." And the colonel, tossingaside the cigar which had gone out and been frequently relighted, soon found himself making a part of the avenue's night throng.
It was a warm summer evening-altogether too warm to be in New York when one had the inclination and means to be elsewhere, but the colonel, in spite of the fact that he had been in a hurry to leave the club, seemed to find no occasion for haste now.
He sauntered along, seemingly without an object, though the rather frequent consultations he made of his watch appeared to indicate otherwise.Finally, he seemed either to have come to a sudden decision or to have noted the demise of the time he was trying to kill, for with a last quick glance at his timepiece he put it back into his pocket, and, turning a corner where there was a taxicab stand, he entered one of the vehicles and gave an order to the chauffeur.
"Columbia College-yes, sir!" and the driver looked rather oddly at the figure of the colonel.
"Wonder what he teaches, and what he's going up there this time of night for?" was the mental comment of the chauffeur."Maybe they have evening classes, but this guy looks as though he could give em a post- graduate course in poker."Colonel Ashley sat back in the corner of the cab, glad of the rather long ride before him.He scarcely moved, save when the sway or jolt of the vehicle tossed him about, and he sat with an unlighted cigar between his teeth.
"Yes," he murmnred once, "pretty poor fishing.I might better have stayed where I was.Well, I'll go back to-morrow."Leaving the taxicab, the colonel made his way along the raised plaza on which some of the college buildings front, and turned into the faculty club, where he stayed for some time.When he came out, having told his man to wait, he bore under his arm a package which, even to the casual observer, contained books.
"Pennsylvania station," was the order he gave, and again he sat back in the corner of the cab, scarcely glancing out of the window to note the busy scenes all about him.
It was not until he had purchased his ticket and was about to board thelast Jersey Shore train, to take him back to the `scene of the death of Horace Carwell, that Colonel Ashley, as he caught sight of a figure in the crowd ahead of him, seemed galvanized into new life.
For a moment he gazed at a certain man, taking care to keep some women with large hats between the object of his attention and himself.And then, as he made sure of the identity, the colonel murmured:
"Poor fishing did I say?Well, it seems to me it's getting better."He looked at his watch, made a rapid calculation that showed him he had about five minutes before the train's departure, and then he hurried off to his right and down the stairs that led to the lavatories.
It was Colonel Robert Lee Ashley, as Bruce Garrigan had seen him at the Fifth Avenue club, who entered one of the pay compartments where so many in-coming and out-going travelers may, for the modest sum of ten cents, enjoy in the railroad station a freshening up by means of soap, towels and plenty of hot water.
But it was a typical Southern politician, with slouch hat, long frock coat, a moustache and goatee, who emerged from the same private wash- room a little later, carrying a small, black valise.
"I don't like to do this," said Colonel Ashley, making sure the spirit gum had set, so his moustache and goatee would not come off prematurely, "but I have to.This fishing is getting better, and I don't want any of the fish to see me."Then he went down the steps to the train that soon would be whirling him under the Hudson river, along the Jersey meadows, and down to the cool shore.He passed through the string of coaches until he came to one where he found a seat behind a certain man.Into this vantage point the colonel, looking more the part than ever, slumped himself and opened his paper.
"Yes, the fishing is getting better - decidedly better," he mused."I shouldn't wonder but what I got a bite soon."
