chair Colonel Ashley read his Walton, the ingratiating humor of the
dear, old fisherman gradually dispelling all other thoughts.

Colonel Ashley at this stage of his career, was almost an international
figure. Having served with distinction in the Spanish-American war,
among his exploits being the capture of a number of spies in a
sensational manner, he had become the head of the police department in
a large city in the East.

He had continued the work begun in the army--a branch of the secret
service--and had built up the city's detective department in an almost
marvelous manner, he himself being one of its keenest sleuths.
Desiring more time to devote to the detection of crimes of other than
ordinary interest, and realizing that the routine of police work was
too hampering for him, the colonel had opened an office in New York,
where, straightway, he received from the government and private persons
more work than he could well attend to. Now that he was getting old,
he had some able assistants, but most cases still received his own
attention at some stage of their development. This was characteristic
of the colonel. He was always going to retire, in fact he said he had,
but, somehow or other, it was like a singer's farewell, always
postponed.

"And now, Shag, don't forget what I told you," he said to his attendant
as the train drew into Colchester. "Don't you so much as scratch the
varnish on the tip of one of my rods. And if you let me hear a whisper
of anything bordering on a case you and I part company--do you hear?"

"I heahs yo' Colonel!" and the negro saluted, for the detective still
clung to many of his military associations. Then, having kept his