"I guess I understand," said the colonel with a laugh. "I'll tell her!"

The colonel spent that evening in the grill room of the Homestead.

Though it was not the same as it had been, and though patronage of the better sort had fallen off considerably, it was still a jolly enough sort of place of its character to be in. A number of "men about town,"

as they liked to be called, were in, and Colonel Ashley was sipping his julep when there entered Mr. Kettridge, the relative of Mrs. Darcy, whose jewelry shop he was managing pending a settlement of her estate.

"Good evening, Colonel," he called genially. "Will you join me in a Welsh rabbit?"

"Thank you, no. I'm afraid my digestion isn't quite up to that, as I've had to cut out my fishing of late. But what do you say to a julep?"

"Delighted, I'm sure," and they sat down at one of the half-enclosed tables in the grill and ordered food and drink. They had become friends since the colonel's first visit to the store, and the friendship had grown as they found they had congenial tastes.

The evening pa.s.sed pleasantly for them. They talked of much, including the murder, and the colonel was more than pleased to find that the jeweler had no very strong suspicion against young Darcy.

"I've known him from a boy," said Mr. Kettridge, "and, though he has his faults, a crime such as this would be almost impossible to him, no matter what motive, such as the dispute over money or his sweetheart.

He may be guilty, but I doubt it."

"My idea, exactly," returned the colonel. "Now as to certain matters in the store on the morning of the murder. The stopped clocks, for instance. Have you any theory--"

Came, at that instant, fairly bursting into the quiet grill room, some "jolly good fellows," to take them at their own valuation. There were three of them, the center figure being that of Harry King, and he was very much intoxicated.

"h.e.l.lo, Harry! Where have you been?" some one called.

King regarded his questioner gravely, as though deeply pondering over the matter. It was often characteristic of him that, though he became very much intoxicated, yet, at times, under such conditions, Harry King's language approached the cultured, rather than degenerated into the common talk of the ordinary drunk. That is not always, but sometimes. It happened to be so now.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, in the cultured tones he knew so well how to use, yet of which he made so little use of late.

"I said, where have you been?" remarked the other. "We've missed you."

"I have been spending a week end in the country," King remarked, with biting sarcasm. "Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don't you know--" there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his treacherous tongue, then he went on--"I caught myself foozling a few putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form."

There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but knew where King had been, and whither he was going. But the laugh was instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those who had indulged in the mirth.

King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink, and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.

"I said I was--_golfing_," he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though with an effort. "And now, Cat," and he nodded patronizingly to the white-ap.r.o.ned and respectful bartender, "will you be kind enough to see what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a libation to--let us say Polonius!"

"Why Polonius?" some one asked.

"Because, dear friend," replied King softly, "he somewhat resembles a certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he thinks. And now--" he raised his gla.s.s--"to all the G.o.ds that on Olympus dwell!"

And they drank with him.

Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for which the bartender had thrust toward him.

"Gad, but he's got a wad!" somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.

There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.

Some coins fell to the floor and rolled in the direction of the table whereat sat the colonel and Mr. Kettridge. The latter, with a pitying smile on his face, leaned over to pick them up. As he did so, and brought a piece of money up into the light, a curious look came over his face. He stared at the coin.

"What is it?" asked Colonel Ashley, noting the unusual look.

"It's--it's an odd coin--an old Roman one--that Mrs. Darcy had in her private collection, kept in the jewelry store safe," was the whispered answer. "I went over them the other day and noticed some were missing, though I saw them all when I paid a visit to her just a short time before she was killed."

"Was this odd coin in her collection?" asked the colonel, as he looked at the piece which Kettridge handed him. It was of considerable value to a collector.

"That was hers," went on the jeweler. "It must have been taken from her safe, for she had refused many offers to sell it. And now--"

"Now Harry King has it!" exclaimed Colonel Ashley. "I think this will bear looking into!"

CHAPTER XIII

SINGA PHUT

Mr. Kettridge, his eyes big with unconcealed wonder as he looked at the odd coin, was eager to accost Harry King at once and demand to know whence the roysterer had obtained it. In, fact, the jeweler half arose from his chair, to approach the three swaggering men in the cafe section of the grill, when Colonel Ashley laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of his new friend.

"It won't do now," he said gently.

"Why not? I've got to find out how he came by that coin! It's a rare and valuable one I tell you. It's worth all of a thousand dollars to a collector. Lots of them would be glad to pay more. Its catalogue price is a thousand. And now this drunken fool has it! He must--Colonel, don't you see what this means?"

"Yes, Mr. Kettridge, I can very easily see what it _might_ mean. But King is in no condition now to approach on such a subject. There is a saying that when the wine is in the wit is out, and it is generally held, by some detectives, that then is the proper time to approach a subject for information that would otherwise be withheld. But King is in a sarcastic mood now, and sufficiently able to take care of himself to be very suspicious if we began to question him, even under the guise of friendship."

"I suppose so," agreed the jeweler, "and yet--"

"Oh, I wish I hadn't got into this!" suddenly exclaimed Colonel Ashley, with almost a despairing gesture. "I started out for some quiet fishing, which I very much needed, for I am getting too old for this sort of thing. I ought never to have undertaken it! I'm almost resolved to give it up. I believe I will!" he said suddenly, slapping his hand on the table, at the sound of which a waiter hurried up.

"No--nothing now," went on the colonel, waving the man away. "Yes, I'll give this case up!" he went on, with a sigh. "In the morning I'll get s.h.a.g to lay out my rods and we'll go fishing. I was foolish to let myself be dragged into this. It would have been all right five years ago. But now--well, I'm through--that's all!"

Mr. Kettridge regarded his companion with amazement.

"But what can we do without you?" he asked. "Oh, I'll send you one of my best men," was the answer. "I'll wire for Kedge. You can rely on him. He's solved more cases like this than I can remember. Yes, I'll send for Kedge. This is no place for me. I'm too old."

"Too old, Colonel?"

"Yes, too old! And I've grown too fond of fishing. Yes, I'll let Kedge finish this up. And yet--"

The detective seemed to muse for a moment. Then he went on, half murmuring to himself.

"No, hang it all! Kedge has that bank case to look after. Anyhow, I don't believe he'd figure this out right. Oh, well, I suppose there's no help for it, I've got to keep on now that I've started. But it's my last case! Positively my last case!" and once more he banged his hand down on the table.

Again the waiter glided up. He looked at the colonel expectantly, and the latter stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"Oh, yes," went on the detective. "You may bring me--er--just a small gla.s.s of claret--a very small one."

Mr. Kettridge gave his order, and then looked relieved. The colonel had seemed very much in earnest.