“It suah am, sah!”

“And I’m going to catch some fine fish!”

“I suah does hope so, Colonel!”

“All right then!  Now don’t say another word until I speak to you.  We’ll be there pretty soon, and if there’s one thing more than another that I hate, it’s to have some one talking when I’m fishing.”

“Yes, sah, Colonel!”

“Um!  Well, see that you mind!”

Selecting with care a fly from his numerous collection, and hoping the appetites of the fish would incline them to consider it favorably that morning, Colonel Ashley proceeded to make his casts, standing not far from a bent, gnarled and twisted elm tree, that overhung the bank of the stream where the current had cut into the soil, making a deep eddy, in which a lazy trout might choose to lie in wait for some choice morsel.

Lightly as a falling feather, the fisherman let his fly come to rest on the sun-lit water, and, hardly had it sent the first, few faint ripples circling toward shore than there was a shrill song of the reel, and the rod became a bent bow.

“By the bones of Sir Izaak!” cried the colonel, “I’ve hooked one, Shag!”

“De Lord be praised!  So yo’ has, Colonel!” cried the negro.

“Shut up!” ordered the colonel, who was beginning to play his fish.  “Did I tell you to speak?”

But Shag only laughed.  He knew his master.

After ten minutes of skilful work, during which time the trout nearly got away by shooting under a submerged log like an undersea boat diving beneath a battle cruiser, the colonel landed his fish, dropping it, panting, on the green grass.  Then he looked up at Shag and remarked: 

“Didn’t I tell you this was a perfectly beautiful day?”

“Yo’ suah did, Colonel,” was the chuckling answer.  “Yo’ suah did!”

And so much at peace with himself and all the world was Colonel Robert Lee Ashley just then that, when the crackling of the underbrush behind him, a moment later, gave notice that some one was approaching, there was even a smile on his face, though, usually, he could not bear to be intruded upon when fishing.

Rather idly the colonel, having mercifully killed his fish by a blow on top of the head and slipped it into the grass-lined creel, looked up to see approaching a young lady and a tall and somewhat lanky boy.  There was some thing vaguely familiar about the boy, though the fisherman did not tax his mind with remembering, then, where or when he had seen him before.

“There he is,” went the words of the boy, as he and the young woman came in sight of the colonel and Shag—­but it was at the detective the lad pointed.  “There he is!”

The girl rushed impulsively forward, and, as she held out her hands in a voiceless appeal, there was worry and anguish depicted on her face.

“Are you Colonel Brentnall?” she asked.

The colonel was sufficiently familiar with his alias not to betray surprise when it was used.