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Bartlett led the way, the colonel following, and Shag bringing up the rear with the bags.

As the machine started from the station Bartlett looked up to the morning sky. There was a little speck in it, no larger than a man's hand. It grew larger, and became an osprey on its way to the sea in search of a fish.

As the car drew up in front of the Carwell mansion, from the bell of which fluttered a dismal length of crepe, a man stepped from the shadow of the gate posts and held out a paper to Harry Bartlett.

"What is it?" asked Bartlett.

"A subpoena," was the rather gruff answer.

"A subpoena? What for?"

"The coroner's inquest. You'll have to appear and give evidence. They're going to have an inquest to find out more about Mr. Carwell's death. That's all I know. I'm from police headquarters. I was told to wait around here, as you were expected, and to serve that on you. Don't forget to be there. It's a court order," and the man slunk away.

"An inquest," murmured Bartlett, as he looked at the paper in his hand. "I thought they weren't going to have any," and he glanced quickly at Colonel Ashley.

CHAPTER VIII

ON SUSPICION

Colonel Robert Lee Ashley was used to surprises. This was natural, considering his calling, and at some of the surprises he was a silent spectator, while at others he furnished the surprise. In this case he served in his former capacity, merely noting the rather startled look on the face of Harry Bartlett when handed the subpoena to the coroner's inquest.

"I thought they weren't going to have any," Bartlett repeated, but whether to himself in a sort of daze, to Colonel Ashley, or to the man from headquarters was not clear. At any rate Colonel Ashley answered him by saying:

"You never can tell what Jersey justice is going to do. Coroner's inquests are not usual in this state, but they are lawful."

"But why do they consider one necessary?" asked Bartlett, as they prepared to enter the house of death.

"That, my dear sir, I don't know. Perhaps the county physician may have requested it, or the prosecutor of the pleas. He may want to be backed up by the verdict of twelve men before taking any action."

"But if Mr. Carwell's death was due to suicide who can be held guilty but himself?"

"No one. But I thought you said there was a doubt as to its being suicide," commented the detective.

"Miss Carwell doubts," returned Bartlett; "and I admit that it does seem strange that a man of Mr. Carwell's character would do such a thing, particularly when he had shown no previous signs of being in trouble. But you can never tell."

"No, you can never tell," agreed Colonel Ashley, and none knew, better than himself, how true that was.

"But why should they subpcena me?" asked Bartlett.

"Don't fret over that," advised his companion, with a calm smile. "You probably aren't the only one. A coroner's inquest is, as some one has said, a sort of fishing excursion. They start out not expecting much, not knowing what they are going to get, and sometimes they catch nothing - or no one - and again, a big haul is made. It's merely a sort of clearing house, and I, for one, will be glad to listen to what is brought out at the hearing."

"Well, then I suppose it will be all right," assented the young man, but the manner in which he looked again at the legal document was distinctly nervous.

"Had we better tell - her ?" and he motioned tothe house, on the steps of which they stood, Shag having pressed the bell for his master.

"Miss Carwell probably knows all about it," said Colonel Ashley.

They found Viola waiting for them in the library, passing on their way the darkened and closed room which held all that was mortal of the late owner of The Haven - no, not quite all of him, for certain portions were, even then, being subjected to the minute and searching analysis of a number of chemists, under the direction of the county prosecutor.

"It was very good of you to come, Colonel Ashley," said Viola quietly. "I appreciate it more than I can express - at this time."