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"Here is the number," and the pretty girl extended to him a slip which read: 58 C. H - i6i*

"What is the star for?" asked the colonel.

"It indicates that the book was donated by the state and was not purchased with the endowment appropriation," she informed him.

"And it is out now. I wonder if you could tell me who has it?"

"Why, yes, sir. Just a moment."

She looked at some more cards, and came back to him. She looked a bit disturbed.

"The book, `Poisonous Plants of New Jersey' was taken out by Miss Viola Carwell," said the girl.

CHAPTER XII

BLOSSOM'S SUSPICIONS

Characteristic as it was of Colonel Ashley not to show surprise, he could hardly restrain an indication of it when he reached The Haven, and found Miss Mary Carwell and Viola there. They were not expected until the next day, but while her niece was temporarily absent Miss Carwell explained the matter.

"She couldn't stand it another minute. She insisted that I should pack and come with her. Something seemed to drive her home."

"I hope," said the Colonel gently, "that she didn't imagine that I wasn't doing all possible, under the circumstances."

"Oh, no, it wasn't anything like that. She just wanted to be at home. And I think, too," and Miss Carwell lowered her voice, after a glance at the door, "that she wanted to see him."

"You mean - ?"

"Mr. Bartlett! There's no use disguising the fact that his family and ours aren't on friendly terms. I think he did a grave injustice to my brother in a business way, and I'll never forgive him for it. I don't want to see Viola marry him - that is I didn't. I hardly believe, now, after he has been arrested, that she will. But there is no doubt she cares for him, and would do anything to prove that this charge was groundless."

"Well, yes, I suppose that's natural," assented the detective. "I'd be glad, myself, to believe that Harry Bartlett had nothing to do with the death of Mr. Carwell."

"But you believe he did have, don't you?"

"I haven't yet made up my mind," was the cautious answer. "The golf course mystery, I don't mind admitting, is one of the most puzzling I've ever run across. It won't do to make up one's mind at once."

"But my brother either committed suicide, or else he was deliberately poisoned !" insisted Miss Carwell. "And those of us who knew him feel sure he would never take his own life. He must have been killed, and if Harry Bartlett didn't do it who did?"

"I don't know," frankly replied the colonel. "That's what I'm going to try to find out. So Miss Viola feels much sympathy for him, does she?"

"Yes. And she wants to go to see him at the jail. Of course I know they don't exactly call it a jail, but that's what I call it!"

Miss Carwell was nothing if not determined in her language.

"Would you let her go if you were I - go to see him?" she asked.

"I don't see how you are going to prevent it," replied the colonel. "Miss Viola is of legal age, and she seems to have a will of her own. But I hardly believe that she will see Mr. Bartlett."

"Oh, but she said she was going to. That's one reason she made me come home ahead of time, I believe. She says she's going to see him, and what she says she'll do she generally does."

"However I don't believe she'll see him," went on the detective. "The prosecutor has given orders since yesterday that no one except Mr. Bartlett's legal adviser must communicate with him; so I don't believe Miss Viola will be admitted."

This proved to be correct. Viola was very insistent, but to no avail. The warden at the jail would not admit her to the witness rooms, where Harry Bartlett paced up and down, wondering, wondering, and wondering. And much of his wonder had to do with the girl who tried so hard to see him.

She had sent word by his lawyer that she believed in his innocence and that she would do all she could for him, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to see her - to feast his hungry eyes on her - to hold her hand, to - Oh, well, what was the use? he wearily asked himself. Would the horrible tangle ever be straightened out? He shook