The Golf Course Mystery by Chester Steele

Author:Chester Steele
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jovian Press

CHAPTER XIII. CAPTAIN POLAND CONFESSES

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WHEN LEGRAND BLOSSOM HAD TAKEN his departure, carrying with him the books and papers, he left behind two very disconsolate persons.

“It’s terrible!” exclaimed Mr. Carwell’s sister. “To think that poor Horace could be so careless! I knew his sporting life would bring trouble, but I never dreamed of this.”

“We must face it, terrible as it is,” said Viola. “Nothing would matter if he—if he were only left to us. I’m sure he never meant to spend so much money. It was just because—he didn’t think.”

“That always was a fault of his,” sighed Miss Mary, “even when a boy. It’s terrible!”

“It’s terrible to have him gone and to think of the terrible way he was taken,” sighed Viola. “But any one is likely to lose money.”

She no more approved of many of her late father’s sporting proclivities than did her aunt, and there were many rather startling stories and rumors that came to Viola as mere whispers to which she turned a deaf ear. Since her mother’s death her father had, it was common knowledge, associated with a fast set, and he had been seen in company with persons of both sexes who were rather notorious for their excesses.

“Well, Mr. Blossom will do the best he can, I suppose,” said Miss Carwell, with rather an intimation that the head clerk’s best would be very bad indeed.

“I’m sure he will,” assented Viola. “He knows all the details of poor father’s affairs, and he alone can straighten them out. Oh, if we had only known of this before, we might have stopped it.”

“But your father was always very close about his matters,” said his sister. “He resented even your mother knowing how much money he made, and how. I think she felt that, too, for she liked to have a share in all he did. He was kindness itself to her, but she wanted more than that. She wanted to have a part in his success, and he kept her out—or she felt that he did. Well, I’m sure I hope all mistakes are straightened out in Heaven. It’s certain they aren’t here.”

Viola pondered rather long and deeply on what LeGrand Blossom had told her. She made it a point to go for a drive the next afternoon with Jean Forette in the small car, taking a maid with her on a pretense of doing some shopping. And Viola closely observed the conduct of the chauffeur.

On her return, the girl could not help admitting that the Frenchman was all a careful car driver should be. He had shown skill and foresight in guiding the car through the summer-crowded traffic of Lakeside, and had been cheerful and polite.

“I am sorry you are going to leave us, Jean,” she said, when he had brought her back to The Haven.

“I, too, am regretful,” he said in his careful English. “But your father had other ideas, and I—I am really afraid of that big new car. It is not a machine, mademoiselle, it is—pardon—it is a devil! It will be the death of some one yet.

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