For several seconds after Mr. Carwell fell so heavily on the putting green, having completed the last stroke that sent the white ball into the cup and made him club champion, there was not a stir among the other players grouped about him; nor did the gallery, grouped some distance back, rush up. The most natural thought, and one that was in the minds of the majority, was that the clubman had overbalanced himself in making his stance for the putt shot, and had fallen. There was even a little thoughtless laughter from some in the gallery. But it was almost instantly hushed, for it needed but a second glance to tell that something more serious than a simple fall had occurred.
Or if it was a fall caused by an unsteady position, taken when he made his last shot, it had been such a heavy one that Mr. Carwell was overlong in recovering from it. He remained in a huddled heap on the short-cropped, velvety turf of the putting green.
Then the murmurs of wonder came, surging from many throats, and the friends of Mr. Carwell closed around to help him to his feet-to render what aid was needed. Among them were Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett, and as the latter stepped forward he glanced up, for an instant, at the blue sky.
Far above the Maraposa golf links circled a lone osprey on its way to the inlet or ocean. Rather idly Bartlett wondered if it was the same one he and Captain Poland had seen dart down and kill the fish just before the beginning of the big match.
“What's the matter, Horace? Sun too much for you?” asked Major Wardell, as he leaned over his friend and rival. “It is a bit hot; I feel it myself. But I didn't think it would knock you out. Or are you done up because you beat me? Come—”
He ceased his rather railing talk, and a look came over his face that told those near him something serious had happened. There was a rush toward the prostrate man.
“Keep back, please!” exclaimed the major. “He seems to have fainted. He needs air. Is Dr. Rowland here? I thought I saw him at the clubhouse a while ago. Some one get him, please. If not—”
“I'll get him!” some one offered
“Here, give him a sip of this—it's brandy!” and an automobilist, who had come across the links from the nearest point to the highway, offered his flask.
The major unscrewed the silver top, which formed a tiny cup, and tried to let some of the potent liquor trickle between the purplish lips of the unconscious victor in the cup-winners' match. But more of the liquid was spilled on his face and neck than went into his mouth. The air reeked with the odor of it.
“What has happened? Is he hurt?” gasped Viola, who made her way through the press of people, which opened for her, till she stood close beside her father. “What is it? Oh, is he—?”
“He fell,” some one said.
“Just as he made his winning stroke,” added another.
“Oh!” and Viola herself reeled unsteadily.
“It's all right,” a voice said in her ear, and though it was in the ordinary tones of Captain Poland, to the alarmed girl it seemed as though it came from the distant peaks of the hills. “He'll be all right presently,” went on the captain, as he supported Viola and led her out of the throng.
“It's just a touch of the sun, I fancy. They've gone for a doctor.”
“Oh, but, Captain Poland—father was never like this before—he was always so strong and well—I never knew him to complain of the heat. And as for fainting—why I believe I almost did it myself, just now, didn't I?”
“Almost, yes.”
“But father never did. Oh, I must go to him!”
She struggled a little and moved away from his half encircling arm, for he had seen that her strength was failing her and had supported her as he led her away. “I must go to him!”
“Better not just now,” said Captain Poland gently. “Harry is there with him, the major and other friends. They will look after him. You had better come with me to the clubhouse and lie down. I will get you a cup of tea.”
“No! I must be with my father!” she insisted. “He will need me when he—when he revives. Please let me go to him!”
The captain saw that it was of little use to oppose her so he led her back toward the throng that was still about the prostrate player. A clubman was hurrying back with a young man who carried a small black bag.
“They've got a doctor, I think,” said Gerry. “Not Dr. Rowland, though. However, I dare say it will be all right.”
A fit of trembling seized Viola, and it was so violent that, for a moment, Captain Poland thought she would fall. He had to hold her close, and he wished there was some place near at hand to which he might take her. But the clubhouse was some distance away, and there were no conveyances within call.
However, Viola soon recovered her composure, or at least seemed to, and smiled up at him, though there was no mirth in it.
“I'll be all right now,” she said. “Please take me to him. He will ask for me as soon as he recovers.”
The young doctor had made his way through the throng and now knelt beside the prostrate man. The examination was brief—a raising of the eyelids, an ear pressed over the heart, supplemented by the use of the stethoscope, and then the young medical man looked up, searching the ring of faces about him as though seeking for some one in authority to whom information might be imparted. Then he announced, generally:
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” exclaimed several.
“Hush!” cautioned Harry Bartlett “She'll hear you!”
He looked in the direction whence Viola and Captain Poland were approaching the scene.
“Are you sure, Dr. Baird?” he asked.
“Positive. The heart action has entirely stopped.”
“But might that not be from some cause—some temporary cause?”
“Yes, but not in this case. Mr. Carwell is dead. I can do nothing for him.”
It sounded brutal, but it was only a medical man's plain statement of the case.
“Some one must tell her,” murmured Minnie Webb, who had been attracted to the crowd, though she was not much of a golf enthusiast. “Poor Viola! Some one must tell her.”
“I will,” offered Bartlett, and he made his way through a living lane that opened for him. Then it closed again, hiding the body from sight. Some one placed a sweater over the face that had been so ruddy, and was now so pale.
Captain Poland, still supporting Viola on his arm, saw Bartlett approaching. Somehow he surmised what his fellow clubman was going to say.
“Oh, Harry!” exclaimed Viola, impulsively holding out her hands to him. “Is he all right? Is he better?”
“I am sorry,” began Harry, and then she seemed to sense what he was going to add.
“He isn't—Oh, don't tell me he is—”
“The doctor says he is dead, Viola,” answered Bartlett gently. “He passed away without pain or suffering. It must have been heart disease.”
But Viola Carwell never heard the last words, for she really fainted this time, and Captain Poland laid her gently down on the soft, green grass.
“Better get the doctor for her,” he advised Bartlett. “She'll need him, if her father doesn't.” As Harry Bartlett turned aside, waving back the curiosity seekers that were already leaving the former scene of excitement for the latest, LeGrand Blossom came up. He seemed very cool and not at all excited, considering what had happened.
“I will look after Miss Carwell,” he said.
“Perhaps you had better see to Mr. Carwell—Mr. Carwell's remains, Blossom,” suggested Captain Poland. “Miss Carwell will be herself very soon. She has only fainted. Her father is dead.
“Dead? Are you sure?” asked LeGrand Blossom, and his manner seemed a trifle more naturally excited.
“Dr. Baird says so. You'd better go to him. He may want to ask some questions, and you were more closely associated with Carwell than any of the rest of us.”
“Very well, I'll look after the body,” said the secretary. “Did the doctor say what killed him?”
“No. That will be gone into later, I dare say. Probably heart disease; though I never knew he had it,” said Bartlett.
“Nor I,” added Blossom. “I'd be more inclined to suspect apoplexy. But are you sure Miss Carwell will be all right?”
“Yes,” answered Captain Poland, who had raised her head after sprinkling in her face some water a caddy brought in his cap. “She is reviving.”
Dr. Baird came up just then and gave her some aromatic spirits of ammonia.
Viola opened her eyes. There was no comprehension in them, and she looked about in wonder. Then, as her benumbed brain again took up its work, she exclaimed:
“Oh, it isn't true! It can't be true! Tell me it isn't!”
“I am sorry, but it seems to be but too true,” said Captain Poland gently. “Did he ever speak of trouble with his heart, Viola?”
“Never, Gerry. He was always so well and strong.”
“You had better come to the clubhouse,” suggested Bartlett, and she went with them both.
A little later the body of Horace Carwell was carried to the “nineteenth hole”—that place where all games are played over again in detail as the contestants put away their clubs.
A throng followed the silent figure, borne on the shoulders of some grounds workmen, but only club members were admitted to the house. And among them buzzed talk of the tragedy that had so suddenly ended the day of sports.
“He looked all right when he started to play,” said one. “Never saw him in better form, and some of his shots were marvelous.”
“He'd been drinking a little too much for a man to play his best, especially on a hot day,” ventured another. “He must have been taken ill from that, and the excitement of trying to win over the major, and it affected his heart.”
“Never knew him to have heart disease,” declared Bruce Garrigan.
“Lots of us have it and don't know it,” commented Tom Sharwell. “I suppose it will take an autopsy to decide.”
“Rather tough on Miss Carwell,” was another comment.
“That's true!” several agreed.
The body of Horace Carwell was placed in one of the small card rooms, and the door locked. Then followed some quick telephoning on the part of Dr. Baird, who had recently joined the golf club, and who had arrived at the clubhouse shortly before Mr. Carwell dropped dead.
It was at the suggestion of Harry Bartlett that Dr. Addison Lambert, the Carwell family physician, was sent for, and that rather aged practitioner arrived as soon as possible.
He was taken in to view the body, together with Dr. Baird, who was almost pathetically deferential to his senior colleague. The two medical men were together in the room with the body for some time, and when they came out Viola Carwell was there to meet them. Dr. Lambert put his arms about her. He had known her all her life—since she first ventured into this world, in fact—and his manner was most fatherly.
“Oh, Uncle Add!” she murmured to him—for she had long called him by this endearing title—Oh, Uncle Add! What is it? Is my father—is he really—”
“My dear little girl, your father is dead, I am sorry to say. You must be very brave, and bear up. Be the brave woman he would want you to be.”
“I will, Uncle Add. But, oh, it is so hard! He was all I had! Oh, what made him die?”
She questioned almost as a little child might have done.
“That I don't know, my dear,” answered Dr. Lambert gently. “We shall have to find that out later by—Well, we'll find out later, Dr. Baird and I. You had better go home now. I'll have your car brought around. Is that—that Frenchman here—your chauffeur?”
“Yes, he was here a little while ago. But I had rather not go home with him—at least, unless some one else comes with me. I don't like—I don't like that big, new car.
“If you will come with me, Viola—” began Bartlett.
“Yes, Harry, I'll go with you. Oh, poor Aunt Mary! This will be a terrible shock to her. I—”
“I'll telephone,” offered Dr. Lambert. “She'll know when you arrive. And I'll be over to see you, Viola, as soon as I make some arrangements.”
“And will you look after—after poor father?”
“Yes, you may leave it all to me.”
And so, while the body of the dead clubman remained at the nineteenth hole, Viola Carwell was taken to 'The Haven' by Harry Bartlett, while Captain Poland, nodding farewell to LeGrand Blossom and some of his other friends, left the grounds in his gray car.
And as he rode down past the inlet where the tide was now running out to the sea, he saw an osprey dart down and strike at an unseen fish.
But the bird rose with dripping pinions, its talons empty.
“You didn't get any one that time!” murmured the captain.
Through the silent house echoed the vibration of the electric bell, sounding unnecessarily loud, it seemed. The maid who answered took the caller's card to Miss Mary Carwell, Viola's aunt.
“He wants to see Miss Viola,” the servant reported. “Shall I tell her?”
“You had better, yes. She went to lie down, but she will want to see Captain Poland. Wait, I'll tell her myself. Where is he?”
“In the library, ma am.
“Very well. I'll see him.”
Mr. Carwell's sister literally swept down the stairs, her black silk dress rustling somberly and importantly. She was a large woman, and her bearing and air were in keeping.
“It was very good of you to come,” she murmured, as she sank, with more rustling and shimmerings, into a chair, while the captain waited for her to be settled, like a boat at anchor, before he again took his place. “Viola will be down presently. I gave her a powder the doctor left for her, and she slept, I hope, since we were both awake nearly all of last night.”
“I should imagine so. The strain and shock must have been intense. But please don't disturb her if she is resting. I merely called to see if I could do anything.”
“Thank you so much. We are waiting for the doctors' report. It was necessary to have an autopsy, I understand?” she questioned.
“Yes. The law requires it in all cases of sudden and mysterious death.”
“Mysterious death, Captain Poland!”
Mary Carwell seemed to swell up like a fretful turkey.
“Well, by that I mean unexplained. Mr. Carwell dropped dead suddenly and from no apparent cause.”
“But it was heart disease—or apoplexy—of course! What else could it be?”
“It must have been one or the other of those, Miss Carwell, I am sure,” the captain murmured sympathetically. “But the law requires that such a fact be established to the satisfaction of the county physician.”
“And who is he?”
“Dr. Rowland.”
“Will there be a coroner's inquest, such as I have read about? I couldn't bear anything like that.”
“It is not at all necessary, Miss Carwell,” went on the captain. “The law of New Jersey does not demand that in cases of sudden and unexplained death, unless the county physician is not satisfied with his investigation. In that matter New Jersey differs from some of the other states. The county physician will make an autopsy to determine the cause of death. If he is satisfied that it was from natural causes he gives a certificate to that effect, and that ends the matter.”
“Oh, then it will be very simple.”
“Yes, I imagine so. Dr. Rowland will state that your brother came to his death from heart disease, or from apoplexy, or whatever it was, and then you may proceed with the funeral arrangements. I shall be glad to help you in any way I can.”
“It is very kind of you. This has been so terrible—so sudden and unexpected. It has perfectly unnerved both poor Viola and myself, and we are the only ones to look after matters.”
“Then, let me help,” urged Captain Poland. “I shall only be too glad. The members of the golf club, too, will do all in their power. We had a meeting this morning and passed resolutions of sympathy. I have also called a meeting of our yacht club, of which your brother was a member. We will take suitable action.”
“Thank you. And when do you think we may expect the certificate from Dr. Rowland?”
“Very soon. He is performing the autopsy now, at the club. Dr. Lambert and Dr. Baird are with him. It was thought best to have it there, rather than at the undertaking rooms.”
“I shall be glad when matters can proceed as they ought to proceed. This publicity is very distasteful to me.”
“I can readily believe that, Miss Carwell. And now, if you will ask Miss Viola if I may be of any service to her, I shall—”
“Before I call her, there is one matter I wish to ask you about,” said Mr. Carwell's sister. “You are familiar with business, I know. I was going to ask Mr. Bartlett, as this seemed more in his line, but perhaps you can advise me.”
“I shall do my best, Miss Carwell. What is it?”
“One of the clerks came from my brother's office this morning with a note from the bank. It seems that Horace borrowed a large sum for some business transaction, and put up as collateral certain bonds. He often does that, as I have heard him mention here time and again to Mr. Blossom, when they sat in consultation in the library.
“But now it appears, according to the note from the bank, that more securities are needed. There has been a depreciation, or something—I am not familiar with the terms. At any rate the bank sends word that it wants more bonds. I was wondering what I had better do. Of course I have securities in my own private box that I might send, but—”
“Why didn't Mr. Blossom attend to this?” asked Captain Poland, a bit sharply, it would have seemed to a casual listener. “That was his place. He knows all about Mr. Carwell's affairs.”
“I asked the clerk from the office why Mr. Blossom—did you ever hear such an absurd name as he has?—LeGrand Blossom—I asked the clerk why the matter was not attended to,” went on Miss Carwell, “and he said Mr. Blossom must have forgotten it.”
“Rather odd,” commented the captain. “However, I'll look after it for you. If necessary, I'll loan the bank enough additional securities as collateral to cover the loan. Don't let it disturb you, Miss Carwell. It is merely a small detail of business that often crops up. Securities in these days so often fluctuate that banks are forced to call for more, and different ones, to cover loans secured by them. I'll attend to the matter for you.”
“Thank you so much. And now I believe I may safely call Viola. She would not forgive me if she knew you had been here and she had not seen you to thank you for your care of her yesterday.”
“Oh, that was nothing. I was very glad—”
Captain Poland was interrupted by a ring at the door.
“Perhaps that is a message from the doctors now,” suggested Miss Carwell.
“It is Dr. Lambert himself,” announced the captain, looking from a window that gave a view of the front porch. “Dr. Baird is with him. They must have completed the autopsy. Shall I see them for you?”
“Please do. And please tell me at once that everything is all right, and that we may proceed with the funeral arrangements,” begged the sister of the dead man.
“I will do so, Miss Carwell.”
Captain Poland, anticipating the maid, went into the hall and himself opened the door for the medical men.
“Oh! I'm glad you're here!” exclaimed the rather gruff voice of Dr. Lambert. “Yes, I'm glad you're here.”
The captain was on the point of asking why, when Dr. Lambert motioned to him to step into a little reception room off the main hall. Somewhat wonderingly, Captain Poland obeyed, and when the door had closed, shutting him in with the two doctors, he turned to the older physician and asked:
“Is anything the matter?”
“Well, we have completed the autopsy,” said Dr. Lambert.
“That's good. Then you are ready to sign a certificate, or at least get Dr. Rowland to, so that we can proceed with the arrangements. Miss Mary Carwell is anxious to have—”
“Well, I suppose the funeral will have to be held,” said Dr. Lambert slowly. “That can't be held up very long, even if it was worse than it is.”
“Worse than it is! What do you mean?” cried Captain Poland sharply. “Is there any suspicion—”
“There is more than suspicion, my dear sir,” went on Dr. Lambert, as he sank into a chair as though very, very tired. “There is, I regret to say, certainty.”
“Certainty of what?”
“Certainty that my old friend, Horace Carwell, committed suicide!”
“Suicide!”
“By poisoning,” added Dr. Baird, who had been anxious to get in a word. “We found very plain evidences of it when we examined the stomach and viscera.”
“Poison!” cried Captain Poland. “A suicide? I don't believe it! Why should Horace Carwell kill himself? He hadn't a reason in the world for it! There must be some mistake! Why did he do it? Why? Why?”
And then suddenly he became strangely thoughtful.
“That is the very question we have been asking ourselves, my dear Captain,” said Dr. Lambert wearily. “And we are no nearer an answer now than, apparently, you are. Why did he do it?”
The three men, two gravely professional, one, the younger, more so than his elder colleague, and the third plainly upset over the surprising news, looked at one another behind the closed door of the little room off the imposing reception hall at The Haven. They were in the house of death, and they had to do with more than death, for there was, in the reputed action of Horace Carwell, the hint of disgrace which suicide always engenders.
“I suppose,” began Captain Poland, rather weakly, “that there can be no chance of error He looked from one medical man to the other.
“Not the least in the world!” quickly exclaimed Baird. “We made a most careful examination of the deceased's organs. They plainly show traces of a violent poison, though whether it was irritant or one of the neurotics, we are not yet prepared to say.”
“It couldn't have been an irritant,” said Dr. Lambert gently. It was as though he had corrected a too zealous student reciting in class. Dr. Baird was painfully young, though much in earnest.
“Perhaps not an irritant,” he agreed. “Though I know of no neurotic that would produce such effects as we saw.
“You are right there,” said Dr. Lambert. “Whatever poison was used it was one the effects of which I have never seen before. But we have not yet finished our analysis. We have only reached a certain conclusion that may ultimately be changed.”
“You mean as to whether or not it was suicide?” asked Captain Poland eagerly.
“No, I don't see how we can get away from that,” said Dr. Lambert. “That fact remains. But if we establish the kind of poison used it may lead us to the motive. That is what we must find.”
“And we will find the kind of poison!” declared Dr. Baird.
The older medical man shook his head.
“There are some animal and vegetable poisons for which there is no known test,” he said gently. “It may turn out to be one of these.”
“Then may it not develop that Mr. Carwell, assuming that he did take poison, did it by mistake?” asked the captain.
“I hope so,” murmured Dr. Lambert.
“But from the action of the poison, as shown by the condition of the mucous coat of the alimentary canal, I hardly see how Mr. Carwell could not have known that he took poison,” declared Dr. Baird.
“Yet he seemed all right except for a little pardonable exhilaration during the game of golf,” remarked Captain Poland. “He was feeling 'pretty good' as we say. I don't see how he could have taken poison knowingly or unknowingly.”
“There are some poisons which, taken in combination, might mix and form a comparatively harmless mixture,” said Dr. Lambert. “Though I confess this is a very remote possibility. Some poisons are neutralized by an alcoholic condition. And some persons, who may have been habitual users of a drug, may take a dose of it that would kill several persons not so addicted.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Carwell was a drug user?” demanded the captain.
“I would hesitate very long before saying so,” answered Dr. Lambert, “and I have known him many years.”
“Then what was it? What in the world does it all mean?” asked Captain Poland. “What's the answers in other words?”
“I wish I knew,” replied Dr. Lambert, and he shook his head. Something more than the weight of years seemed bowing him down. Dr. Baird seemed duly impressed by the circumstances that had brought him—a young and as yet unestablished physician—to a connection with such a startling case in the well known and wealthy Carwell family.
As for Captain Gerry Poland, he was clearly startled by the news the physicians had brought. He looked toward the closed door as though seeking to see beyond it—into the room where Viola was waiting. To her, sooner or later, the tragic verdict must be told.
“Can't you say anything?” he asked, a bit sharply, looking from one physician to the other “Is this all you came to tell—that Mr. Carwell was a suicide? Isn't there any mitigating circumstance?”
“I believe he poisoned himself before he began his championship game,” said Dr. Baird, with startling frankness—almost brutal it seemed.
“But why should he do such a thing?” demanded the captain, rather petulantly.
“He may have taken some dope, thinking it would brace him up,” went on the young medical man, “and it had the opposite effect—a depressing action on the heart. Or, he may have taken a overdose of his favorite drug. That is what we shall have to find out by making suitable inquiries of members of the family.”
“Oh, must we tell them,” exclaimed Captain Poland in startled tones. And it was easy to determine by his voice that by “them” he meant Viola. “Must we tell?” he repeated.
“I must do my duty as a physician both to the public and to the family,” said Dr. Lambert, and he straightened up as though ready to assume the burden he knew would fall heavily on his shoulders. “I must also think of Viola. I feel like another father to her now. I have always, more or less, regarded her as my little girl, though she is a young lady now. But the facts must come out. Even if I were disposed to aid in a concealment—which I am far from doing—Dr. Rowland, the county physician, was present at the autopsy. He knows.”
“Does he know the poison used?” asked Captain Poland quickly, and then, almost as soon as the words had left his lips, he seemed sorry he had uttered them.
“No, no more than we,” said Dr. Baird. “It will require some nice work in medical jurisprudence, and also a very delicate analysis, to determine that. I am inclined to think—”
But what he thought no one heard or cared to hear at that moment, for, even as he spoke, the door of the little room was thrown hastily and somewhat violently open, and Viola Carwell confronted the three men. Her face showed traces of grief, but it had lost little of the beauty for which she was noted.
Tall and dark, with hair of that blue—black sheen so rarely observed, with violet eyes and a poise and grace that made her much observed, Viola Carwell was at the height of her beauty. In a sense she had the gentle grace of her mother and with that the verve and sprightliness of her father mingled perfectly. It was no wonder that Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett and many others, for that matter, were rivals for her favors.
“I thought you were here,” she said quietly to Dr. Lambert. “Oh, Uncle Add, what is it? Tell me the truth!” she begged as she placed a hand on his arm, a hand that trembled in spite of her determination to remain calm. “Please tell me the truth!”
“The truth, Viola?” he questioned gently.
“Yes. I'm afraid you are trying to keep something back from me. This looks like it—you men in here talking—consulting as to what is best to do. Tell me. My father is dead. But that, I know, is not the worst that can happen. Tell me! Is there-is there any disgrace? I know—”
Viola stopped as though she herself feared the words she was about to utter. Dr. Lambert quickly spoke.
“There has been no disgrace, my dear Viola,” he said, gently. “We have just come from the—from having made an investigation—Dr. Baird and myself and Dr. Rowland. We discovered that your father was poisoned, and—”
“Poisoned?” she gasped, and started back as though struck, while her rapid glances went from face to face, resting longest on the countenance of Captain Poland. It was as though, in this great emergency, she looked to him for comfort more than to the old doctor who had ushered her into the world.
“I am sorry to have to say it, Viola, but such is the case,” went on the family physician. “Your father was poisoned. But the kind of poison we have not yet determined.”
“But who gave it to him?” she cried. “Oh, it doesn't seem that any one would hate him so, not even his worst enemy. And he had so many friends-too many, perhaps.”
“We don't know that any one gave him the poison, Viola,” said Dr. Lambert, gently. “In fact, it does not seem that any one did, or your father would have known it. Certainly if any one had tried to make him take poison there would have been a struggle that he would have mentioned. But he died of poison, nevertheless.”
“Then there can be but one other explanation,” she murmured, and her voice was tense and strained. “He must have—”
“We fear he took it himself,” blurted out Dr. Baird, in spite of the warning look cast at him by his colleague.
“Oh, I won't believe that! It can't be true!” cried Viola, and she burst into a storm of sobs. Dr. Lambert placed his arms about her.
“Tell me it isn't true, Uncle Add! Tell me it isn't true!” she sobbed.
The three men, looking at one another—Dr. Lambert's glance coming over the bowed head of Viola—said nothing for a few moments. Then as her sobs died away, and she became calmer, the old physician said:
“You must not take on so, Vi. I know it is hard, but you must meet the issue squarely. At the same time you must realize that even the most suspicious circumstances may be explained away. While it does look as though your father had deliberately taken the poison, it may easily be established by an investigation that it was an accident—an accident of which even your father was ignorant.”
“There are so many poisons that do not manifest themselves for a long time—often days—after they are taken, that there is every chance of proving this to have been an accident.”
“Then there must be an investigation!” was Viola's quick decision. There were still tears in her eyes, but she looked through them now, as through a veil that must be torn aside. “I can not believe that my father was a—a suicide—” she halted at the awful word. “I will not believe it!” she went on more firmly. “It can not be true!”
Hardly had she uttered the last word than a figure passed through the hall, flitting past the half-opened door of the little room where Viola stood with the three men.
“Who is there?” she called sharply, for she had spoken rather loudly, and she did not want any of the servants to hear. “Who is there?”
“It is I—Minnie,” was the answer. “Dear Viola, I have come to see if I could do anything. I rang and rang, but no one answered the bell, and, as the door was open, I walked in.”
“I'm afraid I didn't close it when I let you in,” said Captain Poland to Dr. Lambert.
“Dear Viola!” said Minnie Webb, as she placed cheek against that of her friend. “Is there anything I can do in your terrible trouble? Please let me do something!”
“Thank you, Minnie. You are very kind. I don't know. We are in such distress. Tell me—” and Viola seemed to nerve herself for some effort. “Tell me! Did you hear what I said just now—as you passed the door?”
“Do you mean about not believing that your father was a suicide?” asked Minnie, in a low voice.
“Yes.”
“I—I heard you.”
“Then the only thing you can do is to help me prove otherwise,” said Viola. “That would be the greatest help. It can't be true, and we want that made plain. Father never killed himself. He was not that kind of man. He did not fear death, but he would not go deliberately to meet it. It is not true that he killed himself!” and Viola's voice seemed to ring out.
A strange look came over the face of Minnie Webb. There was a great pity shining in her eyes as she said:
“I—I am sorry, Viola, but—but I am afraid it may be true.”
“What! That my father committed suicide?”
“Yes,” whispered Minnie. “I—I'm afraid it may be true!”
Minnie Webb's announcement affected her four hearers in four different ways. It shocked Viola—shocked her greatly, for she had, naturally, expected kindly sympathy and agreement from her friend.
Dr. Baird, who had involuntarily begun to twist his small mustache at the entrance of Miss Webb, looked at her in admiration of her good looks and because she upheld a theory to which he felt himself committed—a theory that Mr. Carwell was a plain out-and-out suicide.
Dr. Lambert was plainly indignant at the bald manner in which Minnie Webb made her statement, and at the same time he had pity for the ignorance of the lay mind that will pronounce judgment against the more cautious opinions of science. And this was not the first poisoning case with which the aged practitioner had dealt.
As for Captain Poland, he gazed blankly at Miss Webb for a moment following her statement, and then he looked more keenly at the young woman, as though seeking to know whence her information came.
And when Viola had recovered from her first shock this was the thought that came to her:
“What did Minnie know?”
And Viola asked that very question—asked it sharply and with an air which told of her determination to know.
“Oh, please don't ask me!” stammered Minnie Webb. “But I have heard that your father's affairs are involved, Viola.”
“His affairs? You mean anything in his—private life?” and the daughter of Horace Carwell—“Carwell the sport,” as he was frequently called—seemed to feel this blow more than the shock of death.
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” exclaimed Minnie, as though abashed at the mere suggestion. “But I did hear—and I can not tell where I heard it—that he was involved financially, and that, perhaps—well, you know some men have a horror of facing the world poor and—”
“That can't be true!” declared Viola stoutly. “While I do not know anything about my father's financial affairs, I know he had no fear of failure—no fear of becoming poor.”
“I do not believe he would have feared to face poverty if there was need. But there was not, I'm sure. Minnie, who told you this?”
“I—I can not tell!” said Minnie, with a memory of the insinuating manner in which LeGrand Blossom had spoken. Bearing in mind her promise to him not to mention the matter, she began to wish that she had not spoken.
“But you must tell!” insisted Dr. Lambert. “This amounts to an accusation against a dead man, and you owe it to Viola to give the source of your information.”
“No, Doctor, I can not! Please don't ask me, Viola. Oh, I shouldn't have spoken, but I thought only to help you solve the problem.”
“You have only made it harder, unless you tell us more,” said Dr. Lambert gently. “Why can not you tell us, Miss Webb?”
“Because I—I promised not to. Oh, can't you find out for yourselves—in your own way, about his affairs? Surely an examination—”
“Yes, of course, that would be the proper way,” said Dr. Lambert gravely. “And it must be done, I suppose.”
“It will lead to nothing—it will prove nothing,” insisted Viola. “I am sure my father's affairs were not involved. Wait, I'll call Aunt Mary. She was in close touch with all the money matters of our household. Father trusted her with many business matters. Call Aunt Mary!”
Her eyes red with weeping, but bearing up bravely withal, Miss Mary Carwell joined the conference. She, it seemed, had guessed something when Dr. Lambert and Dr. Baird were closeted so long with Captain Poland.
“We must face the facts, however unpleasant they are,” said Dr. Lambert, in a low voice. “We must recognize that this will be public talk in a little while. A man—so well-known a character as was my old friend Horace Carwell—can not die suddenly in the midst of a championship golf game, and let the matter rest there.”
“The papers will take it up,” said Dr. Baird.
“The papers!” broke in Viola.
“Yes, even now I have been besieged by reporters demanding to know the cause of death. It will have to come out. The report of the county physician, on which only a burial certificate can be obtained, is public property. The bureau of vital statistics is open to the public and the reporters. There is bound to be an inquiry, and, as I have said, Dr. Rowland has already announced it as a suicide. We must face the issue bravely.”
“But even if it should prove true, that he took the poison, I am sure it will turn out to be a mistake!” declared Viola. “As for my father's affairs being in danger financially—Aunt Mary, did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Well, my dear, your father kept his affairs pretty much to himself,” was the answer of her aunt. “He did tell me some things, and only to-day something came up that makes me think—Oh, I don't know what to think—now!”
“What is it?” asked Dr. Lambert, quietly but firmly. “It is best to know the worst at once.”
“I can't say that it is the 'worst,'” replied Miss Carwell; “but there was something about a loan to the bank, and not enough collateral to cover—Mr. Blossom should have attended to it, but he did not, it seems, and—Won't you tell them?” she appealed to Captain Poland.
“Certainly,” he responded. “It is a simple matter,” he went on. “Mr. Carwell, as all of us do at times, borrowed money from his bank, giving certain securities as collateral for the loan.
“The bank, as all banks do, kept watch on this security, and when it fell in market value below a certain point, where there was no longer sufficient margin to cover the loan safely, demanded more collateral.
“This, for some reason, Mr. Carwell did not put up, nor did his clerk, Mr. Blossom. I know nothing more in this respect than Miss Carwell told me,” and he bowed to indicate the dead man's sister. “I offered to see to the matter for her, putting up some collateral of my own until Mr. Carwell's affairs could be straightened out. It is a mere technicality, I imagine, and can have nothing to do with—with the present matter, even though Miss Webb seems to think so.”
“Oh, I am so sorry if I have made a mistake!” exclaimed Minnie, now very penitent. “But I only thought it would be helping—”
“It will be—to know the truth,” said Dr. Lambert. “Is this all that you heard, Miss Webb?”
“No, it was nothing like that. It had nothing to do with a bank loan. Oh, please don't ask me. I promised not to tell.”
“Very well, we won't force you to speak,” said the family physician. “But this matter must be gone into. What one person knows others are sure to find out. We must see Blossom. He is the one who would have the most complete knowledge of your father's affairs, Viola. Did I hear something about his going into partnership with your father?”
“Yes, there was some such plan. Father decided that he needed help, and he spoke of taking in Mr. Blossom. I know no more than that,” Viola answered.
“Then LeGrand Blossom is the person to throw more light on that subject,” said Dr. Lambert.
To himself he added a mental reservation that he did not count much on what information might come from the head clerk. Blossom, in the mind of Dr. Lambert, was a person of not much strength of character. There had been certain episodes in his life, information as to which had come to the physician in a roundabout way, that did not reflect on him very well; though, in truth, he felt that the man was weak rather than bad.
“Then is it to be believed that my father was a suicide?” asked Viola, as though seeking to know the worst, that she might fight to make it better.
“On the bare facts in the case—yes,” answered Dr. Lambert. “But that is only a starting point. We will make no hard and fast decision.”
“Indeed we will not,” declared Viola. “There must be a most rigid investigation.”
And when the others had gone, Dr. Lambert to make funeral arrangements for his old friend, Captain Poland to see the bank officials, Dr. Baird to his office, taking Minnie Webb home in his car, and Miss Garwell to her room to lie down, Viola, left alone, gave herself up to grief. She felt utterly downcast and very much in need of a friend.
And perhaps this feeling made her welcome, more cordially than when she had last seen him, Harry Bartlett, who was announced soon after the others left.
“Oh, Harry, have you heard the terrible news?” faltered Viola.
“You mean about your father? Yes,” he said gently. “But I do not believe it. I may as well speak plainly, Viola. Your father, for some reason best known to himself, did not care for me. But I respected him, and in spite of a feeling between us I admired him. I feel sure he did not commit suicide.”
“But they say it looks very suspicious, Harry! Oh, tell me what to do!” and, impulsively, Viola held out her hands to him. Bartlett pressed them warmly.
“I'll serve you in any way I can,” he said, gazing fondly into her eyes. “But I confess I am puzzled. I don't know what to do. Perhaps it would be better, as Dr. Lambert says, to look into your father's affairs.”
“Yes. But I want more than that!” declared Viola. “I want his name cleared from any suspicion of suicide. And I want you to undertake it, Harry!”
“You want me?” he exclaimed, drawing back. “Me?”
“Yes. I feel that you will do better than any one else. Oh, you will help me, won't you?” she pleaded.
“Of course, Viola. But I don't know how.”
“Then let me tell you,” and she seemed to be in better control of herself than at any time that day. “This must be gone into systematically, and we can best do it through a detective.”
“A detective!” cried Harry Bartlett, and he started from his chair. “Why, my dear Viola, a detective would be the worst possible person to call in on a case like this! Let me investigate, if you think it wise, but a detective—”
“I am not speaking of an ordinary detective, Harry. I have in mind an elderly man who was a friend of my father. He has an extraordinary reputation for solving mysteries.”
“Well, of course, if you know the man it makes a difference.” Bartlett eyed the girl curiously. “I didn't know you knew any detectives.”
“The man I have in mind was in some business deal with my father once, and they became very well acquainted. I met him several times, and liked him immensely. He is well along in years, but I think sharper than many younger men. But there is one difficulty.”
“What is that?”
“More than likely he will shy at having anything to do with the case. He told my father he was going to retire and devote his leisure time to fishing—that being his great pastime.”
“Humph! he can't be much of a detective if he wants to spend most of his time fishing,” was Bartlett's comment.
“You're mistaken, Harry. My father, and other men too, considered him one of the greatest detectives in the world, even though he sometimes works in a very peculiar and apparently uninterested manner.” “All right then, Viola. If you say so, I'll look up this wonderful detective for you and get him to take hold of the case.”