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 his head and resumed his pacing of the rooms—for there were two at his disposal. He was weary to death of the dismal view to be had through the barred windows.
“Did you see him?” asked her aunt, when Viola, much dispirited, returned home.
“No, and I suppose you're glad of it!”
“I am. There's no use saying I'm not.”
“Aunt Mary, I think it's perfectly horrid of you to think, even for a moment, that Harry had anything to do with this terrible thing. He'd never dream of it, not if he had quarreled with my father a dozen times. And I don't see what they quarreled about, either. I'm sure I was with Harry a good deal of the time before the game, and I didn't hear him and my father have any words.”
“Perhaps, as it was about you, they took care you shouldn't hear.”
“Who says it was about me?”
“Can't you easily guess that it was, and that's why Harry doesn't want to tell?” asked Miss Mary.
“I don't believe anything of the sort!” declared Viola.
“Well,” sighed Miss Carwell, “I don't know what to believe. If your poor, dear father wasn't a suicide, some one must have killed him, and it may well have been—”
“Don't dare say it was Harry!” cried Viola excitedly. “Oh, this is terrible! I'm going to see Colonel Ashley and ask him if he can't end this horrible suspense.”
“I wish that as eagerly as you do,” said Miss Mary. “You'll find the colonel in the library. He's poring over some papers, and Shag, that funny colored man, is getting some fish lines ready; so it's easy enough to guess where the colonel is going. If you want to speak to him you'd better hurry. But there's another matter I want to call to your attention. What about our business affairs? Have we money enough to go on living here and keeping up our big winter house? We must think of that, Viola.”
“Yes, we must think of that,” agreed the girl. “That's one of the reasons why I wanted to come back. Father's affairs must be gone into carefully. He left no will, and the lawyer says it will take quite a while to find out just how things stand. If only Harry were here to help. He's such a good business man.”
“There are others,” sniffed Miss Mary. “Why don't you ask the colonel—or Captain Poland?”
“Captain Poland!” exclaimed Viola, startled.
“Yes. He helped us out in the matter of the bank when more collateral was asked for, and he'll be glad to go over the affairs with us, I'm sure.”
“I don't want him to!” snapped Viola. “Mr. Blossom is the proper one to do that. He is the chief clerk, and since he was going to form a partnership with father he will, most likely, know all the details. We'll have him up here and ask him how matters stand.”
“Perhaps that will be wise,” agreed Miss Carwell. “But I can't forget how careless LeGrand Blossom was in the matter of the loan your father had from the bank. If he's that careless, his word won't be worth much, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, any one is likely to make a mistake,” said Viola. “I'll telephone to Mr. Blossom and ask him to come here and have a talk with us. It will give me something to think about. Besides—”
She did not finish, but went to the instrument and was soon talking to the chief clerk in the office Mr. Carwell maintained while at his summer home.
“He'll be up within an hour,” Viola reported. “Now I'm going to have a talk with the colonel,” and she hastened to the library.
The old detective was smoking a cigar, which he hastened to lay aside when Viola made her entrance, but she raised a restraining hand.
“Smoke as much as you like,” she said. “I am used to it.”
“Thank you,” and he pulled forward a chair for her.
“Oh, haven't you found out anything yet?” she burst out. “Can't you say anything definite?”
Colonel Ashley shook his head in negation.
“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I'm just as sorry about it as you are. But I have seldom had a case in which there were so many clews that lead into blind allies. I was just trying to arrange a plan of procedure that I thought might lead to something.”
“Can you?” she asked eagerly.
“I haven't finished yet. What I need most is a book on poisons-a comprehensive chemistry would do, but I haven't been able to find one around here,” and he glanced at the books lining the library walls. “Your father didn't go in for that sort of thing.”
“No. But can't you send to New York for one?”
“I suppose I could—yes. I wonder if they might have one in the local library?”
“I'm sure I don't know,” and Viola leaned over to pick a thread from the carpet. “I don't draw books from there. When it was first opened I took out a card, but when I saw how unclean some of the volumes were I never afterward patronized the place.”
“Then you wouldn't know whether they had a book on poisons, or poison plants or not?”
“I wouldn't in the least,” she answered, as she arose. “As I said, I don't believe I have been in the place more than twice, and that was two years ago.”
“Then I'll have to inquire myself,” said the colonel, and he remained standing while Viola left the room. And for some little time he stood looking at the door as it closed after her. And on Colonel Ashley's face there was a peculiar look.
LeGrand Blossom came to The Haven bearing a bundle of books and papers, and with rather a wry face—for he had no heart for business of this nature. Miss Mary Carwell sat down at the table with him and Viola.
“We want to know just where we stand financially,” said Viola. “What is the condition of my father's affairs, Mr. Blossom?”
The confidential clerk hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said slowly:
“Well, the affairs are anything but good. There is a great deal of money gone, and some of the securities left are pledged for loans.”
“You mean my father spent a lot of money just before he died?” asked Viola.
“He either spent it or—Well, yes, he must have spent it, for it is gone. The car cost ten thousand, and he spent as much, if not more, on the yacht.”
“But they can be sold. I don't want either of them. I'm afraid in the big car,” said Viola, “and the yacht isn't seaworthy, I've heard. I wouldn't take a trip in her.”
“I don't know anything about that,” said LeGrand Blossom. “But even if the car and yacht were sold at a forced sale they would not bring anything like what they cost. I have gone carefully over your father's affairs, as you requested me, and I tell you frankly they are in bad shape.”
“What can be done?” asked Miss Carwell.
“I don't know,” LeGrand Blossom frankly admitted. “You may call in an expert, if you like, to go over the books; but I don't believe he would come to any other conclusion than I have. As a matter of fact, I had a somewhat selfish motive in looking into your father's affairs of late. You know I was thinking of going into partnership with him, and—and—” He did not finish.
Viola nodded.
“Perhaps I might say that he was good enough to offer me the chance,” the young man went on. “And, as I was to invest what was, to me, a large sum, I wanted to see how matters were. So I examined the books carefully, as your father pressed me to do. At that time his affairs were in good shape. But of late he had lost a lot of money.”
“Will it make any difference to us?” and Viola included her aunt in her gesture.
“Well, you, Miss Carwell,” and Blossom nodded to the older lady, “have your own money in trust funds. Mr. Carwell could not touch them. But he did use part of the fortune left you by your mother,” he added to Viola.
“I don't mind that,” was her steady answer. “If my father needed my money he was welcome to it. That is past and gone. What now remains to me?”
“Very little,” answered LeGrand Blossom. “I may be able to pull the business through and save something, but there is a lot of money lost—spent or gone somewhere. I haven't yet found out. Your father speculated too much, and unwisely. I told him, but he would pay no heed to me.”
“Do you think he knew, before his death, that his affairs were in such bad shape?” asked the dead man's sister.
“He must have, for I saw him going over the books several times.”
“Do you think this knowledge impelled him to--to end his life?” faltered Viola.
LeGrand Blossom considered a moment before answering. Then he slowly said:
“It was either that, or—or, well, some one killed him. There are no two ways about it.”
“I believe some one killed him!” burst out Viola. “But I think the authorities have made a horrible mistake in detaining Mr. Bartlett,” she added. “Don't you, Mr. Blossom?”
“I—er—I don't know what to think. Your father had some enemies, it is true. Every business man has. And a person with a temper easily aroused, such as—”
LeGrand Blossom stopped suddenly.
“You were about to name some one?” asked Viola.
“Well, I was about to give, merely as an instance, Jean Forette the chauffeur. Not that I think the Frenchman had a thing to do with the matter. But he has a violent temper at times, and again he is as meek as any one I ever knew. But say a person did give way to violent passion, such as I have seen him do at times when something went wrong with the big, new car, might not such a person, for a fancied wrong, take means of ending the life of a person who had angered him?”
“I never liked Jean Forette,” put in Miss Carwell, “and I was glad when I heard Horace was to let him go.”
“Do you think—do you believe he had anything to do with my father's death?” asked Viola quickly.
“Not the least in the world,” answered the head clerk hastily. “I just used him as an illustration.”
“But he quarreled with my father,” the girl went on. “They had words, I know.”
“Yes, they did, and I heard some of them,” admitted LeGrand Blossom. “But that passed over, and they were friendly enough the day of the golf game. So there could not have been murder in the heart of that Frenchman. No, I don't mean even to hint at him: but I believe some one, angry at, and with a grudge against, your father, ended his life.”
“I believe that, too!” declared Viola firmly. “And while I feel, as you do, about Jean, still it is a clew that must not be overlooked. I'll tell Colonel Ashley.”
“I fancy he knows it already,” said LeGrand Blossom. “There isn't much that escapes that fisherman.”
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. I could never drive it.”
“But if we sold that car, Jean, as we are going to do—”
“I could not stay, Miss Viola. I have a new place, and to that I go in two weeks. I am sorry, for I liked it here, though—Oh, well, of what use?” and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Was there something you did not like? Did my father not treat you well?” asked Viola quickly.
“Oh, as to that, mademoiselle, I should not speak. I liked your father. We, at times, did have difference; as who has not? But he was a friend to me. What would you have? I am sorry!” And he touched his hat and drove around to the garage.
As Viola was about to enter the house she chanced to look down the street and saw Minnie Webb approaching. She looked so thoroughly downcast that Viola was surprised.
“Hello, Minnie!” she exclaimed pleasantly. “Anything new or startling?”
“Nothing,” was the somewhat listless reply. “Is there anything new here?” and Minnie Webb's face showed a momentary interest.
“I can't say that there is,” returned Viola. She paused for a moment. “Won't you come in?”
“I don't think so-not to-day,” stammered the other girl. And then as she looked at Viola her face began to flush. “I—I don't feel very well. I have a terrible headache. I think I'll go home and lie down,” and she hurried on without another word.
“There is certainly something wrong with Minnie,” speculated Viola, as she looked after her friend. “I wonder if it is on account of LeGrand Blossom.”
She did not know how much Minnie Webb was in love with the man who had been her father's confidential clerk and who was now in charge of Mr. Carwell's business affairs, and, not knowing this, she could, of course, not realize under what a strain Minnie was now living with so many suspicions against Blossom.
Divesting herself of her street dress for a more simple gown, Viola inquired of the maid whether Colonel Ashley was in the house. When informed that he had gone fishing with Shag, the girl, with a little gesture of impatience, took her seat near a window to look over some mail that had come during her absence.
As she glanced up after reading a belated letter of sympathy she saw, alighting from his car which had stopped in front of The Haven, Captain Gerry Poland. He caught sight of her, and waved his hand.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Viola. “If he hadn't seen me I could have said I was not at home, but now—”
She heard his ring at the door and resigned herself to meeting him, but if the captain had not been so much in love with Viola Carwell he could not have helped noticing her rather cold greeting.
“I called,” he said, “to see if there was anything more I could do for you or for your aunt. I saw Blossom, and he says he is working over the books. I've had a good deal of experience in helping settle up estates that were involved. I mean—” he added hastily—“where no will was left, and, my dear Viola, if I could be of any assistance—”
“Thank you,” broke in Viola rather coldly, “I don't know that there is anything you can do. It is very kind of you, but Mr. Blossom has charge and—”
“Oh, of course I realize that,” went on Captain Poland quickly. “But I thought there might be something.”
“There is nothing,” and now the yachtsman could not help noticing the coldness in Viola's voice. He seemed to nerve himself for an effort as he said:
“Viola”—he paused a moment before adding—“why can't we be friends? You were decent enough to me some days ago, and now—Have I done anything—said anything? I want to be friends with you. I want to be—”
He took a step nearer her, but she drew back.
“Please don't think, Captain Poland, that I am not appreciative of what you have done for me,” the girl said quickly. “But—Oh, I really don't know what to think. It has all been so terrible.”
“Indeed it has,” said the captain, in a low voice. “But I would like to help.”
“Then perhaps you can!” suddenly exclaimed Viola, and there was a new note in her voice. “Have you been to see Harry Bartlett in—in jail?” and she faltered over that word.
“No, I have not,” said the captain, and there was a sharp tone in his answer. “I understood no one was allowed to see him.”
“That is true enough,” agreed Viola. “They wouldn't let me see him, and I wanted to—so much. I presume you know how he comes to be in prison.”
“It isn't exactly a prison.”
“To him it is-and to me,” she said. “But you know how he comes to be there?”
“Yes. I was present at the inquest. By the way, they are to resume it this week, I heard. The chemists have finished their analyses and are ready to testify.”
“Oh, I didn't know that.”
“Yes. But, speaking of Harry—poor chap—it's terrible, of course, but he may be able to clear himself.”
“Clear himself, Captain Poland? What do you mean?” and indignant Viola faced her caller.
“Oh, well, I mean—” He seemed in some confusion.
“I want to know something,” went on Viola. “Did you bring it to the attention of the coroner or the prosecutor that Harry Bartlett saw my father just before-before his death, and quarreled with him? Did you tell that, Captain Poland?”
Viola Carwell was like a stem accuser now.
“Did you?” she demanded again.
“I did,” answered Captain Poland, not, however, without an effort. “I felt that it was my duty to do so. I merely offered it as a suggestion, however, to one of the prosecutor's detectives. I didn't think it would lead to anything. I happened to hear your father and Harry having some words-about what I couldn't catch-and I thought it no more than right that all the facts should be brought out in court. I made no secret about it. I did not send word anonymously to the coroner, as I might have done. He knew the source of the information, and he could have called me to the stand had he so desired.”
“Would you have told the same story on the stand?”
“I would. It was the truth.”
“Even if it sent him—sent Harry to jail?”
“I would—yes. I felt it was my duty, and—”
“Oh-duty!”
Viola made a gesture of impatience.
“So-you-you told, Captain Poland! That is enough! Please don't try to see me again.”
“Viola!” he pleaded. “Please listen—”
“I mean it!” she said, sternly. “Go! I never want to see you again! Oh, to do such a thing!”
The captain, nonplussed for a moment, lingered, as though to appeal from the decision. Then, without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and left the room.
Viola sank on a sofa, and gave way to her emotion.
“It can't be true! It can't!” she sobbed. “I won't believe it. It must not be true! Oh, how can I prove otherwise? But I will! I must! Harry never did that horrible thing, and I will prove it!
“Why should Captain Poland try to throw suspicion on him? It isn't right. He had no need to tell the detective that! I must see Colonel Ashley at once and tell him what I think. Oh, Captain Poland, if I—”
Viola twisted in her slender hands a sofa cushion, and then threw it violently from her.
“I'll see Colonel Ashley at once!” she decided.
Inquiry of a maid disclosed the fact that the colonel was still fishing, and from Patrick, the gardener, she learned that he had gone to try his luck at a spot in the river at the end of the golf course where Patrick himself had hooked more than one fish.
“I'll follow him there,” said Viola. “I suppose he won't want to be interrupted while he's fishing, but I can't help it! I must talk to some one—tell somebody what I think.”
She donned a walking skirt and stout shoes, for the way to the river was rough, and set out. On the way she thought of many things, and chiefly of the man pacing his lonely walk back and forth behind windows that had steel bars on them.
Viola became aware of some one walking toward her as she neared the bend of the river whither Patrick had directed her, and a second glance told her it was the faithful Shag.
He bowed with a funny little jerk and took off his cap.
“Is the colonel there?” and she indicated what seemed to be an ideal fishing place among the willows.
“He was, Miss Viola, but he done gone now.”
“Gone? Where? Do you mean back to the house?”
“No'm. He done gone t' N'York.”
“New York?”
“Yes'm. On de afternoon train. He say he may be back t'night, an' mebby not 'twell mornin'.”
“But New York-and so suddenly! Why did he go, Shag?”
“I don't know all de 'ticklers, Miss Viola, but I heah him say he got t' git a book on poisons.”
“A book on poisons?” and Viola started.
“Yes'm. He done want one fo' de case he's wukin' on, an' he can't git none at de library, so he go to N'York after one. I'se bringin' back his tackle. De fish didn't bite nohow, so he went away, de colonel did.”
“Oh!”
Viola stood irresolute a moment, and then turned back toward the house, Shag walking beside her.
Divided as she was among several opinions, torn by doubts and sufferings from grief, Viola Carwell found distinct relief in a message that awaited her on her return to the house after her failure to find Colonel Ashley. The message, given her by a maid, was to the effect:
“The safe man has come.”
“The who?” asked Viola, not at first understanding.
“The safe man. He said you sent for him to open a safe and—”
“Oh, yes, I understand, Jane. Where is he?”
“In the library, Miss Viola.”
Viola hastened to the room where so many fateful talks had taken place of late, and found there a quiet man, beside whose chair was a limp valise that rattled with a metallic jingle as his foot brushed against it when he arose on her entrance.
“Have you come from the safe company?” she asked.
“Yes. I understood that there was one of our safes which could not be opened, and they sent me. Here is the order,” and he held out the paper.
He spoke with quiet dignity, omitting the “ma'am,” from his salutation. And Viola was glad of this. He was a relief from the usual plumber or carpenter, who seemed to lack initiative.
“It is my father's private safe that we wish opened,” she said. “He alone had the combination to it, and he—he is dead,” she added softly.
“So I understood,” he responded with appreciation of what her grief must be. “Well, I think I shall be able to open the safe without damaging it. That was what you wanted, was it not?”
“Yes. Father never let any one but himself open the safe when he was alive. I don't believe my mother or I saw it open more than ten times, and then by accident. In it he kept his private papers. But, now that he is—is gone, there is need to see how his affairs stand. The lawyer tells me I had better open the safe.
“When we found that none of us knew the combination, and when it was not found written down anywhere among father's other papers, and when his clerk, Mr. Blossom, did not have it, we sent to the company.”
“I understand,” said the safe expert. “If you will show me—”
Viola touched a button on the wall, a button so cleverly concealed that the ordinary observer would never have noticed it, and a panel slid back, revealing the door of the safe.
“It was one of father's ideas that his strong box was better hidden this way,” said Viola, with a little wan smile. “Is there room enough for you to work? The safe is built into the wall.”
“Oh, there is plenty of room, thank you. I can very easily get at it. It isn't the first safe I've had to work on this way. Many families have safes hidden like this. It's a good idea.”
He looked at the safe, noted the manufacturer's number, and consulted a little book he carried with him. Then he began to turn the knob gently, listening the while, with acute and trained ears, to the noise the tumblers made as they clicked their way, unseen, amid the mazes of the combination.
“Will it be difficult, do you think?” asked Viola. “Will it take you long?”
“That is hard to say.”
“Do you mind if I watch you?” she asked eagerly. She wanted something to take her mind off the many things that were tearing at it as the not far distant sea tore at the shore which stood as a barrier in its way.
“Not at all,” answered the expert. Then he went on with his work.
In a way it was as delicate an operation as that which sometimes confronts a physician who is in doubt as to what ails his patient. There was a twisting and a turning of the knob, a listening with an ear to the heavy steel door, as a doctor listens to the breathing of a pneumonia victim. Then with his little finger held against the numbered dial, the expert again twirled the nickel knob, seeking to tell, by the vibration, when the little catches fell into the slots provided for them.
It was rather a lengthy operation, and he tried several of the more common and usual combinations without result. As he straightened up to rest Viola asked:
“Do you think you can manage it? Can you open it?”
“Oh, yes. It will take a little time, but I can do it. Your father evidently used a more complicated combination than is usually set on these safes. But I shall find it.”
Viola's determination to open the safe had been arrived at soon after the funeral, when it was found that, as far as could be ascertained, her father had left no will. A stickler for system, in its many branches and ramifications, and insisting for minute detail on the part of his subordinates, Horace Carwell did what many a better and worse man has done—put off the making of his will. And that made it necessary for the surrogate to appoint an administrator, who, in this case, Viola renouncing her natural rights, was Miss Mary Carwell.
“I'd rather you acted than I,” Viola had said, though she, being of age and the direct heir, could well and legally have served.
Miss Carwell had agreed to act. Then it became necessary to find out certain facts, and when they were not disclosed by a perusal of the papers of the dead man found in his office and in the safe deposit box at the bank, recourse was had to the private safe. LeGrand Blossom knew nothing of what was in the strong box-not even being entrusted with the combination.
“There! It's open!” announced the expert at length, and he turned the handle and swung back the door.
“Thank you,” said Viola. Then, as she looked within the safe, she exclaimed:
“Oh, there is an inner compartment, and that's locked, too!”
“Only with a key. That will give no trouble at all,” said the man. He proved it by opening it with the third key he tried from a bunch of many he took from his valise.
That was all there was for him to do, save to set the combination with a simpler system, which he did, giving Viola the numbers.
“Was it as easy as you thought?” she asked, when the expert was about to leave.
“Not quite—no. The combination was a double one. That is, in two parts. First the one had to be disposed of, and then the other worked.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, it is on the same principle as the safe deposit boxes in a bank. The depositor has one key, and the bank the other. The box cannot be opened by either party alone. Both keys must be used. That insures that no one person alone can get into the box. It was the same way with this safe. The combination was in two parts.”
“And did my father set it that way?”
“He must have done so, or had some one arrange the combination for him.”
“Then he—he must have shared the combination with some one else!” There was fright in Viola's eyes, and a catch in her voice.
“Yes,” assented the expert. “Either that or he set it that way merely for what we might call a 'bluff,' to throw any casual intruder off the track. Your father might have possessed both combinations himself.”
“And yet he might have shared them with—with another person?”
“Yes.”
“And the other—the other person”—Viola hesitated noticeably over the word—“would have to be present when the safe was opened?” She did not say “he” or “she.”
“Well, not necessarily,” answered the expert. “He might have had the combination in two parts, and used both of them himself. It is often done. Though, of course, he could, at any time, have shared the secret of the safe with some one else.”
“That would only be in the event of there being something in it that both he and some other person would want to take out at the same time; something that one could not get at without the knowledge of the other; would it not?”
“Naturally, yes. But, as I say, it might be the other way—that the double combination was used merely as an additional precaution.”
“Thank you,” said Viola.
She sat for several minutes in front of the opened safe after the expert had gone, and did not offer to take out any of the papers that were now exposed to view. There was a strange look on her face.
“Two persons!” she murmured. “Two persons! Did he share the secrets of this safe with some one—some one else?”
Viola reached forth her hand and took hold of a bundle of papers tied with a red band-tape it was, of the kind used in lawyers' offices. The bundle appeared to contain letters—old letters, and the handwriting was that of a woman.
“I wonder if I had better get Aunt Mary?” mused the girl. “She is the administrator, and she will have to know. But there are some things I might keep from her—if I had to.”
She looked more closely at the letters, and when she saw that they were in the well-remembered hand of her mother she breathed more easily.
“If he kept—these—it must be—all right!” she faltered to herself. “I will call Aunt Mary.”
The two women, seeing dimly through their tears at times, went over the contents of the private safe. There were letters that told of the past—of the happy days of love and courtship, and of the early married life. Viola put them sacredly aside, and delved more deeply into the strong box.
“It was like Horace to keep something away from every one else,” said his sister. “He did love a secret. But we don't seem to be getting at anything, Viola, that will tell us where there is any more money, and that's what we need now, more than anything else. At least you do, if LeGrand Blossom is right, and you intend to keep on living in the style you're used to.”
“I don't have to do that, Aunt Mary. Being poor would not frighten me.”
“I didn't think it would. Fortunately I have enough for both of us, though I won't spend anything on a big yacht nor a car that looks like a Fourth of July procession, however much I love the Star Spangled Banner.
“Oh, no, we mustn't dream of keeping the big car nor the yacht,” said Viola. “They are to be sold as soon as possible. I only hope they will bring a good price. But here are more papers, Aunt Mary. We must see what they are. Poor father had so many business interests. It's going to be a dreadful matter to straighten them all out.”
“Well, LeGrand Blossom and Captain Poland will help us.”
“Captain Poland?” questioned Viola.
“Yes. Why not? He is a fine business man, and he has large interests of his own. Have you any objection?”
“Oh, I don't know. Of course not!” she added quickly, as she caught sight of a rather odd look on her aunt's face. “If we have to—I mean if you find it necessary, you can ask his advice, I suppose.”
“Wouldn't you?”
“Why, yes, I believe I would—just as a matter of business.”
Viola's voice was calm and cool, but it might have been because her attention was focused on a bundle of papers she was taking from the safe. And a casual perusal of these showed that they had a bearing on subjects that might explain certain things.
“Look, Aunt Mary!” the girl exclaimed. “Father seems to have kept a diary. It tells—it tells about that trouble he had with Harry—Rather, it wasn't with Harry at all. It was Harry's uncle. It's that same old trouble father so often referred to. He always declared he was cheated in a certain business deal, but I always imagined it was because he didn't make as much money as he thought he ought to. Father was like that. But see-this puts a different face on it.”
Together they looked over the papers, and among them-among the memoranda, copies of contracts and other documents—was a diary, or perhaps it might be called a business man's journal. Both Viola and her aunt were familiar enough with business to understand the import of what they read.
It was to the effect that Mr. Amos Bartlett, Harry's paternal uncle, had been associated with Mr. Carwell in several transactions involving some big business deals. Mr. Bartlett had been smart enough, by forming a directorate within a directorate and by means of a dummy company, to get a large sum to his credit, while Mr. Carwell was left to face a large deficit.
“And Harry Bartlett acted as agent for his uncle in the transactions!” exclaimed Miss Carwell as she looked over the papers.
“But I don't believe he knew anything wrong was being done!” declared Viola. “I'm positive he didn't. Harry isn't that kind of a man.”
“These papers don't say so.”
“Naturally you wouldn't expect father to say a good word for one he considered his business rival, not to say enemy. I don't believe Harry had anything more to do with it than he had with—with poor father's death.”
Miss Carwell said nothing. She was busy looking over some other papers which the opening of the private safe had revealed. And then, while her aunt was engaged with these, Viola found a little bundle that had on it her name.
For a moment she debated with herself whether or not to open it. The handwriting was that of her father, and it seemed as though something stayed her. But she broke the string at last and there tumbled into her lap some photographs of herself, taken at different ages, a number of them—in fact, most of them—amateur attempts, some snapped by her mother and some by her father, as Viola knew from seeing them. She recalled some very well—especially one taken on the back of a little Shetland pony. On the reverse of this picture Mr. Carwell had written: “My dear little girl!”
Viola burst into tears, and her aunt, seeing the cause, felt the strings of her heart being tugged.
“Well, one thing seems to be proved,” said the older woman, when they were again going over the papers, sorting out some to be shown to the lawyer who was advising them on the conduct of the estate, “and that is that your father didn't think very much of Harry Bartlett.”
“That was his fault—I mean father's,” retorted Viola. “He had no reason for it, even with what this paper says. I don't believe Harry would do such a thing.”
“Do you suppose the quarrel could have been about this?” and Miss Carwell held out the journal.
“I don't know what to think,” said Viola. “But here is another memorandum. We must see what this is.”
Together they bent over the remaining documents the safe had given up—secrets of the dead.
As they read a strange look came over Viola's face.
Miss Carwell, perusing a document, recited:
“Memo. of certain matters between Captain Poland and myself. And while I think of it let me state that but for his timely and generous financial aid I would have been ruined by that scoundrel Bartlett. Captain Poland saved me. And should the stock of the concern ever be on a paying basis I intend to repay him not only all he advanced me but any profit I may secure shall be divided with him in gratitude. That there will be a profit I very much doubt, though this does not lessen my gratitude to Captain Poland for his aid.”
There was a little gasp from Viola as she heard this.
“Captain Poland saved father from possible ruin,” she murmured, “and I—I treated him so! Oh! oh!”