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.