“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.