“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.