And then the footsteps of the detective were heard, lessening in their sound, as he made his way to his room.
Viola, perplexed, puzzled, and bewildered, went back to her desk. She took up the letters again. The torn one with its strange reference: “As members of the same—”
What could it be? Was it some secret society to which her father and Gerry Poland belonged, the violation of the secrets of which carried a death penalty?
No, it could not be anything as sensational as that. Clearly the captain was in love with her—he had frankly confessed as much, and Viola knew it anyhow. She was not at all sure whether he loved her for her position or because she was good to look upon and desirable in every way.
As for her own heart, she was sure of that. In spite of the fact that she had tried to pique him that fatal day, merely to “stir him up,” as she phrased it, Viola was deeply and earnestly in love with Harry Bartlett, and she was sure enough of his feeling toward her to find in it a glow of delight.
Then there was in the letter the hint of a threat. “Let me hear from you by the twenty-third, or—”
“Oh, what does it mean? What does it mean?” and Viola bent her weary head down on the letters and her tears stained them. Puzzled as she was over the contents of the letters—torn and otherwise—which she had found hidden in the drawer of the private safe, Viola Carwell was not yet ready to share her secret with her Aunt Mary or Colonel Ashley. These two were her nearest and most natural confidants under the circumstances.
“I would like to tell Harry, but I can't,” she reasoned, when she had awakened after a night of not very refreshing slumber. “Of course Captain Poland could explain—if he would. But I'll keep this a secret a little longer. But, oh! I wonder what it means?”
And so, when she greeted Colonel Ashley at the breakfast table she smiled and tried to appear her usual self.
“I did not hear you come in,” said Miss Carwell, as she poured the coffee.