“He may have taken some dope, thinking it would brace him up,” went on the young medical man, “and it had the opposite effect—a depressing action on the heart. Or, he may have taken a overdose of his favorite drug. That is what we shall have to find out by making suitable inquiries of members of the family.”
“Oh, must we tell them,” exclaimed Captain Poland in startled tones. And it was easy to determine by his voice that by “them” he meant Viola. “Must we tell?” he repeated.
“I must do my duty as a physician both to the public and to the family,” said Dr. Lambert, and he straightened up as though ready to assume the burden he knew would fall heavily on his shoulders. “I must also think of Viola. I feel like another father to her now. I have always, more or less, regarded her as my little girl, though she is a young lady now. But the facts must come out. Even if I were disposed to aid in a concealment—which I am far from doing—Dr. Rowland, the county physician, was present at the autopsy. He knows.”
“Does he know the poison used?” asked Captain Poland quickly, and then, almost as soon as the words had left his lips, he seemed sorry he had uttered them.
“No, no more than we,” said Dr. Baird. “It will require some nice work in medical jurisprudence, and also a very delicate analysis, to determine that. I am inclined to think—”
But what he thought no one heard or cared to hear at that moment, for, even as he spoke, the door of the little room was thrown hastily and somewhat violently open, and Viola Carwell confronted the three men. Her face showed traces of grief, but it had lost little of the beauty for which she was noted.
Tall and dark, with hair of that blue—black sheen so rarely observed, with violet eyes and a poise and grace that made her much observed, Viola Carwell was at the height of her beauty. In a sense she had the gentle grace of her mother and with that the verve and sprightliness of her father mingled perfectly. It was no wonder that Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett and many others, for that matter, were rivals for her favors.
“I thought you were here,” she said quietly to Dr. Lambert. “Oh, Uncle Add, what is it? Tell me the truth!” she begged as she placed a hand on his arm, a hand that trembled in spite of her determination to remain calm. “Please tell me the truth!”
“The truth, Viola?” he questioned gently.
“Yes. I'm afraid you are trying to keep something back from me. This looks like it—you men in here talking—consulting as to what is best to do. Tell me. My father is dead. But that, I know, is not the worst that can happen. Tell me! Is there-is there any disgrace? I know—”