“Indeed we will not,” declared Viola. “There must be a most rigid investigation.”
And when the others had gone, Dr. Lambert to make funeral arrangements for his old friend, Captain Poland to see the bank officials, Dr. Baird to his office, taking Minnie Webb home in his car, and Miss Garwell to her room to lie down, Viola, left alone, gave herself up to grief. She felt utterly downcast and very much in need of a friend.
And perhaps this feeling made her welcome, more cordially than when she had last seen him, Harry Bartlett, who was announced soon after the others left.
“Oh, Harry, have you heard the terrible news?” faltered Viola.
“You mean about your father? Yes,” he said gently. “But I do not believe it. I may as well speak plainly, Viola. Your father, for some reason best known to himself, did not care for me. But I respected him, and in spite of a feeling between us I admired him. I feel sure he did not commit suicide.”
“But they say it looks very suspicious, Harry! Oh, tell me what to do!” and, impulsively, Viola held out her hands to him. Bartlett pressed them warmly.
“I'll serve you in any way I can,” he said, gazing fondly into her eyes. “But I confess I am puzzled. I don't know what to do. Perhaps it would be better, as Dr. Lambert says, to look into your father's affairs.”
“Yes. But I want more than that!” declared Viola. “I want his name cleared from any suspicion of suicide. And I want you to undertake it, Harry!”
“You want me?” he exclaimed, drawing back. “Me?”
“Yes. I feel that you will do better than any one else. Oh, you will help me, won't you?” she pleaded.