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Together they looked over the papers, and among them-among the memoranda, copies of contracts and other documents - was a diary, or perhaps it might be called a business man's journal. Both Viola and her aunt were familiar enough with business to understand the import of what they read.

It was to the effect that Mr. Amos Bartlett, Harry's paternal uncle, had been associated with Mr. Carwell in several transactions involving some big business deals. Mr. Bartlett had been smart enough, by forming a irectorate within a directorate and by means of a dummy company, to get a large sum to his credit, while Mr. Carwell was left to face a large deficit.

"And Harry Bartlett acted as agent for his uncle in the transactions!" exclaimed Miss Carwell as she looked over the papers.

"But I don't believe he knew anything wrong was being done!" declared Viola. "I'm positive he didn't. Harry isn't that kind of a man."

"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 ecalled 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.

As they read a strange look came over Viola's face.

Miss Carwell, perusing a document, recited:

"Memo. of certain matters between Captain Poland and myself. And while I think of it let me state that but for his timely and generous financial aid I would have been ruined by that scoundrel Bartlett. Captain Poland saved me. And should the stock of the concern ever be on a paying basis I intend to repay him not only all he advanced me but any profit I may secure shall be divided with him in gratitude. That there will be a profit I very much doubt, though this does not lessen my gratitude to Captain Poland for his aid."

There was a little gasp from Viola as she heard this.

"Captain Poland saved father from possible ruin," she murmured, "and I - I treated him so! Oh! oh!"

CHAPTER XV

POOR FISHING

"Have a drink, Colonel?"

"Eh?"

"I said - Here, boy! A Scotch high and a mint julep."

Colonel Ashley, roused from his reverie as he sat in his club, gazing out on the busy, fashionable, hurrying, jostling, worried, happy, sad, and otherwise throngs that swept past the big Fifth avenue windows, shifted himself in the comfortable leather chair, and looked at his cigar. It had gone out, and he