ing for permission from the prosecutor. It seems
they are trying to find some one who knows about the quarrel between
Harry and your father."

"I don't believe there was a quarrel--at least not a serious one. Harry
isn't that kind. I'm sure he is not guilty. Harry Bartlett had nothing
to do with his death. If my father was not a suicide--"

"But if he was not a suicide, for the sake of justice and to prove Harry
Bartlett innocent, we must find out who did kill your father," said the
colonel.

"You don't believe Harry did it, do you?" Viola asked appealingly.

Colonel Ashley did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly:

"My dear Viola, if some one were ill of a desperate disease, in which
the crisis had not yet been passed, you would not expect a physician to
say for certainty that such a person was to recover, would you?"

"No."

"Well, I am in much the same predicament. I am a sort of physician in
this mystery case. It has only begun. The crisis is still far off, and
nothing can be said with certainty. I prefer not to express an opinion."

"I'm not afraid!" cried Viola. "I know Harry Bartlett is not guilty!"

"If he is not--who then?" asked the colonel.

"Oh, I don't know! I don't know what to think! I suspect--No, I mustn't
say that--Oh, I'm almost distracted!" And, with sobs shaking her frame,
Viola Carwell rushed from the room.

Colonel Ashley looked after her for a moment, as though half of a mind
to follow, and then, slowly shaking his head, he again picked up the
paper he had been reading, delving through a maze of technical
poisoning detection formulae, from Vortmann's nitroprusside test to a
consideration of the best method of estimating the toxicity of chemical
compounds by blood hemolysis. The reporter and young Dr. Baird certainly
left little to the imagination.

Colonel Ashley read until rather late that evening, and his reading was
not altogether from Izaak Walton's "Compleat Angler." He delved into
several books, and again read, very carefully, the article on the effects
of various poisons as it appeared in the paper he had been glancing over
when Viola talked with him.

As the colonel was getting ready to retire a servant brought him a note.
It was damp, as though it had been splashed with water, and when the
detective had read it and had noted Viola's signature, he knew that her
tears had blurred the writing.

"Please excuse my impulsiveness," she penned. "I am distracted. I know
H