me, I believe. She says she's going to see him, and what
she says she'll do she generally does."

"However I don't believe she'll see him," went on the detective. "The
prosecutor has given orders since yesterday that no one except Mr.
Bartlett's legal adviser must communicate with him; so I don't believe
Miss Viola will be admitted."

This proved to be correct. Viola was very insistent, but to no avail.
The warden at the jail would not admit her to the witness rooms, where
Harry Bartlett paced up and down, wondering, wondering, and wondering.
And much of his wonder had to do with the girl who tried so hard to see
him.

She had sent word by his lawyer that she believed in his innocence and
that she would do all she could for him, but he wanted more than that.
He wanted to see her--to feast his hungry eyes on her--to hold her hand,
to--Oh, well, what was the use? he wearily asked himself. Would the
horrible tangle ever be straightened out? He shook his head and resumed
his pacing of the rooms--for there were two at his disposal. He was
weary to death of the dismal view to be had through the barred windows.

"Did you see him?" asked her aunt, when Viola, much dispirited, returned
home.

"No, and I suppose you're glad of it!"

"I am. There's no use saying I'm not."

"Aunt Mary, I think it's perfectly horrid of you to think, even for a
moment, that Harry had anything to do with this terrible thing. He'd
never dream of it, not if he had quarreled with my father a dozen times.
And I don't see what they quarreled about, either. I'm sure I was with
Harry a good deal of the time before the game, and I didn't hear him and
my father have any words."

"Perhaps, as it was about you, they took care you shouldn't hear."

"Who says it was about me?"

"Can't you easily guess that it was, and that's why Harry doesn't want
to tell?" asked Miss Mary.

"I don't believe anything of the sort!" declared Viola.

"Well," sighed Miss Carwell, "I don't know what to believe. If your
poor, dear father wasn't a suicide, some one must have killed him, and
it may well have been--"

"Don't dare say it was Harry!" cried Viola excitedly. "Oh, this is
terrible! I'm going to see Colonel Ashley and ask him if he can't end
this horrible suspense."

"I wish that as eagerly as you do," said Miss Mary. "You'll find the
colonel in the library. He's poring over some papers, and Shag, that
funny colored man, is getting some fish lines ready; so it'