o 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.

"Of course, Viola. But I don't know how."

"Then let me tell you," and she seemed to be in better control
of herself than at any time that day. "This must be gone into
systematically, and we can best do it through a detective."

"A detective!" cried Harry Bartlett, and he started from his chair.
"Why, my dear Viola, a detective would be the worst possible person to
call in on a case like this! Let me investigate, if you think it wise,
but a detective--"

"I am not speaking of an ordinary detective, Harry. I have in mind
an elderly man who was a friend of my father. He has an extraordinary
reputation for solving mysteries."

"Well, of course, if you know the man it makes a difference." Bartlett
eyed the girl curiously. "I didn't know you knew any detectives."

"The man I have in mind was in some business deal with my father once,
and they became very well acquainted. I met him several times, and liked
him immensely. He is well along in years, but I think sharper than many
younger men. But there is one difficulty."

"What is that?"

"More than likely he will shy at having anything to do with the case.
He told my father he was going to retire and devote his leisure time to
fishing--that being his great pastime."

"Humph! he can't be much of a detective if he wants to spend most of his
time fishing," was Bartlett's comment.

"You're mistaken, Harry. My father, and other men too, considered him
one of the greatest detectives in the world, even though he sometimes
works in a very peculiar and apparently uninterested manner." "All right
then, Viola. If you say so, I'll look up this wonderful detective for
you and get him to take hold of the case."

CHAPTER VI. BY A QUIET STREAM

Drooping willows dipped their pendant branches in the stream that foamed
and rippled over green, mossy stones. In a meadow that stretched fair
and wide on either side of the water, innumerable grasshoppers were
singing their song of summer. On a verdant bank reclined a man, whose
advanced age might be indicated in his whitening locks, but whose bright
eyes, and the quick, nervous movements as he leafed the