“Poison!” cried Captain Poland. “A suicide? I don't believe it! Why should Horace Carwell kill himself? He hadn't a reason in the world for it! There must be some mistake! Why did he do it? Why? Why?”
And then suddenly he became strangely thoughtful.
CHAPTER IV. VIOLA'S DECISION
“That is the very question we have been asking ourselves, my dear Captain,” said Dr. Lambert wearily. “And we are no nearer an answer now than, apparently, you are. Why did he do it?”
The three men, two gravely professional, one, the younger, more so than his elder colleague, and the third plainly upset over the surprising news, looked at one another behind the closed door of the little room off the imposing reception hall at The Haven. They were in the house of death, and they had to do with more than death, for there was, in the reputed action of Horace Carwell, the hint of disgrace which suicide always engenders.
“I suppose,” began Captain Poland, rather weakly, “that there can be no chance of error He looked from one medical man to the other.
“Not the least in the world!” quickly exclaimed Baird. “We made a most careful examination of the deceased's organs. They plainly show traces of a violent poison, though whether it was irritant or one of the neurotics, we are not yet prepared to say.”
“It couldn't have been an irritant,” said Dr. Lambert gently. It was as though he had corrected a too zealous student reciting in class. Dr. Baird was painfully young, though much in earnest.
“Perhaps not an irritant,” he agreed. “Though I know of no neurotic that would produce such effects as we saw.
“You are right there,” said Dr. Lambert. “Whatever poison was used it was one the effects of which I have never seen before. But we have not yet finished our analysis. We have only reached a certain conclusion that may ultimately be changed.”
“You mean as to whether or not it was suicide?” asked Captain Poland eagerly.
“No, I don't see how we can get away from that,” said Dr. Lambert. “That fact remains. But if we establish the kind of poison used it may lead us to the motive. That is what we must find.”
“And we will find the kind of poison!” declared Dr. Baird.
The older medical man shook his head.
“There are some animal and vegetable poisons for which there is no known test,” he said gently. “It may turn out to be one of these.”
“Then may it not develop that Mr. Carwell, assuming that he did take poison, did it by mistake?” asked the captain.
“I hope so,” murmured Dr. Lambert.
“But from the action of the poison, as shown by the condition of the mucous coat of the alimentary canal, I hardly see how Mr. Carwell could not have known that he took poison,” declared Dr. Baird.
“Yet he seemed all right except for a little pardonable exhilaration during the game of golf,” remarked Captain Poland. “He was feeling 'pretty good' as we say. I don't see how he could have taken poison knowingly or unknowingly.”
“There are some poisons which, taken in combination, might mix and form a comparatively harmless mixture,” said Dr. Lambert. “Though I confess this is a very remote possibility. Some poisons are neutralized by an alcoholic condition. And some persons, who may have been habitual users of a drug, may take a dose of it that would kill several persons not so addicted.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Carwell was a drug user?” demanded the captain.
“I would hesitate very long before saying so,” answered Dr. Lambert, “and I have known him many years.”
“Then what was it? What in the world does it all mean?” asked Captain Poland. “What's the answers in other words?”
“I wish I knew,” replied Dr. Lambert, and he shook his head. Something more than the weight of years seemed bowing him down. Dr. Baird seemed duly impressed by the circumstances that had brought him—a young and as yet unestablished physician—to a connection with such a startling case in the well known and wealthy Carwell family.
As for Captain Gerry Poland, he was clearly startled by the news the physicians had brought. He looked toward the closed door as though seeking to see beyond it—into the room where Viola was waiting. To her, sooner or later, the tragic verdict must be told.
“Can't you say anything?” he asked, a bit sharply, looking from one physician to the other “Is this all you came to tell—that Mr. Carwell was a suicide? Isn't there any mitigating circumstance?”
“I believe he poisoned himself before he began his championship game,” said Dr. Baird, with startling frankness—almost brutal it seemed.
“But why should he do such a thing?” demanded the captain, rather petulantly.
“He may have taken some dope, thinking it would brace him up,” went on the young medical man, “and it had the opposite effect—a depressing action on the heart. Or, he may have taken a overdose of his favorite drug. That is what we shall have to find out by making suitable inquiries of members of the family.”
“Oh, must we tell them,” exclaimed Captain Poland in startled tones. And it was easy to determine by his voice that by “them” he meant Viola. “Must we tell?” he repeated.
“I must do my duty as a physician both to the public and to the family,” said Dr. Lambert, and he straightened up as though ready to assume the burden he knew would fall heavily on his shoulders. “I must also think of Viola. I feel like another father to her now. I have always, more or less, regarded her as my little girl, though she is a young lady now. But the facts must come out. Even if I were disposed to aid in a concealment—which I am far from doing—Dr. Rowland, the county physician, was present at the autopsy. He knows.”
“Does he know the poison used?” asked Captain Poland quickly, and then, almost as soon as the words had left his lips, he seemed sorry he had uttered them.
“No, no more than we,” said Dr. Baird. “It will require some nice work in medical jurisprudence, and also a very delicate analysis, to determine that. I am inclined to think—”
But what he thought no one heard or cared to hear at that moment, for, even as he spoke, the door of the little room was thrown hastily and somewhat violently open, and Viola Carwell confronted the three men. Her face showed traces of grief, but it had lost little of the beauty for which she was noted.
Tall and dark, with hair of that blue—black sheen so rarely observed, with violet eyes and a poise and grace that made her much observed, Viola Carwell was at the height of her beauty. In a sense she had the gentle grace of her mother and with that the verve and sprightliness of her father mingled perfectly. It was no wonder that Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett and many others, for that matter, were rivals for her favors.
“I thought you were here,” she said quietly to Dr. Lambert. “Oh, Uncle Add, what is it? Tell me the truth!” she begged as she placed a hand on his arm, a hand that trembled in spite of her determination to remain calm. “Please tell me the truth!”
“The truth, Viola?” he questioned gently.
“Yes. I'm afraid you are trying to keep something back from me. This looks like it—you men in here talking—consulting as to what is best to do. Tell me. My father is dead. But that, I know, is not the worst that can happen. Tell me! Is there-is there any disgrace? I know—”
Viola stopped as though