For one second only Garrison was a trifle confused. Then he gave her the roses he had brought.
She carried them quickly to the table, hiding her face in their fragrant petals.
"Just a moment, Dorothy," said Garrison. "You didn't know I'd come to town? You wired——" He halted and looked at the Robinsons. "Oh," he added, "I think I begin to see."
Dorothy felt something in the air.
"What is it, Jerold?" she said. "I haven't wired. What do you mean?"
Garrison faced the Robinsons.
"I mean that these twogentlementelegraphed me at Branchville to come here at once—and signed your name to the wire."
"Telegraphed you? In my name?" repeated Dorothy. "I don't believe I understand."
"We may as well understand things first as last," said her uncle. "I don't believe this man is your husband! I don't believe his name is Fairfax! He was registered as Garrison. Furthermore——"
Garrison interrupted, addressing Dorothy:
"They think they have discovered something important or vital in the fact that I sometimes use the name Garrison. And they have managed to steal an old letter——"
"I'll tell about the letter, if you please!" cried old Robinson shrilly. He turned to Dorothy, who was very white. "There you are!" he said, waving the letter before her face. "There's the letter from his sweetheart—the woman he asked to become his wife! Here's her acceptance, and her protestations of love. She is doubtless his wife at this moment! Read it for yourself!"
He thrust it into Dorothy's hand with aggressive insistence.
Dorothy received it obediently. She hardly knew what she should say or do to confute the old man's statements, or quiet his dangerous suspicions. His arrival at the truth concerning herself and Garrison had disconcerted her utterly.
Garrison did not attempt to take the letter, but he addressed her promptly:
"I am perfectly willing to have you read the letter. It was written over a year ago. It is Ailsa's letter. I told you I was once engaged to Ailsa; that she married my friend, without the slightest warning; that I had not destroyed her last letter. She never acquired the habit of dating her letters, and therefore this one might appear to be a bit of recent correspondence."
"A very pretty explanation!" cried old Robinson. "We'll see—we'll see! Dorothy, read it for yourself!"
Dorothy was rapidly recovering her self-possession. She turned to her uncle quite calmly, with the folded bit of paper in her hand.
"How did you come by this letter," she inquired. "You didn't really steal it?"
Garrison answered: "The letter was certainly stolen. My suit-case was rifled the night of my arrival at Branchville. These gentlemen hired a thief to go through my possessions."
"I've been protecting my rights!" the old man answered fiercely. "If you think you can cheat me out of my rightful dues you'll find out your mistake!"
"I wouldn't have thought you could stoop to this," said Dorothy. "You couldn't expect to shake my faith in Jerold."
She handed Garrison the letter to show her confidence.
Garrison placed it in his pocket. He turned on the Robinsons angrily.
"You are both involved in a prison offense," he said—"an ordinary, vulgar burglary. I suppose you feel secure in the fact that for Dorothy's sake I shall do nothing about it—to-day. But I warn you that I'll endure no more of this sort of thing, in your efforts to throw discredit on Dorothy's relationship with me! Now then, kindly leave the room."
Aware that Garrison held the upper hand, old Robinson was more than chagrined; he was furious. His rage, however, was impotent; there was no immediate remedy at hand. Theodore, equally baffled, returned to his attitude of friendliness.
"No harm's been done, and none was intended," he said. "There's nothing in family rows, anyhow. Father, come along."
His father, on the point of discharging another broadside of anger, altered his mind and followed his son to a room at the rear of the house.
Garrison closed the door.
Dorothy was looking at him almost wildly.
"What does it mean?" she asked in a tone barely above a whisper. "They haven't really found out anything?"
"They suspect the truth, I'm afraid," he answered. "I shall be obliged to ask you a number of questions."
Her face became quite ashen.
"I can see that your employment has become very trying," she said, "butI trust you are not contemplating retreat."
The thought made her pale, for her heart, too, had found itself potently involved.
"No; I have gone too far for that," he answered, making an effort to fight down the dictates of his increasing love and keep his head thoroughly clear.
"In the first place, when you wire me in the future use another name, for safety—say Jeraldine. In the next place, I am very much hampered by the blindness of my mission. I can see, I think, that the Robinsons expected some legacy which you are now apparently about to inherit, and your marriage became necessary to fulfill some condition of the will. Is this correct?"
"Yes, quite correct." She remained very pale.
"Who was it that died, leaving the will? And when did he die?"
"Another uncle, Mr. John Hardy—quite recently," she answered.
"You are not in mourning."
"By his special request. He died very suddenly. He left a condition in his will that I should inherit his fortune provided I should have been married at least one month prior to his death to a healthy, respectable man—who was not to be my cousin."
"Theodore?"
She nodded. "You can see I had to have a husband."
"Exactly."
Garrison thought he saw a light that cleared her as he could have wished. He hastened to a question bearing directly upon it.
"Did the Robinsons know of this clause in your Uncle Hardy's will—say, two or three weeks ago?"
"No. They knew nothing of it then."
Garrison's heart sank. "You are sure?"
"Absolutely positive. Uncle John was very secretive."
The suggestion that the Robinsons, having known the condition in the will, had destroyed John Hardy in the belief that Dorothy, being unmarried, would thereby lose the inheritance, was vanishing. Garrison still had hope.
"You once alluded to certain obligations that—well, compelled you to hire a husband," he said. "You had no urgent need of funds in a large amount?"
She darted him a startled look. "I shall have a pressing need—soon.I suppose you have a right to know."
Garrison was almost in despair. There was nothing to do but go on.
"Did Mr. Hardy know anything of this need?"
"No."
"You feared he might not be in sympathy with your requirements?"
"No, he—— Have these questions anything to do with our—case?" She seemed to be frightened.
"They have," he said. "You have your diamonds and pearls. You might raise quite a sum on such valuable gems."
The look of fear upon her face increased.
"I couldn't!" she said, as if she feared the walls might hear and betray. "Please don't mention——"
"You didn't tell me what they are, or why you wish to keep them," he said. "What does it mean?"
"Please don't ask!" She was greatly agitated. "Please trust me—a little while longer! You probably have to return to Branchville and your work."
He determined then and there upon the one supreme test of the situation.
"That reminds me," he said, averting his gaze; "the work on which I am engaged in Branchville is the case of a man named Hardy. I'm glad he was not your uncle."
Her face took on the hue of death. Her lips moved, but for a moment made no sound. Then, with an effort, she replied:
"You're glad—but—why?"
"Because," he replied, with a forced smile on his lips, "the man up atBranchville was murdered."
She made no sound.
She simply closed her eyes and swayed toward him, weakly collapsing as she fell. He caught her quickly against his breast, a heavy, precious burden that he knew he must love, though the angels of heaven accuse her.
"Dorothy—Dorothy—forgive me," he said, but her senses were deaf to his voice.
Garrison, holding the limp, helpless form in his arms, gazed quickly about the room and saw the couch. He crossed the floor and placed her full length upon its cushions.
She lay there so white and motionless that he was frightened. He felt it impossible to call the Robinsons. He needed water, quickly. He knew nothing of the house. His searching glance fell at once on the vase of roses, standing on the table. He caught it up, drew out the flowers, and was presently kneeling at Dorothy's side, wetting his handkerchief with the water from the vase and pressing it closely on her forehead.
She did not respond to his ministrations. He tore at her dress, where it fastened at the neck, and laid it wide open for several inches. On the creamy whiteness of her throat he sprinkled the water, then sprang to the window, threw it up, and was once more kneeling beside her.
The fresh breeze swept in gratefully and cooled her face and neck. She stirred, slightly turned, opened her eyes in a languid manner, and partially relapsed into coma.
"Thank God!" said Garrison, who had feared for her life, and he once more applied his wetted handkerchief. He spoke to her, gently:
"Forgive me, Dorothy—it's all right—everything's all right," but her senses accepted nothing of his meaning.
For another five minutes, that seemed like an age, he rubbed at her hands, resprinkled her throat and face, and waved a folded paper to waft her the zephyr of air. When she once more opened her eyes she was fairly well restored. She recovered her strength by a sheer exertion of will and sat up, weakly, passing her hand across her brow.
"I must have fainted," she said. She was very white.
"You're all right now—the heat and unusual excitement," he answered reassuringly. "Don't try to do anything but rest."
She looked at him with wide, half-frightened eyes. Her fears had returned with her awakened intelligence.
"You mustn't stay," she told him with a firmness he was not prepared to expect. "Please go as soon as you can."
"But—can I leave you like this? You may need me," he answered. "If there's anything I can do——"
"Nothing now. Please don't remain," she interrupted. "I shall go to my room at once."
Garrison realized she was in no condition for further questioning. Whatsoever the status of the case or his doubts, there was nothing more possible, with Dorothy in this present condition. He knew she very much desired to be alone.
"But—when shall I see you? What shall I——" he started.
"I can't tell. Please go," she interrupted, and she sank back once more on the cushions, looking at him wildly for a moment, and then averting her gaze. "Please don't stay another minute."
He could not stay. His mind was confused as to his duty. He knew that he loved her and wished to remain; he knew he was under orders and must go. Disturbed and with worry at his heart, he took her hand for one brief pressure.
"Don't forget I'm your friend—and protector," he said. "Please don't forget."
He took his hat, said good-by, saw her lips frame a brief, half-audible reply, then slipped from the room, to avoid giving undue notice to the Robinsons, went silently down the stairs to the door, and let himself out in the street.
Aware, in a dim sort of way, that a "shadow" was once more lurking on his trail, as he left the house, he was almost indifferent to the fellow's intrusion, so much more disturbing had been the climax of his visit with Dorothy.
The outcome of his announcement concerning her uncle's death had affected Dorothy so instantaneously as to leave him almost without hope. The blow had reacted on himself with staggering force. He was sickened by the abruptness with which the accusing circumstances had culminated. And yet, despite it all, he loved her more than before—with a fierce, aggressive love that blindly urged him to her future protection and defense.
His half-formed plan to visit the dealer who had sold the cigars departed from his mind. He wanted no more facts or theories that pointed as so many were pointing. Indeed, he knew not where he was going, or what he meant to do, till at length a sign on a window aroused him to a sense of things neglected. The sign read simply:
He entered the building, hired a box in the vault, and placed within it the jewels he had carried. Then he remembered Wicks.
Instructions had been given to report, not only fully, but promptly. He must make a report—but what? He knew he could not tell of the horrible tissue of facts and circumstances that wound like a web about the girl he loved. He would far rather give up the case. And once he gave it up, he knew that no man alive could ever come again upon the damning evidence in his possession.
He would say his work was incomplete—that it looked like a natural death—that Scott had acted suspiciously, as indeed he had—that he needed more time—anything but what appeared to be the sickening truth. Later, should Dorothy prove to be but some artful, dangerous creature, masquerading as a sweet young girl behind her appearance of beauty, innocence, and exquisite charm—that would be time enough to move.
Perfectly willing to be followed for a time by his "shadow," he walked to the nearest Subway station in upper Broadway and was presently borne downtown.
He was barely in time at the big insurance office, for Wicks was preparing to leave. No less nervous, snappy, or pugnacious than before, the little sharp-faced man appeared more smiling than ever, and yet with an expression even more sardonic.
"Well?" he said, as he ushered Garrison into a small, private room."What have you to report?"
"Nothing very much to report as yet," said Garrison, slightly flushing at withholding the truth. "It looks very much as if the coroner's verdict may have been correct—although Scott acts a little like a man so absorbed in his inventions that he'd stop at nothing for money."
"Needs money, does he?" demanded Wicks. "He has admitted that?"
"Yes," said Garrison, "he speaks so plainly of his need and makes such heartless and selfish references to the money he hopes to procure on this insurance policy that I hardly know what to make of his character."
"Capable of murder, is he?"
"He's fanatical about his invention and—he needs money."
"You don't think him guilty?" announced Mr. Wicks, with rare penetration.
"There seems to be little or nothing against him as yet," said Garrison. "There was nothing found on the body, so far as I have been able to learn, to indicate murder."
"If murder at all, how could it have been done," demanded Mr. Wicks.
"Only by poison."
"H'm! You saw the dead man's effects, of course. What did they comprise?"
Garrison detailed the dead man's possessions, as found at the coroner's office. He neglected nothing, mentioning the cigars as candidly as he did the few insignificant papers.
"In what possible manner could the man have been poisoned?" demanded Wicks, rising, with his watch in his hand. "Was there anything to eat at his apartments—or to drink?"
"Not that I can trace. The only clew that seems important, so far, is that Scott spent fifteen minutes in Hardy's room, alone, on the night of his death."
"That's something!" said Wicks, with the slightest possible show of approval. "Put on your hat and go uptown with me and tell me exactly all about it."
They left the office, proceeded to the Subway, boarded an uptown express that was jammed to the guards with struggling humanity, all deserting the small end of Gotham at once; and here, with Wicks crowded flat up against him, and hanging, first to a strap and then to his shoulder. Garrison related the few facts that he had already briefly summarized.
"Well—nothing to say to you but go ahead," said Wicks, as they neared the Grand Central Station, where he meant to take a train. "Stick to the case till you clean it up. That's all."
Garrison, presently alone on the crowded street, with no particular objective point in view, felt thoroughly depressed and lonely.
He wished he had never discovered the poisoned cigar at Branchville.
Mechanically, his hand sought his pocket, where the second charged weed had been placed.
Then he started and searched his waistcoat wildly.
The deadly cigar was gone!
Unable for a moment to credit his senses, Garrison moved over against the wall of the building he was passing, and stood there, slowly, almost mechanically, searching his pockets once again, while his mind revolved about the lost cigar, in an effort to understand its disappearance.
He was wholly at a loss for a tenable theory till he thought of the frequency with which men are robbed of scarf-pins or similar trifles—and then a sickening possibility possessed him.
One of the commonest devices that a woman employs in such a petty theft is to faint on the breast of her victim. In such a pose she may readily extract some coveted article from either his tie or his pocket, with almost absolute certainty of avoiding detection.
It did not seem possible—and yet the fact remained that Dorothy had fainted thus against him, and the poisoned cigar was gone. She had known of his visit to Branchville; his line of questions might have roused her suspicions; the cigar had been plainly in sight. He had seen her enact her rôle so perfectly, in the presence of her relatives, that he could not doubt her ability in any required direction.
For a moment a powerful revulsion of feeling toward the girl, who was undeniably involved in some exceptionally deep-laid plan, crept throughout his being. Not only does a man detest being used as a tool and played upon like any common dunce, but he also feels an utter chagrin at being baffled in his labors. Apparently he had played the fool, and also he had lost the vital evidence of Hardy's poisoning.
Mortified and angry, he remained there, while the crowds surged by, his gaze dully fixed on the pavement. For a time he saw nothing, and then at last he was conscious that a rose—a crushed and wilted rose, thrown down by some careless pedestrian—was lying almost at his feet. Somehow, it brought him a sense of calm and sweetness; it seemed a symbol, vouchsafed him here in the hot, sordid thoroughfare, where crime and folly, virtue and despair, stalk arm in arm eternally.
He could not look upon the bit of trampled beauty, thus wasted on a heedless throng, and think of Dorothy as guilty. She had seemed just as crushed and wilted as the rose when he left her at her home—just as beautiful, also, and as far from her garden of peace and fragrances as this rejected handful of petals. She must be innocent. There must be some other explanation for the loss of that cigar—and some good reason for the things she had done and said.
He took up the rose, indifferent to anyone who might have observed the action with a smile or a sneer, and slowly proceeded down the street.
The cigar, he reflected, might easily have been stolen in the Subway. A hundred men had crushed against him. Any one of them so inclined could have taken the weed at his pleasure. The thought was wholly disquieting, since if any man attempted to bite the cigar-end through, to smoke, he would pay a tragic penalty for his petty theft.
This aspect of the affair, indeed, grew terrible, the more he thought upon it. He almost felt he must run to the station, try to search out that particular train, and cry for all to hear that the stolen cigar would be fatal—but the thought was a wild, unreasoning vagary; he was absolutely helpless in the case.
He could not be certain that the weed had thus been extracted from his pocket. It might in some manner have been lost. He did not know—he could not know. He felt sure of one thing only—his hope, his demand, that Dorothy must be innocent and good.
Despite his arguments, he was greatly depressed. The outcome of all the business loomed dim and uncertain before him, a haze charged with mystery, involving crime as black as night.
He presently came to the intersection of fashionable Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, and was halted by the flood of traffic. Hundreds of vehicles were pouring up and down, in endless streams, while two calm policemen halted the moving processions, from time to time, to permit the crosstown cars and teams to move in their several directions.
Across from Garrison's corner loomed the great marble library, still incomplete and gloomily fenced from the sidewalk. Beyond it, furnishing its setting, rose the trees of Bryant Park, a green oasis in the tumult and unloveliness about it. Garrison knew the benches there were crowded; nevertheless, he made his way the length of the block and found a seat.
He sat there till the sun was gone and dusk closed in upon the city. The first faint lights began to twinkle, like the palest stars, in the buildings that hedged the park about. He meant to hunt out a restaurant and dine presently, but what to do afterward he could not determine.
There was nothing to be done at Branchville or Hickwood at night, and but little, for the matter of that, to be done by day. Tomorrow would be ample time to return to that theater of uncertainty. He longed for one thing only—another sight of Dorothy—enshrined within his heart.
Reminded at last of the man who had followed on his trail, he purposely strolled from the park and circled two blocks, by streets now almost deserted, and was reasonably certain he had shaken off pursuit. As a matter of fact, his "shadow" had lost him in the Subway, and now, having notified the Robinsons by telephone, was watching the house where he roomed.
Garrison ate his dinner in a mood of ceaseless meditation concerning Dorothy. He was worried to know what might have happened since his departure from her home. Half inclined in one minute to go again to the house, in the next he was quite undecided.
The thought of the telephone came like an inspiration. Unless theRobinsons should interfere, he might readily learn of her condition.
At a drug-store, near the restaurant, he found a quiet booth, far better suited to his needs than the noisier, more public boxes at the eating place he had quitted. He closed himself inside the little cubby-hole, asked for the number, and waited.
It seemed an interminable time till a faint "Hello!" came over the wire, and he fancied the voice was a man's.
"Hello! Is that Mrs. Fairfax?" he asked. "I'd like to speak to Mrs.Fairfax."
"Wait a minute, please. Who is it?" said a voice unmistakably masculine.
"Mr. Wallace," said Garrison, by way of precaution. "She'll understand."
"Hold the wire, please."
He held the receiver to his ear, and waited again. At length came a softer, more musical greeting. It was Dorothy. His heart was instantly leaping at the sound of her voice.
"Hello! Is that someone to speak to me?" she said. "This is Mrs.Fairfax."
"Yes," answered Garrison. "This is Jerold. I felt I must find out about you—how you are. I've been distressed at the way I was obliged to leave."
"Oh!" said the voice faintly. "I—I'm all right—thank you. I must see you—right away." Her voice had sunk to a tone he could barely distinguish. "Where are you now?"
"Downtown," said Garrison. "Where shall I meet you?"
"I—hardly know," came the barely audible reply. "Perhaps—at CentralPark and Ninety-third Street."
"I'll start at once," he assured her. "If you leave the house in fifteen minutes we shall arrive about the same time. Try to avoid being followed. Good-by."
He listened to hear her answer, but it did not come. He heard the distant receiver clink against its hook, and then the connection was broken.
He was happy, in a wild, lawless manner, as he left the place and hastened to the Elevated station. The prospect of meeting Dorothy once more, in the warm, fragrant night, at a tryst like that of lovers, made his pulses surge and his heart beat quicken with excitement. All thought of her possible connection with the Branchville crime had fled.
The train could not run fast enough to satisfy his hot impatience. He wished to be there beneath the trees when she should presently come. He alighted at last at the Ninety-third Street station, and hastened to the park.
When he came to the appointed place, he found an entrance to the greenery near by. Within were people on every bench in sight—New York's unhoused lovers, whose wooing is accomplished in the all but sylvan glades which the park affords.
Here and there a bit of animated flame made a tiny meteor streak against the blackness of the foliage—where a firefly quested for its mate, switching on its marvelous little searchlight. Beyond, on the smooth, broad roadways, four-eyed chariots of power shot silently through the avenues of trees—the autos, like living dragons, half tamed to man's control.
It was all thrilling and exciting to Garrison, with the expectation of meeting Dorothy now possessing all his nature. Then—a few great drops of rain began to fall. The effect was almost instantaneous. A dozen pairs of sweethearts, together with as many more unmated stragglers, came scuttling forth from unseen places, making a lively run for the nearest shelter.
Garrison could not retreat. He did not mind the rain, except in so far as it might discourage Dorothy. But, thinking she might have gone inside the park, he walked there briskly, looking for some solitary figure that should by this time be in waiting. He seemed to be entirely alone. He thought she had not come—and perhaps in the rain she might not arrive at all.
Back towards the entrance he loitered. A lull in the traffic of the street had made the place singularly still. He could hear the raindrops beating on the leaves. Then they ceased as abruptly as they had commenced.
He turned once more down the dimly lighted path. His heart gave a quick, joyous leap. Near a bench was a figure—the figure of a woman whose grace, he fancied, was familiar.
Her back was apparently turned as he drew near. He was about to whistle, if only to warn her of his coming, when the shrubbery just ahead and beside the path was abruptly parted and a man with a short, wrapped club in his hand sprang forth and struck him viciously over the head.
He was falling, dimly conscious of a horrible blur of lights in his eyes, as helplessly as if he had been made of paper. A second blow, before he crumpled on the pavement, blotted out the last remaining vestige of emotion. He lay there in a limp, awkward heap.
The female figure had turned, and now came striding to the place with a step too long for a woman. There was no word spoken. Together the two lifted Garrison's unconscious form, carried it quickly to the shrubbery, fumbled about it for a minute or two, struck a match that was shielded from the view of any possible passer-by, and then, still in silence, hastily quitted the park and vanished in one of the glistening side streets, where the rain was reflecting the lamps.
A low, distant rumble of thunder denoted a new gathering of storm. Five minutes passed, and then the lightning flashed across the firmament directly overhead. A crash like the splitting of the heavens followed, and the rain came down as if it poured through the slit.
The violence lasted hardly more than five minutes, after which the downpour abated a little of its fury. But a steadier, quieter precipitation continued, with the swiftly moving center of disturbance already far across the sky.
The rain in his face, and the brisk puff of newly washed ozone in his heavily moving lungs, aroused Garrison's struggling consciousness by slow degrees. Strange, fantastic images, old memories, weird phantoms, and wholly impossible fancies played through his brain with the dull, torturing persistency of nightmares for a time that seemed to him endless.
It was fully half an hour before he was sufficiently aroused to roll to an upright position and pass his hand before his eyes.
He was sick and weak. He could not recall what had happened. He did not know where he was.
He was all but soaked by the rain, despite the fact that a tree with dense foliage was spread above him, and he had lain beneath protecting shrubberies. Slowly the numbness seemed to pass from his brain, like the mist from the surface of a lake. He remembered things, as it were, in patches.
Dorothy—that was it—and something had happened.
He was stupidly aware that he was sitting on something uncomfortable—a lump, perhaps a stone—but he did not move. He was waiting for his brain to clear. When at length he hoisted his heavy weight upon his knees, and then staggered drunkenly to his feet, to blunder toward a tree and support himself by its trunk, his normal circulation began to be restored, and pain assailed his skull, arousing him further to his senses.
He leaned for some time against the tree, gathering up the threads of the tangle. It all came back, distinct and sharp at last, and, with memory, his strength was returning. He felt of his head, on which his hat was jammed.
The bone and the muscles at the base of the skull were sore and sensitive, but the hurt had not gone deep. He felt incapable of thinking it out—the reasons, and all that it meant. He wondered if his attacker had thought to leave him dead.
Mechanically his hands sought out his pockets. He found his watch and pocketbook in place. Some weight seemed dragging at his coat. When his hand went slowly to the place, he found the lump on which he had been lying. He pulled it out—a cold, cylindrical affair, of metal, with a thick cord hanging from its end. Then a chill crept all the distance down his spine.
The thing was a bomb!
Cold perspiration and a sense of horror came upon him together. An underlying current of thought, feebly left unfocused in his brain—a thought of himself as a victim, lured to the park for this deed—became as stinging as a blow on the cheek.
The cord on this metal engine of destruction was a fuse. The rain had drenched it and quenched its spark of fire, doubtless at some break in the fiber, since fuse is supposedly water-proof. Nothing but the thunder-storm had availed to save his life. He had walked into a trap, like a trusting animal, and chance alone had intervened to bring him forth alive.
His brain by now was thoroughly active. Reactionary energy rushed in upon him to sharpen all his faculties. There was nothing left of the joyous throbbing in his veins which thoughts of his tryst with Dorothy had engendered. He felt like the wrathful dupe of a woman's wiles, for it seemed as plain as soot on snow that Dorothy, fearing the consequences of his recent discoveries in the Hardy case, had made this park appointment only with this treacherous intent.
All his old, banished suspicions rushed pell-mell upon his mind, and with them came new indications of her guilt. Her voice on the telephone had been weak and faltering. She had chosen the park as their meeting place, as the only available spot for such a deed. And then—then——
It seemed too horrible to be true, but the wound was on his head, and death was in his hand. It was almost impossible that anyone could have heard their talk over the 'phone. He was left no alternative theory to work on, except that perhaps the Robinsons had managed, through some machination, to learn that he and Dorothy were to meet at this convenient place.
One struggling ray of hope was thus vouchsafed him, yet he felt as if perhaps he had already given Dorothy the benefit of too many reasonable doubts. He could be certain of one thing only—he was thoroughly involved in a mesh of crime and intrigue that had now assumed a new and personal menace. Hereafter he must work more for Garrison and less for romantic ideals.
Anger came to assist in restoring his strength. Far from undergoing any sense of alarm which would frighten him out of further effort to probe to the bottom of the business, he was stubbornly determined to remain on the case till the whole thing was stripped of its secrets.
Not without a certain weakness at the knees did he make his way back to the path.
He had no fear of lurking enemies, since those who had placed the bomb in his pocket would long before have fled the scene to make an alibi complete. The rain had ceased. Wrapping the fuse about the metal cartridge in his hand, he came beneath a lamp-post by the walk, and looked the thing over in the light.
There was nothing much to see. A nipple of gas-pipe, with a cap on either end, one drilled through for the insertion of the fuse, described it completely. The kink in the fuse where the rain had found entrance to dampen the powder, was plainly to be seen.
Garrison placed the contrivance in his pocket. He pulled out his watch. The hour, to his amazement, was nearly ten. He realized he must have lain a considerable time unconscious in the wet. Halting to wonder what cleverness might suggest as the best possible thing to be done, he somewhat grimly determined to proceed to Dorothy's house.
Damp and uncomfortable, he kept to the farther side of the street, and slackened his pace as he drew near the dwelling which he realized was a place replete with mystery.
He stood on the opposite sidewalk at length, and gazed across at the frowning brownstone front. The place was utterly dark. Not the slightest chink of light was visible in all its somber windows.
Aware that nothing is so utterly confusing to a guilty being as to be confronted unexpectedly by a victim, supposed to be dispatched, Garrison had come this far without the slightest hesitation. The aspect of the house, however, was discouraging.
Despite the ache at the base of his skull, and despite the excited thumping of his heart, he crossed the street, climbed unhaltingly to the steps, and rang the bell. He had made up his mind to act as if nothing unusual had occurred. Then, should either Dorothy or the Robinsons exhibit astonishment at beholding him here, or otherwise betray a guilty knowledge of the "accident" which had befallen him, his doubts would be promptly cleared.
A minute passed, and nothing happened.
He rang the bell again.
Once more he waited, in vain.
His third ring was long and insistent.
About to despair of gaining admission, he was gratified to note a dimly reflected light, as if from the rear, below stairs. Then the hall was illumined, and presently a chain-lock was drawn, inside the door, the barrier swung open, and the serving-woman stood there before him, dressed with the evidences of haste that advertised the fact she had risen from her bed.
Garrison snatched at his wits in time to act a part for which he had not been prepared.
"I'm afraid it's pretty late," he said, "but I came to surprise my wife."
"My word, that's too bad, sir, ain't it?" said the woman. "Mrs.Fairfax has went out for the night."
This was the truth. Dorothy, together with the Robinsons, had left the house an hour before and gone away in an automobile, leaving no word of their destination, or of when they intended to return.
Utterly baffled, and wholly at a loss to understand this unexpected maneuver. Garrison stood for a moment staring at the woman. After all, such a flight was in reasonable sequence, if Dorothy were guilty. The one thing to do was to avail himself of all obtainable knowledge.
"Gone—for the night," he repeated. "Did Mrs. Fairfax seem anxious to go?"
"I didn't see her, sir. I couldn't say, really," answered the woman."Mr. Theodore said as how she was ailing, sir, and they was going away.That's all I know about it, sir."
"I'm sorry I missed them," Garrison murmured, half to himself. Then a thought occurred to him abruptly—a bold suggestion, on which he determined to act.
"Is my room kept ready, in case of present need like this to-night?" he said. "Or, if not, could you prepare it?"
"It's all quite ready, sir, clean linen and all, the room next to Mrs.Fairfax's," said the woman. "I always keeps it ready, sir."
"Very good," said Garrison, with his mind made up to remain all night and explore the house for possible clews to anything connected with its mysteries. "You may as well return to your apartments. I can find my way upstairs."
"Is there anything I could get you, sir?" inquired the woman. "You look a bit pale, sir, if you'll pardon the forwardness."
"Thank you, no," he answered gratefully. "All I need is rest." He slipped half a dollar in her hand.
The woman switched on the lights in the hallway above.
"Good-night, sir," she said. "If you're needing anything more I hope you'll ring."
"Good-night," said Garrison. "I shall not disturb you, I'm sure."
With ample nerve to enact the part of master, he ascended the stairs, proceeded to the room to which he had always gone before, and waited to hear the woman below retire to her quarters in the basement.
The room denoted nothing unusual. The roses, which he had taken from the vase to obtain the water to sprinkle on Dorothy's face, had disappeared. The vase was there on the table.
He crossed the floor and tried the door that led to Dorothy's boudoir.It was locked. Without further ado, he began his explorations.
It was not without a sense of gratitude that he presently discovered the bathroom at the rear of the hall. Here he laved his face and head, being very much refreshed by the process.
A secondary hall led away from the first, and through this he came at once to the rooms which had evidently been set apart for Dorothy and her husband. The room which he knew was supposed to be his own contained nothing save comfortable furnishings. He therefore went at once to Dorothy's apartments.
She occupied a suite of three rooms—one of them large, the others small. Exquisite order was apparent in all, combined with signs of a dainty, cultured taste. It seemed a sacrilege to search her possessions, and he made no attempt to do so. Indeed, he gained nothing from his quick, keen survey of the place, save a sense of her beauty and refinement as expressed in the features of her "nest." He felt himself warranted in opening a closet, into which he cast a comprehensive glance.
It seemed well filled with hanging gowns, but several hooks were empty.
On a shelf high up was a suit-case, empty, since it weighed almost nothing as he lifted up the end. He took it down, found marks where fingers had disturbed the dust upon its lid, then stood on a chair, examined the shelf, and became aware that a second case had been removed, as shown by the absence of accumulated dust, which had gathered all about the place it had formerly occupied.
Replacing the case he had taken from the shelf, he closed the closet, in possession of the fact that some preparation, at least, had been made against some sort of a journey. He was certain the empty hooks had been stripped of garments for the flight, but whether by Dorothy herself or by her relatives he could not, of course, determine.
He repaired at once to the rooms farther back, which the Robinsons had occupied. When he switched on the lights in the first one entered, he knew it had been the old man's place of refuge, for certain signs of the occupancy of Mr. Robinson were not lacking.
It reeked of stale cigar-smoke, which would hang in the curtains for a week. It was very untidy. There were many indications that old Robinson had quitted in haste. On the table were ash-trays, old cigar-stumps, matches, burned and new; magazines, hairpins, a tooth-brush, and two calf-bound volumes of a legal aspect. One was a lawyer's treatise on wills, the other a history of broken testaments, statistical as well as narrative.
The closet here supplied nothing of value to Garrison when he gave it a brief inspection. At the end of the room was a door that stood slightly ajar. It led to the next apartment—the room to which Theodore had been assigned. Garrison soon discovered the electric button and flooded the place with light.
The apartment was quite irregular. The far end had two windows, overlooking the court at the rear—the hollow of the block. These were both in an alcove, between two in-jutting partitions. One partition was the common result of building a closet into the room. The other was constructed to accommodate a staircase at the back of the house, leading to the quarters below.
Disorder was again the rule, for a litter of papers, neckties, soiled collars, and ends of cigarettes, with perfumes, toilet requisites, and beer bottles seemed strewn promiscuously on everything capable of receiving a burden.
Garrison tried the door that led to the staircase, and found it open. The closet came next for inspection. Without expecting anything of particular significance, Garrison drew open the door.
Like everything else in the Robinsons' realm, it was utterly disordered. Glancing somewhat indifferently over its contents. Garrison was about to close the door when his eye caught upon a gleam of dull red, where a ray of light fell in upon a bit of color on the floor.
He stopped, put his hand on the cloth, and drew forth a flimsy pair of tights of carmine hue—part of the Mephistophelian costume that Theodore had worn on the night of the party next door. With this in his hand, and a clearer understanding of the house, with its staircase at the rear. Garrison comprehended the ease with which Theodore had played his rôle and gone from one house to the other without arousing suspicion.
Encouraged to examine the closet further, he pawed around through the garments hung upon the hooks, and presently struck his hand against a solid obstacle projecting from the wall in the darkest corner, and heard a hollow, resonant sound from the blow.
Removing half a dozen coats that hung concealingly massed in the place, he almost uttered an exclamation of delight. There on the wall was a small equipment telephone, one of the testing-boxes employed by the linemen in their labors with which to "plug in" and communicate between places where no regular 'phone is installed.
It was Theodore's private receiver, over which he could hear every word that might be said to anyone using the 'phone!
It tapped the wires to the regular instrument installed in the house, and was thoroughly concealed.
Instantly aware that by this means young Robinson could have overheard every word between himself and Dorothy concerning their meeting in the park, Garrison felt his heart give a lift into realms of unreasonable joy.
It could not entirely dissipate the doubts that hung about Dorothy, but it gave him a priceless hope!
More than half ready to believe that Dorothy had been spirited away, Garrison examined everything available, with the intention of discovering, if possible, any scrap that might indicate the destination to which the trio had proceeded.
The Robinsons had left almost nothing of the slightest value or importance, since what clothing remained was of no significance whatever.
It was not until he opened up the old man's books on the subject of wills that Garrison found the slightest clew, and then he came upon a postal-card addressed to "Sykey Robinson, Esq.," from Theodore's mother. It mentioned the fact that she had arrived quite safely at "the house," and requested that her husband forward a pair of her glasses, left behind when she started.
The address of the place where she was stopping was given as 1600Myrtle Avenue. The postmark was Woodsite, Long Island.
Garrison made up his mind to go to Woodsite. If Dorothy were found, he meant to steal her—if need be, even against her will.
Warmed to the business by his few discoveries, he returned at once to Dorothy's apartments and opened her bureau and dressing-table for a superficial inspection. To his complete surprise, he found that every drawer was in utter confusion as to its contents. That each and all had been rudely overhauled there could not be a doubt for a moment. Not one showed the order apparent in all things else about the rooms.
There could be but one conclusion. Some one had searched them hurriedly, sparing not even the smallest. The someone could not have been Dorothy, for many reasons—and Garrison once more rejoiced.
He was thoroughly convinced that Dorothy had been taken from the house by force.
Whatever else she might be guilty of, he felt she must be innocent of the dastardly attempt upon his life. And, wherever she was, he meant to find her and take her away, no matter what the cost.
The hour was late—too late, he was aware—for anything effective. Not without a certain satisfaction in his sense of ownership, and with grim resolutions concerning his dealings in future with the Robinsons, he extinguished the lights in the rooms he had searched, and, glad of the much-needed rest, retired in calm for six solid hours of sleep.
This brought him out, refreshed and vigorous, at a bright, early hour of the morning. The housekeeper, not yet stirring in her downstairs quarters, failed to hear him let himself out at the door—and his way was clear for action.
His breakfast he took at an insignificant café. Then he went to his room in Forty-fourth Street.
The "shadow," faithful to his charge, was waiting in the street before the house. His presence was noted by Garrison, who nodded to himself in understanding of the fellow's persistency.
Arrived upstairs, he discovered three letters, none of which he took the time to read. They were thrust in his pocket—and forgotten.
The metal bomb, which was still in his coat, he concealed among a lot of shoes in his closet.
From among his possessions, accumulated months before, when the needs of the Biddle robbery case had arisen, he selected a thoroughly effective disguise, which not only grew a long, drooping mustache upon his lip, but aged him about the eyes, and appeared to reduce his stature and his width of shoulders. With a pair of shabby gloves on his hands, and a book beneath his arms, he had suddenly become a genteel if poor old book-agent, whose appearance excited compassion.
Well supplied with money, armed with a loaded revolver, fortified by his official badge, and more alert in all his faculties than he had ever felt in all his life, he passed down the stairs and out upon the street, under the very nose of the waiting "shadow," into whose face he cast a tired-looking glance, without exciting the slightest suspicion.
Twenty minutes later he had hired a closed automobile, and was being carried toward the Williamsburg Bridge and Long Island. The car selected was of a type renowned for achievements in speed.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he stood at length on the sidewalk opposite 1600 Myrtle Avenue, Woodsite, a modest cottage standing on a corner. It was one of the houses farthest from the center of the town; nevertheless, it had its neighbors all about, if somewhat scattered.
There was no sign of life about the place. The shades were drawn; it bore a look of desertion. Only pausing for a moment, as even a book-agent might, after many repeated rebuffs, Garrison wended his way across the street, proceeded slowly up the concrete walk, ascended the steps, and rang the bell.
There was no result. He rang again, and out of the corner of his eye beheld the curtain pushed a trifle aside, in the window near at hand, where someone looked out from this concealment. For the third time he rang—and at last the door was opened for a distance no more than six inches wide. The face he saw was old man Robinson's.
The chain on the door was securely fastened, otherwise Garrison would have pushed his way inside without further ado. He noted this barely in time to save himself from committing an error.
"Go away!" said old Robinson testily. "No books wanted!"
"I hope you will not refuse a tired old man," said Garrison, in a voice that seemed trembling with weakness. "The books I have to offer are quite remarkable indeed.
"Don't want them. Good-day!" said Robinson. He tried to close the door, but Garrison's foot prevented.
"One of my books is particularly valuable to read to headstrong young women. If you have a daughter—or any young woman in the house——"
"She can't see anyone—I mean there's no such person here!" snappedRobinson. "What's the matter with that door?"
"My other book is of the rarest interest," insisted Garrison. "An account of the breaking of the Butler will—a will drawn up by the most astute and crafty lawyer in America, yet broken because of its flaws. A book——"
"Whose will was that?" demanded Robinson, his interest suddenly roused. "Some lawyer, did you say?" He relaxed his pressure on the door and fumbled at the chain.
"The will of Benjamin Butler—the famous Benjamin Butler," Garrison replied. "One of the most remarkable——"
"Come in," commanded old Robinson, who had slipped off the chain. "How much is the book?"
"I am only taking orders to-day," answered Garrison, stepping briskly inside and closing the door with his heel. "If you'll take this copy to the light——"
"Father!" interrupted an angry voice. "Didn't I tell you not to let anyone enter this house? Get out, you old nuisance! Get out with your book?"
Garrison looked down the oak-finished hall and saw Theodore coming angrily toward him.
Alive to the value of the melodramatic, he threw off both his hat and mustache and squared up in Theodore's path.
Young Robinson reeled as if struck a staggering blow.
"You—you——" he gasped.
Old Robinson recovered his asperity with remarkable promptness.
"How dare you come into this house?" he screamed. "You lying——"
"That's enough of that," said Garrison quietly. "I came forDorothy—whom you dared to carry away."
"You—you—you're mistaken," said Theodore, making a most tremendous effort at calmness, with his face as white as death. "She isn't here."
"Don't lie. Your father has given the facts away," said Garrison. "I want her—and I want her now."
"Look here," said Theodore, rapidly regaining his rage, "if you think you can come to my house like this——" He was making a move as if to slip upstairs—perhaps for a gun.
Garrison pulled his revolver without further parley.
"Stay where you are! Up with your hands! Don't either of you make a move that I don't order, understand? I said I'd come to take my wife away."
"For Heaven's sake, don't shoot!" begged old Robinson. "Don't shoot!"
"You fool—do you think I'd bring her here?" said Theodore, trying to grin, but putting up his hands. "Put away your gun, and act like a man in his senses, or I'll have you pulled for your pains."
"You've done talking enough—and perhapsI'llhave just a word to say about pulling, later on," said Garrison. "In the meantime, don't you open your head again, or you'll get yourself into trouble."
He raised his voice and shouted tremendously:
"Dorothy!"
"Jerold!" came a muffled cry, from somewhere above in a room.
He heard her vainly tugging at a door.
"Go up ahead of me, both of you," he commanded, making a gesture with the gun. "I prefer not to break in the door."
Theodore was hesitating, though his father was eager to obey. Garrison stepped a foot forward and thrust the pistol firmly against the young man's body, cocking the hammer.
"I'm going—for the love of Heaven, look out!" cried the craven suddenly, and he backed toward the stairs in haste.
"That's better," said Garrison coldly. "Step lively, please, and don't attempt the slightest treachery unless you are prepared to pay the price."
Theodore had no more than started when the door-bell rang—four little jingles.
"It's mother," said old Robinson, starting for the door.
"Let her remain outside for the present," ordered Garrison. "Get on up the stairs."
The bell rang again. The Robinsons, resigned to defeat, ascended to the hall above, with the gun yawning just at the rear.
Once more Garrison called out:
"Dorothy—where are you?"
"Here!" cried Dorothy, her voice still muffled behind a solid door."The room at the back. I can't get out!"
Garrison issued another order to Theodore, whom he knew to be the governing spirit in the fight against himself and Dorothy:
"Put down one hand and get out your keys—but don't attempt to remove anything else from your pocket, or I'll plug you on the spot."
Theodore cast a defiant glance across the leveled gun to the steady, cool eyes behind it, and drew forth the keys, as directed.
"If that's you, Jerold—please, please get me out—the door is locked!" called Dorothy, alarmed by each second of delay. "Where are you now?"
"Coming!" called Garrison. He added, to Theodore: "Keep one hand up.Unlock the door." He called out again: "Keep cool when it's opened.Don't confuse the situation."
Young Robinson, convinced that resistance at this point was useless, inserted the key in the lock and opened the door, at the same time casting a knowing look at his father, who stood over next to the wall.
In the instant that Garrison's attention was directed to the unlocked room, old Robinson made a quick retreat to a tiny red box that was screwed against the wall and twice pulled down a brass ring.
Garrison beheld the action too late to interpose. He knew the thing for a burglar-alarm—and realized his own position.
Meantime Dorothy had not emerged.
"Jerold! Jerold!" she cried. "My feet are chained!"
"Get in there, both of you, double-quick!" commanded Garrison, and he herded the Robinsons inside the room, fairly pushing them before him with the gun.
Then he saw Dorothy.
White with fear, her eyes ablaze with indignation at the Robinsons, her beauty heightened by the look of intensity in her eyes, she stood by the door, her ankles bound together by a chain which was secured to the heavy brass bed.
"Jerold!" she cried as she had before, but her voice broke and tears started swiftly from her eyes.
"Be calm, dear, please," said Garrison, who had turned on her captors with an anger he could scarcely control. "You cowards! You infamous scoundrels!" he said. "Release those chains this instant, or I'll blow off the top of your head!" He demanded this of Theodore.
"The key isn't here," said the latter, intent upon gaining time since the burglar-alarm had been sprung. "I left it downstairs."
"I think you lie," said Garrison. "Get busy, or you'll have trouble."
"It's on his ring, with the key to the door," said Dorothy. "They've kept me drugged and stupid, but I saw as much as that."
Once more Garrison pushed the black muzzle of the gun against Theodore's body. The fellow cringed. The sweat stood out on his forehead. He dropped to his knees and, trembling with fear, fumbled with the keys.
"To think they'd dare!" said Dorothy, who with difficulty refrained from sobbing, in her anger, relief, and nervous strain.
Garrison made no reply. He was fairly on edge with anxiety himself, in the need for haste, aware that every moment was precious, with the town's constabulary doubtless already on the way to respond to the old man's alarm. The rights of the case would come too late, with his and Dorothy's story against the statements of the Robinsons, and he had no intention of submitting to arrest.
"You're wasting time—do better!" he commanded Theodore, and he nudged the gun under his ribs. "That's the key, that crooked one—use it, quick!"
Theodore dared not disobey. The chain fell away, and Dorothy ran forward, with a sob upon her lips.
"Don't hamper me, dear," said Garrison, watching the Robinsons alertly."Just get your hat, and we'll go."
Dorothy ran to a closet, drew forth a hat, and cried that she was ready.
"Throw those keys in the hall!" commanded Garrison, and young Robinson tossed them out as directed. "Now, then, over in the corner with the pair of you!"
The helpless Robinsons moved over to the corner of the room. Dorothy was already in the hall. Garrison was backing out, to lock the door, when Dorothy ran in again beside him.
"Just a minute!" she said, and, going to the bed, despite Garrison's impatience, she turned down the pillow and caught up a bunch of faded roses—his roses—and, blushing in girlish confusion, ran out once more, and slammed the door, which Garrison locked on her relations.
"Throw the keys under the rug," he said quietly. "We've no time to lose. The old man rang in an alarm."
Dorothy quickly hid the keys as directed. The face she turned to him then was blanched with worry.
"What shall we do?" she said, as he led her down the stairs. "In a little town like this there's no place to go."
"I provided for that," he answered; and, beholding her start as a sound of loud knocking at the door in the rear gave new cause for fright, he added: "Thank goodness, the old bearded woman has gone around back to get in!"
Half a minute more, and both were out upon the walk. Garrison carrying his book, his pistol once more in his pocket.
A yell, and a shrill penetrative whistle from the rear of the house, now told of Theodore's activities at the window of the room where he and his father were imprisoned. He was doubtless making ready to let himself down to the ground.
"We may have to make a lively run," said Garrison. "My motor-car is two blocks away."
They were still a block from the waiting car when, with yells and a furious blowing of his whistle, Theodore came running to the street before his house. One minute later a big red car, with the chief of the town's police and the chief of the local firemen, shot around the corner into Myrtle Avenue, and came to a halt before the residence which the fugitives had just barely quitted.
"Make a run for it now, we're in for a race," said Garrison, and, with Dorothy skipping in excitement beside him, he came to his waiting chauffeur.
"That fellow up the street is on our trail!" he said. "Cut loose all the speed you've got. Fifty dollars bonus if you lose the bunch before you cross the bridge to New York!"
He helped Dorothy quickly to her seat inside, and only pausing to note that Theodore was clambering hotly into the big red car, two long village blocks away, he swung in himself as the driver speeded up the motor.
Then, with a whir and a mighty lurch as the clutch went in, the automobile started forward in the road.
Ten seconds later they were running full speed, with the muffler cut out, and sharp percussions puncturing the air like a Gatling gun's terrific detonations.
The race for New York had commenced.