Some of the roads on Long Island are magnificent. Many of the speed laws are strict. The thoroughfare stretching ahead of the two cars was one of the best.
The traffic regulations suffered absolute demolition.
Like a liberated thing of flame and deviltry, happiest when rocketing through space, the car beneath the fugitives seemed to bound in the air as it whirred with a higher and higher hum of wheels and gears, and the air drove by in torrential force, leaving a cloud of smoke and dust in their wake.
Dorothy clung to Jerold, half afraid. He raised himself upon the seat and looked out of the tiny window set in the back. The big car in the road behind, obscured in the dust that must help to blind its driver, had lost scarcely more than half a block in picking up its speed.
It, too, was a powerful machine, and its coughing, open exhaust was adding to the din on the highway. It was trailing smoke in a dense, bluish cloud that meant they were burning up their lubricant with spendthrift prodigality. But the monster was running superbly.
The houses seemed scooting by in madness. A team that stood beside the road dwindled swiftly in perspective. The whir of the gears and the furious discharge of the used-up gas seemed increasing momentarily. The whole machine was rocking as it sped, yet the big red pursuer was apparently gaining by degrees.
Garrison nodded in acknowledgment of the fact that the car behind, with almost no tonneau and minus the heavy covered superstructure, offered less resistance to the wind. With everything else made equal, and accident barred, the fellow at the wheel behind would overhaul them yet.
He looked out forward. The road was straight for at least a mile. He beheld a bicycle policeman, riding ahead, to develop his speed, with the certain intention of calling to his driver to stop.
Half a minute later the car was abreast the man on the wheel, who shrieked out his orders on the wind. Garrison leaned to the tube that ended by the chauffeur's ear.
"Go on—give her more if she's got it!" he said. "I'll take care of the fines!"
The driver had two notches remaining on his spark advance. He thumbed the lever forward, and the car responded with a trifle more of speed. It was straining every bolt and nut to its utmost capacity of strength.
The bicycle officer, clinging half a minute to a hope made forlorn by his sheer human lack of endurance, drifted to rearward with the dust.
Once more Garrison peered out behind. The big red demon, tearing down the road, was warming to its work. With cylinders heating, and her mixture therefore going snappily as a natural result, she too had taken on a slight accession of speed. Two meteors, flung from space across the earth's rotundity, could scarcely have been more exciting than these liberated chariots of power.
There was no time to talk; there was scarcely time to think. The road, the landscape, the very world, became a dizzying blur that destroyed all distinct sense of sight. In the rush of the air, and the rapid-fire fusillade from the motor, all sense of hearing was benumbed.
A craze for speed took possession of the three—Dorothy, Garrison, the driver. The power to think on normal lines was being swept away. Such mania as drives a lawless comet comes inevitably upon all who ride with such space-defying speed. The one idea is more—more speed—more freedom—more recklessness of spirit!
A village seven miles from Woodsite, calm in its half-deserted state, with its men all at business in New York, was cleaved, as it were, by the racing machines, while women and children ran and screamed to escape from the path of the monsters.
The fellow behind was once more creeping up. The time consumed in going seven miles had been barely ten minutes. In fifteen minutes more, at his present rate of gain, the driver behind would be up alongside, and then—who knew what would happen?
Dorothy had started as if to speak, at least a dozen times. She was now holding on with all her strength, aware that conversation was wholly out of the question.
Garrison was watching constantly through the glass. The race could hardly last much longer. They were rapidly approaching a larger town, where such speed would be practically criminal. If only they could gain a lead and dart into town and around some corner, into traffic of sufficient density to mask his movements, he and Dorothy might perhaps alight and escape observation on foot, while the car led pursuit through the streets.
About to suggest some such plan to his driver, he was suddenly sickened by a sharp report, like a pistol fired beneath the car. He feared for a tire, but the noise came again, and then three times, quickly, in succession. One of the cylinders was missing. Not only was the power cut down by a fourth, but compression in the engine thus partially "dead" was a drag on the others of the motor.
The driver leaned forward, one hand on the buzzer of his coil, and gave a screw a turn. Already the car was losing speed. The fellow behind was coming on like a red-headed whirlwind. For a moment the missing seemed to cease, and the speed surged back to the hum of the whirring gears.
"Bang! Bang!" went the sharp report, as before, and Garrison groaned. He was looking out, all but hopeless of escape, rapidly reflecting on the charges that would lie against not only himself, but his chauffeur, when he saw the red fellow plunge through the dust on a crazy, gyrating course that made his heart stand still.
They had blown out a tire!
Like a drunken comet, suddenly robbed of all its own crazy laws, the red demon see-sawed the highway. The man at the wheel, shutting off his power, crowding on his brakes, and clinging to his wheel with the skill and coolness of a master, had all he could do to keep the machine anywhere near the proper highway.
Unaware of what had occurred at the rear the driver in charge of Garrison's car had once more adjusted the buzzer, and now with such splendid results that his motor seemed madder than before to run itself to shreds.
Like a vanishing blot on the landscape, the red car behind, when it came to a halt, was deserted by its rival in the race. Two minutes later, with the city ahead fast looming like a barrier before them, Garrison leaned to the tube.
"Slow down!" he called. "Our friend has quit—a blow-out. Get down to lawful speed."
Even then they ran fully half a mile before the excited creature of wheels and fire could be tamed to calmer behavior.
With the almost disappointed thing of might purring tamely along through the far-spread town, and then on through level ways of beauty, leading the way to Gotham, Dorothy found that she was still clinging fast to Jerold's arm, after nearly ten minutes of peace.
Then she waked, as it were, and shyly withdrew her hand.
Garrison had felt himself transported literally, more by the ecstasy of having her thus put dependence upon him than by any mere flight of the car. He underwent a sense of loss when the strain subsided, and her trembling hold relaxed and fell from his arm.
Nevertheless, she clung to the roses. His heart had taken time to beat a stroke in joy during that moment of stress at the house, when she had caused a few seconds' added delay to gather up the crushed and faded flowers.
Since speaking to the driver last Garrison had been content to sit beside the girl in silence. There was much he must ask, and much she must tell, but for this little time of calm and delight he could not break the spell. Once more, however, his abounding confidence in her goodness, her innocence, and deep-lying beauty of character rose triumphant over fears. Once more the spell of a mighty love was laid upon his heart. He did not know and could not know that Dorothy, too, was Cupid's victim—that she loved him with a strange and joyous intensity, but he did know that the whole vast world was no price for this moment of rapture.
She was the first to speak.
"Why did we have to run away? Aren't you supposed to have a perfect right to—to take me wherever you please—especially from a place like that, and such outrageous treatment?"
"I am only supposed to have that right," he answered. "As a matter of fact, I committed a species of violence in Theodore's house, compelling him to act at the point of the gun. Technically speaking, I had no right to proceed so far. But, aside from that, when they sprung the alarm—well, the time had come for action.
"Had the constable dragged me away, as a legal offender—which he would doubtless have done on the charge of two householding citizens—the delay would have been most annoying, while a too close investigation of my status as a husband might have proved even more embarrassing."
A wave of crimson swept across her face.
"Of course." She relapsed into silence for a moment. Then she added:"What does it all mean, anyway? How dared they carry me off like this?How did you happen to come? When did you find that I had gone? Whatdo you think we'd better do?"
"Answer one question at a time," said Garrison, stuffing his handkerchief into the tube, lest the driver overhear their conversation. "There is much to be explained between us. In the first place, tell me, Dorothy, what happened just after I 'phoned you last evening, and you made an appointment to meet me in the park."
"Why, I hardly know," she said, her face once more a trifle pale. "I went upstairs to get ready, thinking to slip out unobserved. In the act of putting on my hat, I was suddenly smothered in the folds of a strong-smelling towel thrown over my head, and since that time I have scarcely known anything till this morning, when I waked in the bed at Theodore's house, fully dressed, and chained as you saw me."
"But—these roses?" he said, lightly placing his hand upon them. "How did you happen to have them along?"
It was not a question pertinent to the issues in hand, but it meant a great deal to his heart.
"Why—I—I was wearing them—that's all," she stammered. "No one stopped to take them off."
He was satisfied. He wished they might once and for all dismiss the world, with all its vexations, its mysteries, and pains, and ride on like this, through the June-created loveliness bathed in its sunlight—comrades and lovers, forever.
The hour, however, was not for dreaming. There were grim facts affecting them both, and much to be cleared between them. Moreover he was merely hired to enact a rôle that, if it sometimes called for a show of tender love, was still but a rôle, after all. He attacked the business directly.
"We require an understanding on a great many topics," he said to her slowly. "After I 'phoned you I went to the park, was caught in the rain, and attacked by two ruffians, who knocked me down, and left me to what they supposed would be certain destruction."
"Jerold!" she said, and his name thus on her lips, with no one by to whom she was acting, gave him an exquisite pleasure. There was no possibility of guilty knowledge on her part. Of this he was thoroughly convinced. "You? Attacked?"
"Later," he resumed, "when I recovered, I went to the house in Ninety-third Street, was admitted by the woman in charge, and remained all night, after taking the liberty of examining all the apartments."
She looked at him in utter amazement.
"Why—but what does it—— You, attacked in the park—these lawless deeds—you stayed all night—— And you found I had been carried away?"
"No; I merely thought so. The woman knew nothing. But I presently discovered a number of interesting things. Theodore has installed a private 'phone in his closet, and by means thereof had overheard our appointment. Your bureau and dressing-case had both been searched——"
"For the necklaces!" she cried. "You have them safe?"
"I thought it might have been the jewels—or your marriage certificate," he said, alive to numerous points in the case which, he felt, were about to develop.
She turned a trifle pale.
"I've sewn the certificate—where I'm sure they'd never find it," she said. "But the jewels are safe?"
"Quite safe," he said, making a mental note of her insistence on the topic. "I then discovered the address of the Woodsite house, and you know the rest."
"It's terrible! The whole thing is terrible!" she said. "I wouldn't have thought they'd dare to do such things! I don't know what we're going to do. We're neither of us safe!"
"You must help me all you can," he said, laying his hand for a moment on her arm. "I've been fighting in the dark. I must find you apartments where you will not be discovered by the Robinsons, whose criminal designs on the property inheritance will halt at nothing, and—you must tell me all you can."
"I will," she said; "only——"
And there she halted, her eyes raised to his in mute appeal, a dumb fear expressed in their depths.
They had both avoided the topic of the murder, at the news of which she had fainted. Garrison almost feared it, and Dorothy evidently dreaded its approach.
More than anything else Garrison felt he must know she was innocent. That was the one vital thing to him now, whether she could ever return his love or not. He loved her in every conceivable manner, fondly, passionately, sacredly, with the tenderest wishes for her comfort and happiness. He believed in her now as he always had, whensoever they were together. Nevertheless, he could not abandon all his faculties and plunge into folly like a blind and confident fool.
"I'd like to ask about the jewels first," he said. "The night I first came to your home I entered the place next door by accident. A fancy-dress party was in progress."
"Yes—I knew it. They used to be friends of Theodore's."
"So I guessed," he added dryly. "Theodore was there."
"Theodore—there?" she echoed in surprise he felt to be genuine. "Why, but—don't you remember you met him with the others in my house, soon after you came?"
"I do, perfectly. Nevertheless, I saw him in the other house, in mask, I assure you, dressed to representMephistopheles. Last night I found the costume in his closet, and the stairs at the rear were his, of course, to employ."
"I remember," said Dorothy excitedly, "that he came in a long gray overcoat, though the evening was distinctly warm."
"Precisely. And all of this would amount to nothing," Garrison resumed, "only that while I stood in the hall of the house I had entered, that evening, I saw a young woman, likewise in mask, wearing your necklaces—your pearls and diamonds."
Dorothy stared at him in utter bewilderment. Her face grew pale. Her eyes dilated strangely.
"You—you are sure?" she said in a tone barely audible.
"Perfectly," said Garrison.
"And you never mentioned this before?"
"I awaited developments."
"But—what did you think? You might almost have thought that Theodore had stolen them, and handed them to me," she said. "Especially after the way I put them in your charge!"
"I told you we have much to clear between us," he said. "Haven't I the right to know a little——"
"But—how did they come to be there?" she interrupted, abruptly confronted by a phase of the facts which she had momentarily overlooked. "How in the world could my jewels have been in that house and also in my bureau at the very same time?"
"Isn't it possible that Theodore borrowed them, temporarily, and smuggled them back when he came?"
The startled look was intensified in her eyes as she met his gaze.
"He must have done it in some such way!" she said. "I thought at the time, when I ran in to get them, they were not exactly as I had left them, earlier. And I gave them to you for fear he'd steal them!"
This was some light, at least. Garrison needed more.
"Why couldn't you have told me all about them earlier?"
She looked at him beseechingly. Some way, it seemed to them both they had known each other for a very long time, and much had been swept away that must have stood as a barrier between mere client and agent.
"I felt I'd rather not," she confessed. "Forgive me, please. They do not belong to me.
"Not yours?" said Garrison. "What do you mean?"
"I advanced some money on them—to some one very dear," she answered."Please don't probe into that, if you can help it."
His jealousy rose again, with his haunting suspicion of a man in the background with whom he would yet have to deal. He knew that here he had no rights, but in other directions he had many.
"I shall be obliged to do considerable probing," he said. "The time has come when we must work much more closely together. A maze of events has entangled us both, and together we must find our way out."
She lowered her glance. Her lip was trembling. He felt she was striving to gain a control over her nerves, that were strung to the highest tension. For fully a minute she was silent. He waited. She looked up, met his gaze for a second, and once more lowered her eyes.
"You spoke of—of something—yesterday," she faltered. "It gave me a terrible shock."
She had broached the subject of the murder.
"I was sorry—sorry for the brutal way—the thoughtless way I spoke," he said. "I hope to be forgiven."
She made no reply to his hope. Her entire stock of nerve was required to go on with the business in hand.
"You said my uncle was—murdered," she said, in a tone he strained to hear. "What makes you think of such a thing?"
"You have not before made the statement that the Hardy in Hickwood was your uncle," he reminded her.
"You must have guessed it was my uncle," she replied. "You knew it all the time."
"No, not at first. Not, in fact, till some time after I began my work on the case. I knew Mr. Hardy had been murdered before I knew anything else about him."
She was intensely white, but she was resolute.
"Who told you he was murdered?"
"No one. I discovered the evidence myself."
He felt her weaken and grow limp beside him.
"The—the evidence?" she repeated faintly. "What kind—of evidence?"
"Poison."
He was watching her keenly.
She swayed, as if to faint once more, but mastered herself by exerting the utmost of her will.
"Poison?" she repeated, as before. "But how?"
"In a box of cigars—a birthday present given to your uncle."
It was brutal—cruelly brutal—but he had to test it out without further delay.
His words acted almost with galvanic effect.
"Cigars! His birthday! My cigars!" she cried. "Jerold, you don't suspect me?"
The car was starting across the bridge. It suddenly halted in the traffic. Almost on the instant came a crash and a cry. A dainty little brougham had been crushed against another motor car in the jam and impatience on the structure. One of its wheels had lost half its spokes, that went like a parcel of toothpicks.
Garrison leaped out at once, and Dorothy followed in alarm. In the tide of vehicles, blocked by the trifling accident, a hundred persons craned their heads to see what the damage had been.
A small knot of persons quickly gathered about the damaged carriage. Garrison hastened forward, intent upon offering his services, should help in the case be required. He discovered, in the briefest time, that no great damage had been done, and that no one had been injured.
Eager to be hastening onward, he turned back to his car. Almost immediately he saw that the chauffeur's seat was empty. Dorothy had apparently stepped once more inside, to be screened from public view.
Hastily scanning the crowd about the place, Garrison failed to find his driver. He searched about impatiently, but in vain. He presently became aware of the fact that his man had, for some reason, fled and left his car.
Considerably annoyed, and aware that he should have to drive the machine himself, he returned once more to the open door of the auto, intent upon informing Dorothy of their loss.
He gazed inside the car in utter bewilderment.
Dorothy also was gone.
Still puzzled, unable to believe his senses, Garrison made a second quick search of the vicinity that was rapidly being cleared and restored to order by a couple of efficient police officers, but without avail.
Neither Dorothy nor the chauffeur could be found.
One of the officers ordered him to move along with his car. There was nothing else to be done. Reluctantly, and not without feelings of annoyance and worry, combined with those of baffled mystery and chagrin, Garrison was presently obliged to climb to the driver's seat and take the wheel in hand.
The motor was running, slowly, to a rhythmic beat. He speeded it up, threw off the brake, put the gears in the "low," and slipped in the clutch. Over the bridge in the halted procession of traffic he steered his course—a man bereft of his comrade and his driver and with a motor-car thrust upon his charge.
Through the streets of New York he was finally guiding the great purring creature of might, which in ordinary circumstances would have filled his being with delight. Thorough master of throttle, spark-advance, and speed-lever, he would have asked nothing better than to drive all day—if Dorothy were only at his side.
He had never felt more utterly disconcerted in his life. Where had she gone—and why?
What did it mean to have the chauffeur also disappear?
Had the two gone off together?
If so, why should she choose a companion of his type?
If not, then what could have formed the motive for the man's abrupt flight from the scene?
And what should be done with the motor-car, thus abandoned to his care?
A quick suspicion that the car had been stolen came to Garrison's mind. Nevertheless it was always possible that Dorothy had urged the driver to convey her out of the crowd, and that the driver had finally returned to get his car, and found it gone; but this, for many reasons, seemed unlikely.
Dorothy had shown her fear in her last startled question: "Jerold, you don't suspect me?" She might have fled in some sort of fear after that. But the driver—what was it that had caused him also to vanish at a time so unexpected?
Garrison found himself obliged to give it up. He could think of nothing to do with the car but to take it to the stand where he had hired it in the morning. The chauffeur might, by chance, appear and claim his property. Uneasy, with the thing thus left upon his hands, and quite unwilling to be "caught with the goods," Garrison was swiftly growing more and more exasperated.
He knew he could not roll the car to the stand and simply abandon it there, for anyone so inclined to steal; he objected to reporting it "found" in this peculiar manner at any police headquarters, for he could not be sure it had been stolen, and he himself might be suspected.
Having hired the car in crowded Times Square, near his Forty-fourth Street rooms, he ran it up along Broadway with the thought of awaiting the driver.
The traffic was congested with surface cars, heavy trucks, other motors, and carriages. His whole attention was riveted on the task in hand. Driving a car in the streets of New York ceases to be enjoyment, very promptly. The clutch was in and out continuously. He crept here, he speeded up to the limit for a space of a few city blocks, and crept again.
Past busy Fourteenth Street and Union Square he proceeded, and on to Twenty-third Street with Madison Square, green and inviting, lying to his right. Pushed over into the Fifth Avenue traffic by the regulations, he contemplated returning to the Broadway stream as soon as possible, and was crawling along with his clutch barely rubbing, when a hansom cab, containing a beautiful but pale young woman, slowly passed. The occupant abruptly rose from her seat and scrutinized the car in obvious excitement.
Garrison barely caught a glimpse of her face, busied as he was with the driving. He continued on. Two minutes later he was halted by a jam of carriages and the hansom returned at full speed. Once more the pale young woman was leaning half-way out.
"Stop!" she cried at the astounded Garrison. "You've stolen that car!I'll have you arrested! You've got to return it at once!"
Garrison almost smiled, the half-expected outcome had arrived so promptly. He saw that half a dozen drivers of cabs and other vehicles were looking on in wonder and amusement.
"Kindly drive into Twenty-sixth Street, out of this confusion," he answered. "I shall be glad to halt there and answer all requirements."
He was so obviously a thorough gentleman, and his manner was so calm and dignified, that the strange young lady almost felt abashed at the charges she had made.
The jam was broken. Garrison ran the car to the quieter side street, and the cab kept pace at his side.
Presently he halted, got down from the seat and came to the hansom, lifting his hat. How thankful he was that no policeman had overheard the young woman's cry, and followed, she might never suspect.
"Permit me to introduce myself as a victim of another's man's wrongful intentions," he said. "I hired this car this morning uptown—in fact, in Times Square, and was driven out to Long Island. Returning, we were halted on the bridge—and the chauffeur disappeared—ran away, leaving me to drive for myself.
"I feared at the time it might be the man was a thief, and I am greatly relieved to find the owner of the car so promptly. If this or any other explanation, before an officer, or any court, will gratify you more, I shall be glad to meet every demand you may make upon my time."
The young woman looked at him with widely blazing eyes. She believed him, she hardly knew why. She had alighted from the hansom.
"I've been driving up and down Fifth Avenue all morning!" she said. "I felt sure I could find it that way. It isn't mine. It was only left in my charge. I was afraid that something might happen. I didn't want to have it in the first place! I knew it would cause me endless trouble. I don't know what to do with it now."
"I should be gratified," said Garrison, "if you will state that you do not consider me guilty of a theft so stupid as this would appear."
"I didn't think you were the man," she answered. "A chauffeur my cousin discharged undoubtedly stole it. Policemen are after him now, with the man who runs the garage. They went to Long Island City, or somewhere, to find him, this morning. Perhaps he saw them on the bridge."
She was regaining color. She was a very fine-looking young woman, despite the expression of worry on her face. She was looking Garrison over in a less excited manner—and he knew she held no thought of guilt against him.
"Let me suggest that you dismiss your cab and permit me to take you at once to your garage," he said, adding to the man on the box: "Cabby, how much is your bill?"
"Five dollars," said the man, adding substantially to his charge.
"Take ten and get out!" said Garrison, handing him a bill.
"Oh, but please——" started the pretty young woman.
Garrison interrupted.
"The man who stole your car did yeoman service for me. I promised him five times this amount. He may never dare appear to get his money. Kindly step in. Will you drive the car yourself?"
"No, thank you," she murmured, obeying because of his masterly manner."But really, I hardly know——"
"Please say nothing further about it," he once more interrupted. "I am sorry to have been in any manner connected with an event which has caused you uneasiness; but I am very glad, indeed, to be instrumental in returning your property and relieving your worry. Where do you keep your car?"
She told him the place. It was up in the neighborhood of Columbus Circle. Twenty minutes later the car was "home"—where it would never get away on false pretenses again, and the news of its coming began to go hotly out by wire.
Garrison heard the men call his fair companion Miss Ellis. He called a cab, when she was ready to go, asked for permission to escort her home, and was driven in her company to an old-fashioned house downtown, near Washington Square. There he left her, with a nice old motherly person, and bade her good-by with no expectation of ever beholding her again, despite the murmured thanks she gave him and the half-timid offer of her hand.
When he left and dismissed the cabman he was face to face with the problem of what he should do to find his "wife." His worry all surged back upon him.
He wondered where Dorothy had gone—where she could go, why she had fled from him—and what could he do but wait with impatience some word of her retreat. He had felt her innocence all but established, and love had come like a new great tide upon him. He was lonely now, and thoroughly disturbed.
He had warned her she must go to live in some other house than her own; nevertheless she might have proceeded to the Ninety-third Street residence for things she would require. It was merely a hope. He made up his mind to go to the house without delay, aware that the Robinsons might make all haste to get there and gain an advantage.
Half an hour later he was once more in the place. The housekeeper alone was in charge. No one had been there in his absence.
He had no intention of remaining long, with Dorothy to find, although he felt inclined to await the possible advent of Theodore and his father, whom he meant to eject from the place. As yet he dared not attempt to order the arrest of the former, either for Dorothy's abduction or the crime attempted on himself in the park. The risk was too great—the risk to the fictional marriage between himself and Dorothy.
He climbed the stairs, wandered aimlessly through the rooms, sat down, waited, somewhat impatiently, tried to think what were best to do, worried himself about Dorothy again, and finally made up his mind she might attempt to wire him at his office address. Calling up the housekeeper, he gave her strict instructions against admitting any of the Robinsons—an order which the woman received with apparent gratification. They were merely to be referred to himself, at this address, should they come upon the scene.
He started off. He had barely closed the door and heard the woman put on the chain, and was turning to walk down the brownstone steps when Theodore, half-way up, panting from haste, confronted him, face to face.
For a moment the two stood staring at each other in surprise. Garrison was first to break the silence.
"You came a little late, you see. I have just issued orders you are not to be admitted to this house again, except with my special permission."
"By Heaven, you—— We'll see about that!" said Theodore. "I'll have you put under arrest!"
"Try it," said Garrison, grinning in his face. "A charge of abduction, plus a charge even larger, may cause you more than mere annoyance. You've been looking for trouble with me, and you're bound to have it. Let me warn you that you are up against a number of facts that you may have overlooked—and you may hear something drop!"
"You think you've been clever, here and in Woodsite, I suppose," said Theodore, concealing both wrath and alarm. "I could drop a couple of facts on you that would fade you a little, I reckon. And this house isn't yours yet!"
"I wonder how many lessons you are going to need," answered Garrison coldly. "If you put so much as your hand inside this building, I'll have you arrested for burglary. Now, mind what I say—and get out!"
"I'll see you later, all right," said Robinson, glaring for a moment in impotent rage, and he turned and retreated from the place.
Garrison, with his mind made up to acoupof distinct importance, was presently headed for his room in Forty-fourth Street. Before he left the Subway he went to a waiting-room, replaced the long mustache upon his face—the one with which he had started away in the morning—and walked the few short blocks from the station to his house.
The street was nearly deserted, but the "shadow" he had duped in the morning was on watch, still undismissed from duty by young Robinson.
Garrison went up to him quietly—and suddenly showing his gun, pulled away the false mustache.
"I'm the man you've been waiting to follow," he said. "Now, don't say a word, but come on."
"Hell!" said the man.
He shrugged his shoulders and was soon up in Garrison's room.
The fellow whom Garrison had taken into camp had once attempted detective work himself and failed. He was not at all a clever being, but rather a crafty, fairly reliable employee of a somewhat shady "bureau" with which young Robinson was on quite familiar terms.
He was far from being a coward. It was he who had followed Garrison to Branchville, rifled his suit-case, and been captured by the trap. Despite the fact that his hand still bore the evidence of having tampered with Garrison's possessions, he had dared remain on the job because he felt convinced that Garrison had never really seen him and could not, therefore, pick him up.
Sullen in his helplessness, aware that his captor must at last have a very great advantage, he complied with Garrison's command to take a seat in the room, and glanced about him inquiringly.
"What do you want with me anyhow?" he said. "What's your game?"
"Mine is a surer game than yours," said Garrison, seating himself with his back to the window, and the light therefore all on his visitor's face. "I'm going to tell you first what you are up against."
The man shifted uneasily.
"You haven't got anything to hold me on," he said. "I've got my regular license to follow my trade."
"I was not aware the State was issuing licenses to burglars," said Garrison. "Come, now, with that hand of yours, what's the use of beating around the bush. If my suit-case had nipped you by the wrist instead of the fingers, I'd have captured you red-handed in the act."
The fellow thrust his hand in his pocket. His face, with two days' growth of beard upon it, turned a trifle pale.
"I'd rather work on your side than against you," he ventured. "A man has to make a living."
"You've come around to the point rather more promptly than I expected," said Garrison. "For fear that you may not keep your word, when it comes to a pinch, I'll inform you I can send you up on two separate charges, and I'll do so in a wink, if you try to double-cross me in the slightest particular."
"I haven't done anything but that one job at Branchville," said the man in alarm.
"What are you givin' me now?"
"What's your name?" demanded Garrison.
"Tuttle," said the fellow, after a moment of hesitation. "FrankTuttle."
"All right, Tuttle. You furnished Theodore Robinson with information concerning my movements and, in addition to your burglary at Branchville, you have made yourself accessory to a plot to commit a willful murder."
"I didn't! By Heaven, I didn't!" Tuttle answered. "I didn't have anything to do with that."
"With what?" asked Garrison. "You see you plunge into every trap I lay, almost before it is set."
He rose, went to his closet, never without his eye on his man, searched on the floor and brought forth the cold iron bomb. This he abruptly placed on Tuttle's knee.
Tuttle shrank in terror.
"Oh, Lord! I didn't! I didn't know they went in to do a thing like that!" he said. "I've been pretty desperate, I admit, Mr. Garrison, but I had no hand in this!"
The sweat on his forehead advertised his fear. He looked at Garrison in a stricken, ghastly manner that almost excited pity.
"But you knew that two of Robinson's assassins were to meet me in the park," said Garrison. "You procured their services—and expected to read of an accident to me in the papers the following morning."
He was risking a mere conjecture, but it went very near to the truth.
"So help me, I didn't go as far as that!" said Tuttle. "I admit I stole the letter up at Branchville, and sent it to Robinson at once. I admit I followed you back to New York and told him all I could. But I only gave him the names and addresses of the dagos, and I never knew what they had to do!"
Garrison took the bomb and placed it on his bureau.
"Very good," he said. "That makes you, as I said before, an accomplice to the crime attempted—in addition to the burglary, for which I could send you up. To square this off you'll go to work for me, and begin by supplying the names and addresses of your friends."
Tuttle was a picture of abject fear and defeat. His jaw hung down; his eyes were bulging in their sockets.
"You—you mean you'll give me a chance?" he said. "I'll do anything—anything you ask, if only you will!"
"Look here, Tuttle, your willingness to do anything has put you where you are. But I'll give you a chance, with the thorough understanding that the minute you attempt the slightest treachery you'll go up in spite of all you can do. First, we'll have the names of the dagos."
Tuttle all but broke down. He was not a hardened criminal. He had merely learned a few of the tricks by which crime may be committed, and, having failed in detective employment, had no substantial calling and was willing to attempt even questionable jobs, if the pay were found sufficient.
He supplied the names and addresses of the men who had done youngRobinson's bidding in Central Park. Garrison jotted them down.
"I suppose you know that I am in the detective business myself," he added, as he finished the writing.
"I thought so, but I wasn't sure," said Tuttle.
"You told young Robinson as much?"
"He hired me to tell him everything."
"Exactly. How much do you expect to tell him of what is going on to-day?"
"Nothing that you do not instruct," said Tuttle, still feeling insecure. "That is, if you meant what you said."
"I meant it," said Garrison, "meant it all. You're at work for me from this time on—and I expect the faithfulness of an honest man, no matter what you may have been before."
"You'll get it," said Tuttle. "I only want a show to start off square and right. . . . What do you want me to do?"
"There is nothing of great importance just at present, except to remember who is your boss," answered Garrison. "You may be obliged to double-cross Robinson to a slight extent, when he next hunts you up for your report. He deserves a little of the game, no matter how he gets it. Take his instructions the same as before. Tell him you have lost me for a time. Report to me promptly concerning his instructions and everything else. Do you know the address of my office?"
"You have never been there since I was put on the case," said Tuttle with commendable candor.
"All right," said Garrison. "It's down in the——"
A knock on the door interrupted. The landlady, a middle-aged woman who rarely appeared at Garrison's room, was standing on the landing when he went to investigate, and holding a message in her hand.
"A telegram for you," she said, and halting for a moment, she turned and retreated down the stairs.
Garrison tore the envelope apart, pulled out the yellow slip and read:
Please come over to 937 Hackatack Street, Jersey City, as soon as possible.
It was Dorothy, across the Hudson. A wave of relief, to know she was near and wished to see him, swept over Garrison's being.
"Here," he said to Tuttle, "here's the address on a card. Report to me there at six o'clock to-night. Get out now and go to young Robinson, but not at the house in Ninety-third Street."
"Why not?" inquired Tuttle. "Its the regular place——"
"I've ordered him not to enter the house again," interrupted Garrison. "By the way, should he attempt to do so, or ask you to get in there for him, agree to his instructions apparently, and let me know without delay."
"Thank you for giving me a chance," said Tuttle, who had risen from his chair. "You'll never regret it, I'm sure."
"All right," said Garrison. "Shake!"
He gave the astonished man a firm, friendly grip and bade him "So 'long!" at the door.
A few minutes later, dressed in his freshest apparel, he hastened out to gulp down a cup of strong coffee at an adjacent café, then headed downtown for the ferry.
The hour was just after four o'clock when Garrison stepped from a cab in Hackatack Street, Jersey City, and stood for a moment looking at the red-brick building numbered 937.
It was a shabby, smoke-soiled, neglected dwelling, with signs of life utterly lacking.
Made wary by his Central Park experience, Garrison had come there armed with his gun and suspiciously alert. His cabman was instructed to wait.
Without apparent hesitation Garrison ascended the chalk-marked steps and rang the bell.
Almost immediately the door was opened, by a small and rather pretty young woman, dressed in good taste, in the best of materials, and wearing a very fine diamond ring upon her finger.
Behind her, as Garrison instantly discerned, were rich and costly furnishings, singularly out of keeping with the shabby exterior of the place.
"How do you do?" he said, raising his hat. "Is my wife, Mrs.Fairfax——"
"Oh," interrupted the lady. "Won't you please come in? She hardly expected you to come so promptly. She's lying down to take a rest."
Garrison entered and was shown to a parlor on the left. It, too, was furnished in exceptional richness, but the air was close and stuffy, and the whole place uncomfortably dark.
"If you'll please sit down I'll go and tell her you have come," said his hostess. "Excuse me."
The smile on her face was somewhat forced and sad, thought Garrison.His feeling of suspicion had departed.
Left alone, he strode across the room and glanced at a number of pictures, hung upon the walls. They were excellent oils, one or two by masters.
Dorothy must have slept lightly, if at all. Garrison's back was still turned toward the entrance when her footfall came to his ear. She came swiftly into the apartment.
"Oh, you were very good to come so soon!" she said in a tone made low for none but him to hear. "I wired you, both at your house and office, not more than an hour ago."
"I got the message sent to the house," he said. "It came as a great relief." He paused for a moment, looking in her eyes, which were raised to his own appealingly. "Why did you run away?—and how did you do it?" he asked her. "I didn't know what in the world to think or do."
Her eyes were lowered.
"I had to—I mean, I simply obeyed an impulse," she confessed.
In an almost involuntary outburst she added: "I am in very great trouble. There is no one in the world but you that can give me any help."
All the pain she had caused him was forgotten in the joy of that instant. How he longed to take her in his arms and fold her in security against his breast! And he dared not even be tender.
"I am trying to help you, Dorothy," he said, "but I was utterly dumfounded, there in the crush on the bridge. Where did you go?"
"I ran along and was helped to escape the traffic," she explained. "Then I soon got a car, with my mind made up to come over here just as soon as I could. This is the home of my stepbrother's wife—Mrs. Foster Durgin. I had to come over and—and warn—I mean, I had to come, and so I came."
He had felt her disappearance had nothing to do with the vanishing of the chauffeur. Her statement confirmed his belief.
"Durgin?" Garrison repeated. "Didn't some Durgin, a nephew of Hardy, claim the body, up at Branchville?"
Dorothy was pale again, but resolute.
"Yes—Paul. He's Foster's brother."
"You told me you had neither brothers nor sisters," Garrison reminded her a little sternly. "These were not forgotten?"
"They are stepbrothers only—by marriage. I thought I could leave them out," she explained, flushing as she tried to meet his gaze. "Please don't think I meant to deceive you very much."
"It was a technical truth," he told her; "but isn't it time you told me everything? You ran off before I could even reply to something you appeared to wish to know. You——"
"But you don't suspect me?" she interrupted, instantly reverting to the question she had put before, in that moment of her impulse to run. "I couldn't bear it if I thought you did!"
"If I replied professionally, I should say I don't know what to think," he said. "The whole affair is complicated. As a matter of fact, I cannot seem to suspect you of anything wrong, but you've got to help me clear it as fast as I can."
She met his gaze steadily, for half a minute, then tears abruptly filled her eyes, and she lowered her gaze to the floor.
"Thank you, Jerold," she murmured, and a thrill went straight to his heart. "I am very much worried, and very unhappy—but I haven't done anything wrong—and nothing like that!—not even a wicked thought like that! I loved my uncle very dearly."
She broke down and turned away to give vent to an outburst of grief.
"There, there," said Garrison after a moment. "We must do the best we can. If you will tell me more, my help is likely to be greater."
Dorothy dried her eyes and resumed her courage heroically.
"I haven't asked you to be seated all this time," she said apologetically. "Please do—and I'll tell you all I can."
Garrison took a chair, while Dorothy sat near him. He thought he had never seen her in a mood of beauty more completely enthralling than this one of helplessness and bravery combined.
"We are quite, well—secure from being overheard?" he said.
She went at once and closed the door.
"Alice would never listen, greatly as she is worried," she said. "It was she who met you at the door—Foster's wife."
Garrison nodded. He was happy only when she came once more to her seat.
"This is your stepbrother's home?" he inquired. "Is he here?"
"This is Alice's property," Dorothy corrected. "But that's way ahead of the story. You told me my uncle was poisoned by my cigars. How could that possibly have been? How did you find it out? How was it done?"
"The box had been opened and two cigars had been so loaded with poison that when he bit off one, at the end, to light it up, he got the deadly stuff on his tongue—and was almost instantly stricken."
Despite the dimness of the light in the room Dorothy's face showed very white.
She asked; "What kind of poison?"
He mentioned the drug.
"Not the kind used by photographers?" she asked in affright.
"Precisely. Foster, then, is a photographer?"
"He used to be, but—— Oh, I don't see how he—it's terrible! It's terrible!"
She arose and crossed the room in agitation, then presently returned.
"Your suspicions may be wrong," said Garrison, who divined she had something on her mind. "Why not tell me all about it, and let me assist, if I can? What sort of a looking man is Foster?"
"Rather small, and nearly always smiling. But he may not have done it! He may be innocent! If only you could help me now!" she said. "I don't believe he could have done it!"
"But you half suspect it was he?"
"I've been afraid of it all along," she said, in an outburst of confession. "Before I even knew that Uncle John was—murdered—before you told me, I mean—I felt afraid that something of the kind might have happened, and since that hour I've been nearly distracted by my thoughts!"
"Let's take it slowly," said Garrison, in his soothing way. "I imagine there has been either anger or hatred, spite or pique on the part of your stepbrother, Foster, towards John Hardy in the past."
"Yes—everything! Uncle John spoiled Foster at first, but when he found the boy was gambling in Wall Street, he cut him off and refused to supply him the means to pay off the debts he had contracted. Foster threatened at the time.
"The breach grew wider. Uncle didn't know he was married to Alice. Foster wouldn't let me tell. He had used up nearly all of Alice's money. She refused to mortgage anything more, after I took the necklaces, on a loan—and if Foster doesn't get ten thousand dollars in August I don't know what he'll do!"
Garrison was following the threads of this quickly delivered narrative as best he might. It revealed a great deal, but not all.
"I see," he commented quietly. "But how could Foster hope to profit by the death of Mr. Hardy?"
Dorothy turned very white again.
"He knew of the will."
"The will that was drawn in your favor?"
"Yes."
"And he thought that you were married, that the conditions of the will had been fulfilled?"
Dorothy nodded assent.
Garrison's impulse was to push a point in personal affairs and ask if she had really married some Fairfax, not yet upon the scene. But he adhered strictly to business.
"What you fear is that Foster, aware that you would become your uncle's heir, may have hastened your uncle's end, in the hope that when you came in for the property you would liquidate his debts?"
Dorothy nodded again.
She said: "It is terrible! Do you see the slightest ray of hope?"
Garrison ignored the query for a moment.
"Where is Foster now?"
"No one knows—he seems to have run away—that's one of the worst things about it."
"But you came over here to warn him," said Garrison.
Dorothy flushed.
"That was my impulse, I admit, when you told me about the cigars. I hardly knew what else I could do."
"You are very fond of Foster?"
"I am very fond of Alice."
Garrison was glad. He could even have been jealous of a brother.
"But how could Foster have tampered with your cigars?" he inquired."Was he up there at Hickwood when you left them?"
"He was there all the time of uncle's visit, in hiding, and even on the night of his death," she confessed in a whisper. "Alice doesn't know of this, but he admitted it all to me."
"This is what you have been trying to conceal from me, all the time,"Garrison observed. "Do the Robinsons have their suspicions?"
"I can't be certain. Perhaps they have. Theodore has exercised a very bad influence on Foster's life. He intimated once to me that perhaps Uncle John had been murdered."
Garrison thought for a moment.
"It is almost impossible for anyone to have had that suspicion who had no guilty knowledge," he said. "Theodore was, and is, capable of any crime. If he knew about the will and believed you had not fulfilled the conditions, by marrying, he would have had all the motive in the world to commit the crime himself."
"But," said Dorothy, "he knew nothing of the will, as I told you before."
"And he with an influence over Foster, whodidknow all about the will?"
Dorothy changed color once again. She was startled.
"I never thought of that," she admitted. "Foster might have told."
"There's a great deal to clear up in a case like this," said Garrison, "even when suspicions point your course. I think I can land Mr. Theodore on the things he attempted on me, but not just yet. He may reveal himself a little more. Besides, our alleged marriage will hardly bear a close investigation."
For the moment Dorothy was more concerned by his personal danger than by anything concerning the case.
"You told me a little of what was attempted in the park," she said. "I've thought about it ever since—such a terrible attack! If anything dreadful should happen to you——"
She broke off suddenly, turned crimson to her hair, and dropped her gaze from his face.
In that moment he resisted the greatest temptation of his life—the impulse to sink at her feet on his knees, and tell her of his love. He knew she felt, as he did, the wondrous attraction between them; he knew that to her, as to himself, the impression was strong that they had known each other always; but hired as he had been to conduct an affair in which it had been particularly stipulated there was to be no sentiment, or even the slightest thought of such a development, he throttled his passion and held himself in check.
"Some guardian angel must have hovered near," was all he permitted himself to reply, but she fathomed the depth of his meaning.
"I hope some good spirit may continue to be helpful—to us both," she said. "What are you going to do next?"
"Take you back to New York," said Garrison. "I must have you near.But, while I think of it, please answer one thing more. How did ithappen that your uncle's life was insured for that inventor inHickwood, Charles Scott?"
"They were lifelong friends," said Dorothy. "They began as boys together. Uncle John was saved by this Mr. Scott, when he was twenty-one—his life was saved, I mean. And he was very much in love with Mr. Scott's sister. But something occurred, I hardly know what. The Scotts never had much money, and they lost the little they had. Miss Scott was very shamefully treated, I believe, by some other friend in the group, and she died before she was thirty—I've heard as a result of some great unhappiness.
"Uncle and Mr. Scott were always friends, though they drifted apart to some extent. Mr. Scott became an inventor, and spent all his poor wife's money, and also funds that Uncle John supplied, on his inventions. The insurance was Uncle John's last plan for befriending his old-time companion. There was no one else to make it in favor of, for of course the estate would take care of the heirs that he wished to remember. Does that answer your question?"
"Perfectly," said Garrison. "I think if you'll make ready we will start. Is there any particular place in New York where you prefer to stay?"
"No. I'd rather leave that to you."
"By the way," he said, his mind recurring to the motor-car incident and all that had followed, "did you know that when you deserted me so abruptly on the bridge, the chauffeur also disappeared—and left me with the auto on my hands?"
"Why, no!" she said. "What could it mean?"
"It seems to have been a stolen car," he answered. "It was left in charge of a strange young woman, too poor to own it—left her by a friend. She found it in my possession and accepted my explanation as to how it was I chanced to have it in my care. She is living in a house near Washington Square."
"How very strange!" said Dorothy, who had suddenly conceived some queer feminine thought. "If the house near Washington Square is nice, perhaps you might take me there. But tell me all about it!"
What could be actuating her woman's mind in this was more than he could tell. But—why not take her to that house as well as to any in New York?
"All right," he said. "It's a very nice place. I'll tell you the story as we go."