"Who married you?"

"A justice of the peace."

"Why not a minister?"

"Mr. Fairfax preferred the justice."

Garrison remained by the window stubbornly.

"You said the man is crazy. What did you mean?"

"Didn't you see?" she answered. "That light in his eyes is insanity. I thought it a soul-light shining through, though it worried me often, I admit. We were married at two in the afternoon and went at once to the station to wait there for the train. He bought the tickets and talked in his brilliant way until the train arrived. It only stopped for a moment.

"He put me on, then a spell came over him suddenly, I don't know what, and he pushed me off the steps, just as the train was moving out—and said the very thing you heard him say in here—and rode away and left me there, deserted."

She told it all in a dry-voiced way that cost her an effort, as Garrison felt and comprehended. He had turned about, in sheer sympathy for her predicament.

"What happened then?"

"I saw in a paper, two days later, he had been detained in a town in Ohio as being mentally unbalanced. In the meantime I had written to my Uncle John, while we were waiting at the station, telling him briefly I was married and to whom. The note was posted not five minutes before a postman came along and took up the letters in the box. I couldn't have stopped it had I wished to, and it never occurred to my mind to stop it, anyway."

"What did your uncle reply?"

"He wrote at once that he was thoroughly pleased. He had long hoped I might marry someone other than Theodore. He confessed that his will contained a clause to the effect that I should inherit no more than five thousand dollars, should I not have been married at least one month prior to his death, to a healthy, respectable man who was not my cousin.

"I dared not write that I had been deserted, or that Mr. Fairfax might be insane. I couldn't tell what to do. I hardly knew what to expect, or what I was, or anything. I could only pretend I was off on my honeymoon—and wait. Then came uncle's sudden death, and my lawyer sent me word about the will, asking when he should file it for probate. Then—then I knew I had to have a sane husband."

"And the will is not yet filed?"

"Not yet. And fortunately Mr. Trowbridge has had to be away."

Garrison pursued the topic of the will for purposes made necessary by his recent discoveries concerning a new one.

"Mr. Trowbridge had your uncle's testament in his keeping?"

Dorothy shook her head. "No. I believe he conferred with uncle's lawyer, just after his death, and read it there."

"Where did your uncle's lawyer live?"

"In Albany."

"Do you know his name?"

"I think it is Spikeman. Why?"

Garrison was looking at her again with professional coldness, despite the fact that his heart was fairly burning in his breast.

"Because," he said, "I learned from your stepbrother, Paul Durgin, near Rockdale, that your uncle made a later will, and we've got to get trace of the document before you can know where you stand."

Dorothy looked at him with her great brown eyes as startled as a deer's.

"Another will!" she said. "I may have lost everything, after all! What in the world would become of Foster then—and Alice?"

"And yourself?" added Garrison.

"Oh, it doesn't make the least difference about me," she answered in her bravery—bravery that made poor Garrison love her even more than before, "but they all depend so much upon me! Tell me, please, what did you find out about Foster?"

"Not a great deal," Garrison confessed. "This new will business was my most important discovery. Nevertheless, I confirmed your story of a man whom your uncle greatly feared. His name, it seems, is Hiram Cleave."

"That's the name! That's the man!" cried Dorothy. "I remember now! He once pinched my face till I cried."

"You have seen him, then? What sort of a looking being is he?"

"I don't remember much—only the horrid grin upon his face. I was only a child—and that impressed me. You didn't hear anything of Foster?"

"Not of his whereabouts—quite a bit concerning his character, none of it particularly flattering."

"I don't know where in the world he can be," said Dorothy. "Poor Alice! What are we going to do now, with all these new complications?"

"Do the best we can," said Garrison. "Aside from the will, and my work on the murder of your uncle, a great deal depends upon yourself, and your desires."

Dorothy looked at him in silence for a moment. A slight flush came to her face.

She said: "In what respect?"

Garrison had no intention of mincing matters now. He assumed a hardness of aspect wholly incompatible with his feelings.

"In respect to Mr. Fairfax," he answered. "He will doubtless return—dog your footsteps—make himself known to the Robinsons, and otherwise keep us entertained."

She met his gaze as a child might have done.

"What can I do? I've depended so much upon you. I don't like to ask too much—after this—or ever—— You've been more than kind. I didn't mean to be so helpless—or to wound your feelings, or——"

A knock at the door interrupted, and Tuttle entered the room.



CHAPTER XXVIII

A HELPLESS SITUATION

Confused thus to find himself in the presence of Dorothy as well as Garrison, Tuttle snatched off his hat and looked about him helplessly.

"How are you, Tuttle?" said Garrison. "Glad to see you. Come back in fifteen minutes, will you? I want your report."

"Fifteen minutes; yes, sir," said Tuttle, and he backed from the place.

"Who was that?" said Dorothy. "Anyone connected with the case?"

"A man that Theodore hired to shadow me," said Garrison. "I took him into camp and now he is shadowing Theodore. Let me ask you one or two questions before he returns. You were ill the morning after I left, and did not go at all to Eighteenth Street."

"I couldn't go," she said. "I tried not to give up and be so ill, but perhaps the effects of the drug that the Robinsons employed caused the trouble. At last I thought you might have written to the Eighteenth Street address, so I sent around and got your letters, before I could even send a wire."

"You wired because Fairfax had appeared?"

"Yes, I thought you ought to know."

"How did you know he was here in New York? Did he call at the house where you were staying?"

"No. He sent a note declaring he would call. That was this morning. Miss Ellis's friend, of the Star, had an intuition as to who we were, that evening when he called. When I finally requested Miss Ellis to ask him not to print more stories about us, he had already spoken to the editor, and more of the matter had appeared. Since you left, however, I haven't seen a single reporter."

"Fairfax got his clew to your whereabouts from the press, of course. The question now is, where do you wish to go? And what do you wish me to do—concerning the role I have filled?"

Dorothy was thoroughly disturbed by the topic.

"Oh, I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I wish I could never see that man again! What do you advise?"

"We hardly know what the situation may require, till we discover more about this latest will," said Garrison. "Things may be altered materially. If you wish it, you can doubtless manage to secure a separation from Fairfax. In the meantime I would strongly advise that you rent an apartment without delay, where no one can find you again."

She looked at him wistfully. "Not even you?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to see me, once in a while," he told her, suppressing the passionate outcry of his heart, "unless you wish to secure the services of someone who will make no mistakes."

She was hurt. She loved him. Her nature cried out for the sure protection of his arms, but her womanhood forbade. More than anything else in the world she wished to please him, but not by confessing her fondness.

However much she might loathe the thought, she was the wife of Jerold Fairfax, with everything precious to guard. By the token of the wound that Garrison had inflicted, she knew that she had wounded him. It could not have been avoided—there was nothing but a chasm between them.

"Please do not make me feel that I have been utterly despicable," she pleaded. "You have made no mistakes—in the conduct of the case. I should be so helpless without you."

Garrison knew he had hurt her. He was sorry. He knew her position was the only one possible for a woman such as he could love. He reviled himself for his selfishness. He forced himself now to return her gaze with no hint of anything save business in his eyes.

"Dorothy, I shall be honored to continue with your work," he said. "I mean to see you through."

"Thank you—Jerold," she said. Her voice all but broke. She had never loved him so much as now, and because of that had given herself the one little joy of calling him thus by his name. She added more bravely: "I'll find a room and send you the address as soon as possible. Meantime, I hope we will soon discover about this latest will."

"I shall do my best," he assured her. "Let me take you now to the annex elevator, in case anyone should be waiting to see you at the other. Get yourself a heavy veil, and be sure you avoid being followed when you hunt up your room. Take the apartment in the name of Miss Root, and send me word in that name also, just for precaution. Leave Fairfax and the others to me. I may go up to Albany about the will."

He opened the door, but she hesitated a moment longer.

"I hope it will all end somehow, for the best," she said. "It's very hard for you."

He smiled, but not mirthfully.

"It was here in this room I assumed my role," he said, "and here I drop it."

For a moment she failed to understand.

"Drop it?" she echoed. "How?"

"I'm no longer even your pseudo-husband. I drop the name Fairfax, with all it might imply."

She blushed crimson and could not meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry if I've been the cause——" she started.

Garrison interrupted.

"I'm glad—glad of everything that's happened. We'll say no more of that. But—Theodore—how he will gloat over this!"

"If he finds out Mr. Fairfax is crazy, he could overthrow the will," suggested Dorothy. "But—what's the use of thinking of that, if a new will comes to light? It's a dreadfully mixed affair." She stepped out in the hall and Garrison led the way to the elevator farther to the rear. The chains of a car were descending rapidly.

"Please try not to detest the hour I came to see you first," she said, holding out her hand, "if you can."

"I'll try," said Garrison, holding the precious little fingers for a second over the conventional time.

Glancing up at him quickly she saw a bright smile in his eye. Joy was in her heart. The car was at the floor.

"Good-by," she said, "till we meet again—soon."

"Good-by," he answered.

She stepped in the cage and was dropped from his sight, but her last glance remained—and made him happy.



CHAPTER XXIX

NIGHT-WALKERS

Tuttle had returned by the time Garrison came once more to his office. He entered the room behind his chief, and Garrison closed the door.

"Well?" said Jerold, "any news?"

"I got a line on young Robinson," answered Tuttle. "He's gone to a small resort named Rockbeach, up on the coast of Massachusetts, but his father doesn't know his business, or if he does he denies it."

"Rockbeach?" said Garrison, who realized at once that Theodore had gone there to search out the justice of the peace who had married Dorothy and Fairfax. "Is he up there still?"

"He hadn't come home this morning."

What so long an absence on Theodore's part might signify was a matter purely of conjecture. There was nothing more to be done but await developments. Whatever young Robinson's scheme, it might be wholly disorganized by the latest will that John Hardy had drawn.

"What about the two dagos—the fellows who attacked me in the park?" inquired Garrison. "Have you found out anything concerning them?"

Tuttle replied with a question. "Haven't you seen it in the papers?"

"Seen what?"

"Why, the bomb explosion and the rest of it—all Black Hand business last night," answered Tuttle. "One of our pair was killed outright, and the other one's dying, from a premature explosion of one of their gas-pipe cartridges. They attempted to blow up a boiler, under a tenement belonging to a man they'd tried to bleed, and it got 'em both."

He took from his pocket a two-column clipping from a morning newspaper, and placed it on the desk.

"Out of my hands, then; no chance to help send them up," commented Garrison reflectively, as he glanced through the article. "I'll keep this, if you don't mind," he added. "It may be useful with Robinson—in helping to warm up his blood."

"I tried to carry out instructions," said Tuttle, "but I couldn't find out where they were till this came out in print. I hope there's something else I can do."

Garrison thought for a moment.

"How many times have you been here to report?"

"Two or three times every day."

"Have you noticed a tall, light-haired man, with a long mustache, around here at all, either to-day or yesterday?"

"If he's got blue eyes and wears a brown striped suit, he was here this morning and asked me where he could find you," Tuttle answered. "Is that your man?"

"The same. His name is Fairfax. He's the real Fairfax. He'll be likely to return. Until Robinson appears again, you can keep your eye on this office, spot Fairfax, and then keep him shadowed for a time. Find where he lives, where he goes, and what he does."

"Anything more?"

"Keep track of old man Robinson, and let me know as soon as Theodore returns."

Tuttle rose as if to go. He hesitated, turning his hat in his hands.

"Would it be asking too much if I suggested I need a little money?" he inquired. "The Robinsons pay with hot air."

"I can let you have twenty-five," said Garrison, pulling out his rapidly diminishing roll. "That do?"

"Fine," said Tuttle, receiving the bills. "When shall I——"

A messenger boy came plunging in at the door without the slightest formality.

"Telegram for Garrison," he said. "Sign here."

"Wait half a minute, Tuttle," said Garrison, tearing open the envelope, as the boy was departing, and he read the wire almost at a glance.

It was dated from Branchville.

Come up here as soon as possible. Important.

JAMES PIKE.

For a moment Garrison failed to remember the personality of James Pike. Then it came with a flash—the coroner! Aware at once that the tale of possible murder in the Hardy case had been spread and discussed all over the State, he realized that Pike, and others who had been concerned when John Hardy's body was found in their jurisdiction, might have come upon new material.

"Nothing to add to instructions," he said to Tuttle. "I shall be out of town to-night, and perhaps a part of to-morrow."

Tuttle took his leave. Garrison paced up and down the office floor for half an hour. He was very much in hopes that word might come from Dorothy as to where she had chosen a room. The afternoon was gone, and he was famished.

He left at last, went to a restaurant, ate a hearty meal, and returned to the office rather late. On the floor lay a notification of a special delivery letter, to be had at the nearest substation.

He was there in the shortest possible time.

The letter was from Dorothy. It began "Dear Jerold," but it merely informed him she had found apartments on Madison Avenue, not far from Twenty-ninth Street.

He wrote her a note to acquaint her with the fact that new developments called him at once to Branchville, whence he might continue to Albany, and this, with a dozen magnificent roses, he sent by special messenger to Miss Jeraldine Root.

He was still enabled to catch a fairly early train from Grand Central Station.

A little after eight o'clock he arrived in Branchville, found James Pike's real-estate office ablaze with light, and walked in on that busy gentleman, who rose in excitement to grasp him by the hand.

"You got my wire?" demanded Mr. Pike. "I'm awful glad you came. I turned up something in the Hardy case that I think you ought to know. Got a man coming 'round here in fifteen minutes who read up on the murder suspicions and the rest of it, and he saw a stranger, down in Hickwood the night of Hardy's death, get into Hardy's room at Mrs. Wilson's. It just struck me you ought to know, and so I wired."

"Thank you very much," said Garrison. "I consider this highly important. Who is your man?"

"He ain't a man, he's a boy; young Will Barnes," amended the coroner. "Most people think he's just a lazy, no-account young feller, but I've always said he was growin'. Goes fishin' a good deal, of course, but—— There he goes, now!" He ran to the door, through the glass of which he had seen a tall, lanky youth across the way.

"Hi, Will!" he yelled, "come over, the New York man is waiting!"

Young Barnes came slowly across the highway.

"I've got to git some hooks," he said. "If I don't get 'em now the store'll close."

"This is more important than hooks," answered Pike. "Come in here. Mr. Garrison, this is Mr. Barnes. Will, Mr. Garrison, the New York detective."

Quite unimpressed by Garrison's personality or calling, Will advanced and shook his hand.

Garrison looked him over quickly.

"You're the man who saw a stranger going into Hardy's room, at Mrs. Wilson's, the night that Hardy died, I believe?" he said. "How did you happen to be there?"

"He lives right near," volunteered Mr. Pike.

"I was gettin' night-walkers," said Will.

"Night-walkers?" repeated Garrison. "People?"

"Fishin' worms," supplied Mr. Pike. "Angleworms walk at night and Will gits 'em for bait. Goes out with a dark lantern and picks 'em up."

"I see," said Garrison. "What sort of a looking person was the man who got into Mrs. Wilson's house?"

"A little shaver, that's all I could see," said the youthful angler.

The description tallied closely with all that Garrison had heard before of Hiram Cleave, or Foster Durgin.

"Very good," he said. "Did you see what he did in the room?"

"Didn't do nuthin' but steal a couple of cigars," informed the disciple of Walton. "He wasn't there more'n about a minute."

"But he did steal a couple of cigars?" echoed Garrison, keenly alert to the vital significance of this new evidence. "Did he take them from the table?"

"Nope. Took 'em out of a box."

"Then came out by the window and departed?"

"Yep, he sneaked."

"Why didn't you tell anyone of this before?"

"Nobody asked me."

"And he ain't got no use for Mrs. Wilson, nor she for him," supplemented the coroner. "But I thought you ought to know."

"Would you know the man again if you should see him?" Garrison inquired.

"Sure."

"Do you know where he went when he left the house, or yard? Did you follow him at all?"

"No, the night-walkers was too thick."

Garrison knew the lay of the yard at Mrs. Wilson's. He knew the room. There was no particular reason for visiting the scene again. There was nothing, in fact, to do at all except to visit the dealer in New York who had sold the cigars to Dorothy, and hope for news of Foster Durgin or the speedy arrival of the photograph of Cleave, which the old man in Rockdale had promised. He asked one more question.

"Was he young or old?"

"Don't know," said Will, grinning. "He didn't say."

Garrison rose to go.

"This is all of the utmost importance. I may be obliged to have you come down to New York—if I can find the man. But when you come it will be at my expense."

"The fishin's awful good right now," objected Will. "I don't know about New York."

"You can pick yourself out a five-dollar rod," added Garrison. "I'll wire you when to come."

Garrison left for Albany at once. He found himself obliged to take a roundabout course which brought him there late in the night.

In the morning he succeeded in running down a John W. Spikeman, who had served as Hardy's lawyer for many years.

The man was ill in bed, delirious, a condition which had lasted for several days. Naturally no word concerning the Hardy affair had come to his notice—hence his silence on the subject, a silence which Garrison had not heretofore understood.

He could not be seen, and to see him would have been of no avail, since his mind was temporarily deranged.

The utmost that Garrison could do was to go to the clerk at his office. This man, a very fleshy person, decidedly English and punctilious, was most reluctant to divulge what he was pleased to term the professional secrets of the office.

Under pressure of flattery and a clever cross-examination, he at length admitted that Mr. Hardy had drawn a will, within a week of his death, that Mr. Spikeman had declared it perfect, and that he and another had signed it as witnesses all in proper form. Concerning the contents of the document he was absolutely dumb. No amount of questioning, flattery, or persuasion would induce him to divulge so much as a word of what he had witnessed.

Garrison gave up with one more inquiry:

"Was the will deposited here in Mr. Spikeman's vault?"

"No, sir," said the clerk; "Mr. Hardy took it with him when he went."

Garrison's hopes abruptly wilted.



CHAPTER XXX

OVERTURES FROM THE ENEMY

Leaving Spikeman's office, Garrison walked aimlessly away, reflecting on the many complications so recently developed, together with the factors in the case, and all its possibilities. He was shutting from his mind, as far as possible, the thoughts of Fairfax, Dorothy's husband, whose coming he had feared by intuition from the first.

The actual appearance of a husband on the scene had come as a shock, despite his many warnings to himself. What could develop along that particular line was more than he cared to conjecture. He felt himself robbed, distracted, all but purposeless, yet knew he must still go on with Dorothy's affairs, though the other man reap the reward.

Forcing his mind to the Hardy affair, he found himself standing as one at the edge where things ought to be patent; nevertheless a fog was there, obscuring all in mystery.

Some man had entered Hardy's room and tampered with Dorothy's cigars. This did not necessarily absolve Charles Scott, the insurance beneficiary, from suspicion, yet was all in his favor. The Hiram Cleave was an unknown quantity. Unfortunately the general description of the man who had entered Hardy's room tallied closely with Dorothy's description of Foster Durgin, whom she herself suspected of the crime. He had been in Hickwood, lurking near his uncle for several days. He had since run away and was apparently in hiding.

Intending to make an endeavor to seek out young Durgin and confront him with Barnes, who had seen the intruder in Hardy's room, and intending also to visit the dealer in tobacco from whom Dorothy had purchased her cigars, Garrison made his way to the railway station to return once more to New York.

The matter of finding Hardy's will was on his mind as a constant worry. It had not been found among his possessions or on his person. It could have been stolen from his room. If this should prove to be the case it would appear exceedingly unfavorable for Durgin. It was not at all unlikely that he might have been aware of something concerning the testament, while Hiram Cleave, if such a person existed, would have had no special interest in the document, one way or another.

Another possibility was that Hardy had hidden the will away, but this seemed rather unlikely.

Comfortably installed on a train at last, Garrison recalled his first deductions, made when he came upon the fact of the poisoned cigars. The person who had prepared the weeds must have known very many of Hardy's personal habits—that of taking the end cigar from a box, and of biting the point instead of cutting it off with his knife, for instance. These were things with which Foster, no doubt, would be well acquainted. And in photographic work he had handled the deadly poison employed for Hardy's death.

Again, as he had a hundred times before, Garrison accused himself of crass stupidity in permitting someone to abstract that cigar from his pocket. It might have been lost: this he knew, but he felt convinced it had been stolen. And since he was certain that Dorothy was not the one, he could think of no chance that a thief could have had to extract it without attracting his attention.

When at length he arrived once more in Manhattan, he proceeded at once to the shop on Amsterdam Avenue where Dorothy had purchased her cigars. Here he found a short individual in charge of a general business, including stationery, candy, newspapers, and toys, in addition to the articles for smokers.

Garrison pulled out his memorandum concerning that box of cigars still in possession of Pike, at Branchville.

"I dropped in to see if by any chance you recall the sale of a box of cigars some little time ago," he said, and he read off the name of the brand. "You sold them to a lady—a young lady. Perhaps you remember."

"Oh, yes," agreed the man. "I don't sell many by the box."

"Did anyone else come in while she was here, or shortly after, and buy some cigars of this same brand?" He awaited the dealer's slow process of memory and speech with eager interest.

"Y-e-s, I think so," said the man after a pause. "Yes, sure, a small man. He bought a box just the same. Two boxes in one evening—I don't do that every day."

"A man, you say—a small man. Was he young?"

"I don't remember very well. He was sick, I think. He had a handkerchief on his face and his hat was pulled far down."

"But surely you remember whether he was young or not," insisted Garrison. "Try to think."

A child came in to buy a stick of candy. The dealer attended to her needs while Garrison waited. When he returned he shook his head.

"So many people come," he said, "I don't remember."

Garrison tried him with a score of questions, but to no avail. He could add nothing to what he had supplied, and the vagueness that shadowed the figure of the man had not been illumined in the least. Beyond the fact that a small man had followed Dorothy inside the store and purchased the duplicate of her cigars, there was nothing of significance revealed.

Disappointed, even accusing himself of dullness and lack of resources in the all-important discovery of his unknown man's identity. Garrison went out upon the street. He felt himself in a measure disloyal to Dorothy in his growing conviction that young Foster Durgin was guilty. He was sorry, but helpless. He must follow the trail wheresoever it led.

He ate a belated luncheon, after which he went to his office.

There were two letters lying on the floor, neither one addressed in a hand he knew. The first he opened was from Theodore. It was brief:

DEAR SIR:

If you can find the time to grant me an interview, I feel confident I can communicate something of interest.

Yours truly, THEODORE ROBINSON.

His street address was written at the top.

Garrison laid the letter on the desk and opened the second. If the first had occasioned a feeling of vague wonder in his breast, the other was far more potently stirring. It read:

DEAR MR. GARRISON:

I called once, but you were out. Shall return again about four-thirty.

Trusting to see you, FOSTER DURGIN.

Without even halting to lock the door as he fled from the place Garrison hastened pell-mell to the telegraph-office, on the entrance floor of the building, and filed the following despatch:

JAMES PIKE, Branchville, N. Y.:

Get Will Barnes on train, headed for my office, soon as possible.

GARRISON.

As he stepped in the elevator to return to his floor, he found Tuttle in the corner of the car.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE FRET OF WAITING

Tuttle had performed his services fairly well. He reported that young Robinson had returned to town and had lost no time in dismissing him, with a promise to pay for services rendered by the end of the week. Theodore had seemed content with the bald report which Tuttle had made concerning Garrison's almost total absence from his office, and had rather appeared to be satisfied to let the case develop for the present.

Tuttle knew nothing of the note on Garrison's desk from Theodore, and was therefore unaware how his news affected his chief, who wondered yet again what might be impending.

Concerning Fairfax there was news that was equally disquieting. He had been here once, apparently quite sane again. He had talked with Tuttle freely of a big surprise he had in store for the man who had hidden his wife, and then he had gone to his lodgings, near at hand, departing almost immediately with a suit-case in his hand and proceeding to the station, where he had taken a train on a ticket purchased for Branchville.

Tuttle, uninstructed as to following in a circumstance like this, had there dropped the trail.

"What seemed to be the nature of the big surprise he had in mind?" inquired Garrison. "Could you gather anything at all?"

"Nothing more than that. He appeared to be brooding over some sort of revenge he had in his mind, or something he meant to do, but he was careful to keep it to himself."

"He said nothing at all of leaving New York?"

"Not a word."

"You are positive he bought a ticket for Branchville?"

"Oh, sure," said Tuttle.

Garrison reflected for a moment. "I rather wish you had followed. However, he may return. Keep your eye on the place where he was rooming. Have you noticed anyone else around the office here—reporters, for instance?"

"No. The story's a sort of a dead one with the papers. Young Robinson was gone, and you kept out of sight, and nothing came up to prove any thing."

"You must have been talking to some newspaper man yourself," was Garrison's comment. He looked at Tuttle keenly.

"I did, yes, sir. One of them saw me here two or three times and finally asked me what paper I represented. I told him the Cable."

Garrison paced up and down the floor somewhat restlessly.

"I think of nothing further except for you to keep an eye on the Robinsons," he said. "Wait a minute. I want you to go to the Ninety-third Street house with a note I'll give you to the housekeeper, and examine the closet, in the back room, first flight up, to see if an equipment telephone is still in place there, concealed beneath a lot of clothing."

He sat down, wrote the note, and gave it to Tuttle, who departed with instructions to return with his report as soon as possible.

The office oppressed Garrison. It seemed to confine him. He prodded himself with a hundred vague notions that there ought to be something he could do, some way to get at things more rapidly. He wondered how far he would find it possible to go with Foster Durgin, and what the fellow would say or do, if confronted with the cold-blooded facts already collated.

Up and down and up and down he paced, impatient of every minute that sped away bringing nothing to the door. Would Barnes arrive in time, or at all? Would Durgin fail to come? Did Dorothy know of his presence in the city?

Everything always swung back to Dorothy. What would she do concerning Fairfax? What would Fairfax himself attempt to do, so far baffled, but a factor with a hold upon her name and, perhaps, upon her fortune? And if the thing should all be cleared at last, and come to its end, as all things must, what would be the outcome for himself and Dorothy?

She had told him at the start that when her business ends had been completely served she would wish him to dismiss himself,—from her life and her memory forever. He smiled at the utter futility of such a behest. It had gone beyond his power to forget like this, though a century of time should elapse.

For an hour he paced his cage impatiently, and nothing happened. A dozen times he went to the door, opened it and looked out in the hall—to no avail. The moment for young Durgin to arrive was at hand. It was almost time for young Barnes to appear.

Tuttle should have made his trip by this. The postman should have brought that photograph from Israel Snow, of Rockdale. Dorothy might at least 'phone.

It was maddening to wait and feel so impotent! His mind reverted to various phases of the case, but lingered most upon the second will—that might mean so much to Dorothy. Where had it gone? Had it been stolen—or hidden? Some way he felt it was hidden. For some reason, wholly illogical, he thought of Hardy lying dead with those grease-like stains upon his knuckles. What did they mean?

Working out a line of thought about the will, he was halted abruptly by a shadow on the glass of his door. He sat down quickly at his desk and assumed an air of calmness he was far from feeling. At the knock which came he called to the visitor to enter.

The visitor entered. It was Wicks.

"Oh, how do you do?" said Garrison, rising from his chair. "Come in. Come in, Mr. Wicks."



CHAPTER XXXII

A TRAGIC CULMINATION

The grin on the face of Mr. Wicks had apparently deepened and become even more sardonic. He glanced Garrison over in his sharp, penetrative manner, heightened by his nervousness, and took a chair.

"Forgotten instructions, haven't you, Garrison?" he snapped, adjusting his thin wisp of hair. "Where's your report on the case of Hardy, all these days?"

"Well, I admit I've rather neglected the office," said Garrison, eying his visitor with a new, strange interest. "I've been hard at work. I've lost no time. The case is not at all simple."

"What's all this business in the papers? You mixing up with some niece of Hardy's, and the girl getting married to save an inheritance?" demanded Wicks. "What the devil do you mean?"

"That part is my private affair," answered Garrison calmly. "It has nothing to do with my work for your company, nor has it interfered in the least with my prosecution of the inquiry."

"Do you mean to say it hasn't delayed your reports?"

"What if it has? I've had nothing to report—particularly."

"Yes, you have," snapped Wicks. "You know it was murder—that's something to report!"

Garrison studied the man deliberately for half a minute before replying. What a living embodiment of Durgin's description of Hiram Cleave he was! And what could he know of the facts in the case of Hardy's death that would warrant him in charging that the affair was known to be murder?

"Do I know it was murder?" he queried coldly. "Have I said so, Mr. Wicks, to you, or to anyone else?"

Wicks glanced at him with a quick, roving dart from his eyes.

"You saw what was printed in the papers," he answered evasively. "You must have given it out."

"I gave out nothing," said Garrison, bent now on a new line of thought, and determined that he would not accuse young Durgin by name till driven to the last extremity. "But, as a matter of fact, I do know, Mr. Wicks, that Hardy was murdered."

"Then why the devil don't you report to that effect?" snapped Wicks. "Are you trying to shield that young woman?"

Garrison knew whom he meant, but he asked: "What young woman?"

"Dorothy Booth-Fairfax! You know who I mean!"

"What has she to do with it?" Garrison inquired in apparent innocence. "Why should you think I'm shielding her?"

"She's the likely one—the only one who could benefit by Hardy's death!" answered Wicks, a little less aggressively. "You could see that by the accounts in the paper."

"I haven't read the papers for guidance," Garrison observed dryly. "Have you?"

"I didn't come here to answer questions. I came to ask them. I demand your report!" said Mr. Wicks. "I want to know all that you know!"

Garrison reflected that the little man knew too much. It suddenly occurred to his mind, as the man's sharp eyes picked up every speck or fleck upon his clothing, that Wicks, in the Subway that evening when they rode together in the jostling crowd, could have filched that poisoned cigar from his pocket with the utmost ease. He determined to try a little game.

"I've been waiting for the last completing link in my chain," he said, "before accusing any man of murder. You are right in supposing that I have found out more than I've reported—but only in the last few days and hours. I told you before that I thought perhaps Hardy had been poisoned."

"Well! What more? How was it done?"

"The poison employed was crushed to a powder," and he mentioned the name of the stuff.

"Used by photographers," commented Wicks.

"Not exclusively, but at times, yes."

"How was the stuff administered?"

"I think in a fifteen-cent cigar." Garrison was watching him closely while apparently toying with a pen.

"Very good," said Wicks with an air of satisfaction that was not exactly understandable. "I presume you have something to go on—something by way of evidence?"

"No," said Garrison, "unfortunately I have not. I had a second cigar which I believe was prepared with the poison, but I committed the blunder of losing it somewhere—Heaven alone knows where."

"That's devilish poor business!" cried Wicks in apparent exasperation. "But you haven't said why you believe the man got the poison in any such manner. On what do you base your conclusions?"

"Near where the man was found dead I discovered an unsmoked cigar," answered Garrison, watching the effect of his words. "It contained what little of the powder the victim had not absorbed."

Wicks looked at him almost calmly.

"You've done good work," he said. "It's a pity you lost that second cigar. And, by the way, where did you get it?"

Garrison realized that, despite his intended precautions, he had gone irretrievably into disclosures that were fetching the case up to Dorothy or young Foster Durgin. In his eagerness to pursue a new theory, he had permitted Wicks to draw him farther than he had ever intended to go. There was no escape. He decided to put it through.

"I got it from a box, at the coroner's office," he admitted.

"Mr. Garrison, what do you mean by withholding all these facts?" demanded Wicks sharply. "Where did Hardy get the box of cigars?"

Garrison would gladly have evaded this question, but he was helpless.

"They were a birthday present from his niece."

"This Miss Booth-Fairfax?"

"Yes."

"And you're in love with her!—masquerading as her husband! What do you mean by saying you've not attempted to shield her?"

"Now go slow, Mr. Wicks," cautioned Garrison. "I know what I'm doing in this case. It was given to me to ferret out—and I'll go through it to the end—no matter who is found guilty."

"That's better!" said Wicks. "You don't believe it's this young woman. Who else could have as good a motive?"

Garrison was fighting for time. A sacrifice was necessary. He utilized young Durgin, who might, after all, be guilty.

"Miss Booth, or Mrs. Fairfax, has a step-brother, by marriage," he said. "He has worked at photography. He gambles in Wall Street. He was desperate—but as yet I have no positive proof that he did this crime. I am waiting for developments—and expecting things at any moment."

"Where is the man?" said Wicks. "What's his name?"

"Foster Durgin. I'm waiting for him now. He's fifteen minutes overdue."

"Arrest him when he comes!" commanded Wicks. "Take no chances on letting him escape!"

"Perhaps that's good advice," said Garrison slowly. "I'll think it over."

"He's the only one you suspect?"

"Well, there's one more element, somewhat vague and unsubstantiated," admitted Garrison. "There's a man, it seems, who threatened Hardy years ago. He has followed Hardy about persistently. Hardy appeared to fear him greatly, which accounts for his ceaseless roving. This man may and may not have accomplished some long-planned revenge at Branchville. He appears to be somewhat mystical, but I felt it my business to investigate every possible clew."

"Certainly," said Wicks, whose scrutiny of Garrison's face had grown once more abnormally acute. "What's his name?"

Garrison focused his eyes on the man across the desk incisively.

"Hiram Cleave."

So far as he could see there was not so much as a flicker to show that his shot had gone home.

Wicks spoke up, no less aggressively than before.

"Where is he now?"

"No one seems to know. I hope to discover—and report."

Wicks rose and took his hat from the desk.

"Except for your negligence in appearing at the office," he said, "you have done fairly well. Shall you need any help in arresting Durgin? If you wish it I——"

A knock on the door interrupted. A postman entered, met Garrison as he was stepping across the floor, and handed him a thin, flat parcel, crudely wrapped and tied. It was postmarked Rockdale.

Garrison knew it for the photograph—the picture of Cleave for which he had hoped and waited.

"Wait just a minute, Mr. Wicks," he said, backing toward the door with intent to keep his man from departing. "This is a letter from a friend who is helping on the case. Let me look it through. I may have more to report before you go."

Wicks sat down again.

Garrison remained by the door. He was cutting the string on the package when a second knock on the glass behind him gave him a start.

He opened the door. A small, rather smiling young man was in the hall.

"Mr. Garrison?" he said. "My name is——"

"How do you do?" Garrison interrupted loudly, having instantly recognized Foster Durgin, from a strong resemblance to his older brother, and instantly calling out: "Excuse me a moment, Mr. Wicks," stepped out in the hall and closed the door.

"My name is Durgin," said the visitor. "I called before——"

"I know," interrupted Garrison, moving down the hall and speaking in a voice so low he was certain Wicks could hear nothing, from behind the door, even should he try. "I've been expecting you. I want you to do something quickly, before we try to have a talk. I want you to go downstairs, ring up police headquarters and ask for a couple of officers to come as quickly as they can travel."

"What for? I don't——"

"I've got to arrest the man who murdered your uncle," said Garrison, using the most searching and startling method at command to put young Durgin to the test of guilt or innocence. "Act first and come back afterward!"

"I'm with you!" said Durgin. "Got him, have you?—what's his name?"

He was innocent.

Garrison knew it, and instantly concluded that the young man before him could hardly have stolen the uncle's second will. But he had no time for ramifying inquiries. He pushed his visitor toward the elevator and only answered with more urging for speed.

He returned to the office, tearing off the wrapper from his picture as he went. He glanced at it once before he opened the door. It was Wicks—not so bald—not so aggressive of aspect, but Wicks beyond the shadow of a doubt. On the back was written "Hiram Cleave."

Wicks turned upon him as he entered.

"I can't wait here all day while you conduct your business in the hall," he said. "Who was the man outside?"

Garrison had grown singularly calm.

"That," he said, "was Foster Durgin."

"And you let him get away?" cried Wicks wrathfully. "Mr. Garrison——"

Garrison interrupted curtly.

"I took your advice and sent him to get the police. Good joke, isn't it, to have him summon the officers to arrest the man who murdered his uncle?"

Wicks had an intuition or a fear. He stared at Garrison wildly. Garrison remained by the door.

"What do you mean to do?" demanded the visitor.

"Wait a few minutes and see," was Garrison's reply. "Meantime, here is a photograph of the man who threatened Hardy's life. And, by the way," he added, holding the picture with its face toward himself, in attitude of carelessness, "I forgot to say before that a man was seen entering Hardy's room, in Hickwood, the night of the murder. He extracted two cigars from the box presented to Hardy by his niece, and in their place he deposited others, precisely like them, purchased at the same little store in Amsterdam Avenue where she obtained hers, and bought, moreover, within a very few minutes of her visit to the shop. All of which bears upon the case."

Wicks was eying him now with a menacing, furtive glance that shifted with extraordinary rapidity. He had paled a trifle about the mouth.

"Mr. Garrison," he said, "you are trifling with this matter. What do you mean?"

"Just what I said," answered Garrison. "The witness who saw the murderer leave his deadly cigars in that box should have arrived by now to identify the criminal. This photograph, as I said before, is a picture of the man I think guilty."

He advanced a step, with no intention of abandoning the door, and delivered the picture into his visitor's hand.

Wicks glanced down at it furtively. His face turned livid.

"So!" he cried. "You think you—— Get away from that door!"

He made a swift movement forward, but Garrison blocked his way.

"Not till your friends the policemen arrive!" he said. "It was your own suggestion, and good."

"You act like a crazy man!" Wicks declared with a sudden change of manner. "I'll have you discharged—you are discharged! The case is out of your hands. You——"

For the third time a knock was sounded on the door.

"Come in!" called Garrison, keeping his eyes on Wicks, whose face had turned from the red of rage to the white of sudden fear. "Come in—don't wait!"

It was Pike and young Will Barnes.

"That's the man!" said the youth on entering, his eyes transfixed by Wicks. "Look at him laugh!"

"I'd kill you all if I had a gun!" cried Wicks in an outburst of malignity. "I killed Hardy, yes! I said I'd get him, and I got him! It's all I lived for, but, by Heaven! you'll never take me to jail alive!"

He caught up a chair, ran to the window, and beat out the glass with a blow. Garrison ran to snatch him back, but Wicks swung the chair and it broke on Garrison's head and he went down abruptly in a heap.

There were two sharp cries. Wicks made one as he leaped to his death from the sill.

The other came in a woman's utterance.

It was Dorothy, at the open door.

"Jerold!" she cried, and ran into the room and knelt where he lay on the floor.

He was merely stunned. He recovered as if by the power of stubbornness, with his mind strangely occupied by thoughts of Hardy's will—the hidden will—and the fingers stained with black. When he opened his eyes he was looking up in the sweetest, most anxious face in all the world.

"Help me up. Let me go before everyone comes," he said. "I believe I know where to find your uncle's will!"

It was already too late. Durgin and two policemen appeared at the open door.



CHAPTER XXXIII

FOSTER DURGIN

Confusion reigned in the office presently, for more of the officers came upon the scene, and people from adjoining rooms helped to swell the numbers. Everyone was talking at once.

The form of Wicks, motionless and broken, lay far below the window, on the pavement of an air and light shaft, formed like a niche in the building. Garrison sent Dorothy to her lodgings, promising to visit her soon. There was nothing she could do in such a place, and he felt there was much she should be spared.

Pike, young Barnes, and Foster Durgin remained, the two former as witnesses of what had occurred, Durgin by Garrison's request. All others were presently closed out of the office, and the body of Wicks was removed.

The hour that followed, an hour of answering questions, making statements, proving who he was and what, was a time that Garrison disliked exceedingly, but it could not be escaped. Reporters had speedily gathered; the story would make a highly sensational sequel to the one already printed.

The guilt of Wicks had been confessed. Corroborative testimony being quite abundant, and every link in the chain complete, the affair left no possible suspicion resting upon either Scott or any of Hardy's relatives; and Garrison and Durgin refused to talk of Dorothy's marriage or anything concerning the will.

The story used before was, of course, reviewed at length. Despite the delays of the investigation immediately undertaken, Garrison managed at last to secure the freedom of Pike and Will Barnes, in addition to that of himself and Foster Durgin. As good as his word, he took the disciple of Walton to a first-class dealer in sportsmen's articles and bought him a five-dollar rod. Barnes and the coroner of Branchville started somewhat late for their town.

The evening was fairly well advanced when at length young Durgin and Garrison found themselves enabled to escape officials, reporters, and the merely curious, to retire to a quiet restaurant for something to eat and a chat.

Durgin, as he sat there confronting his host, presented a picture to Garrison of virtues mixed with hurtful tendencies. A certain look of melancholy lingered about his eyes. His mouth was of the sensitive description. His gaze was steady, but a boyish expression of defiance somewhat marred an otherwise pleasant countenance.

He showed both the effects of early spoiling and the subsequent intolerance of altered conditions. On the whole, however, he seemed a manly young fellow in whom regeneration was more than merely promised.

Garrison ordered the dinner—and his taste was both excellent and generous.

"Mr. Durgin," he said at last with startling candor, "it looked for a time as if you yourself were concerned in the death of Mr. Hardy. More than half the pleasure that Dorothy will experience in the outcome of to-day's affairs will arise from her knowledge of your innocence."

Foster met his gaze steadily.

"I am sorry for many of the worries I have caused," he said, in a quiet, unresentful manner, free alike from surprise or anger. "I've been trying to do better. You knew I'd been away?"

"That was one of the features of the case that looked a little suspicious," answered Garrison.

"I didn't care to tell where I was going, in case my mission should fail," the young fellow imparted. "I went after work—good, clean, well-paying work—and I got it. I can hold up my head at last."

A look of pride had come upon his face, but his lip was trembling. That the fight he had waged with himself was manly, and worthily won, to some considerable extent, was a thing that Garrison felt. He had no intention of preaching and no inclination for the task.

"'Nuff said," he answered. "Shake. Here comes the soup."

They shook hands over the table. No further reference was made to a personal subject. Some way Garrison felt that a man had come to take the place of a boy, and while he reflected that the fight was not yet absolutely finished, and the bitterness of it might remain for some time yet to come, nevertheless he was thoroughly convinced that through some great lesson, or some awakening influence, Foster had come to his manhood and could henceforth be trusted to merit respect and the trust of all his fellow-beings.

Garrison, alone, at nine o'clock, had an impulse to hasten off to Branchville. In the brief time of lying unconscious on the floor when Wicks struck him down, he had felt some strange psychic sense take possession of his being, long enough for the room that Hardy had occupied in Hickwood to come into vision, as if through walls made transparent.

He had merely a dim, fading memory that when he awoke he had spoken to Dorothy, telling her to help him to go, that the hiding-place of Hardy's will had been at last revealed. As he thought of it now, on his way to Dorothy's abiding place, he shook his head in doubt. It was probably all an idle dream.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE RICHES OF THE WORLD

Dorothy was waiting to see him. She was still excited, still anxious concerning himself. She had quite forgotten his words about the will in her worry lest the blow on his head had proved more serious than had at first appeared.

He met her quietly in a large, common parlor—the duplicate of a thousand such rooms in New York—and was thoroughly determined to curb the impetuous surging of his feelings. She was wearing a bunch of his carnations, and had never seemed more beautiful in all her wondrous moods of beauty.

Just to have sat where he could look upon her all he wished, without restraint or conventions, would almost have satisfied his soul. But she gave him her hand with a grace so compelling, and her eyes asked their question so tenderly—a question only of his welfare—that riot was loosed in his veins once more and love surged over him in billows.

"I was afraid you might not come," she said. "I have never been more worried or afraid. Such a terrible moment—all of it—and that creature striking you down! If you hadn't come I'd have been so sure you were very badly hurt. I'd have felt so guilty for all I've done to jeopardize your life in my petty affairs."

"It's all right. I was ashamed for going out so easily," said Garrison, turning away in self-defense and seating himself in a chair. "He struck me so suddenly I had no time to guard. But that part isn't worth another thought."

"I thought it the only part worth anything," said Dorothy in her honesty. "It came upon me suddenly that nothing I was after was worth the risks you've been assuming in my behalf. And they may not be ended. I wish they were. I wish it were all at an end! But Foster is innocent. If you knew how glad I am of that you would feel a little repaid."

"I feel thoroughly repaid and gratified," said Garrison. "I have told you before that I am glad you came into my existence with your need—your case. I have no regret over anything that has happened—to myself. It has been life to me—life! And I take a certain pride in feeling that when you come to dismiss me, at the end, I shall not have been an absolute disappointment."

She looked at him in a new alarm. He had purposely spoken somewhat bluntly of his impending dismissal. She had come to a realizing sense that she could never dismiss him from her life—that to have him near, to know he was well—to love him, in a word—had become the one motive of her life.

Nevertheless she was helpless. And he was treating the matter as if her fate were sealed to that of Fairfax indissolubly. What little timid hopes she might have entertained of gaining her freedom, some time in the future, and saving herself, soul and body, for him—all this he had somewhat dimmed by this reference to going from her ken.

"But I—I haven't said anything about dismissing—anyone," she faltered. "I hadn't thought——" She left her sentence incomplete.

"I know," said Jerold. "There has been so much to think about, the subject may have been neglected. As a matter of fact, however, I am already out of it, supplanted by your genuine husband. We can no longer maintain the pretense.

"The moment Mr. Fairfax and Theodore chance to meet, our bit of theatricalism goes to pieces. We would scarcely dare to face a court, in a will probation, with Fairfax on the scene. So, I say, I am practically eliminated already."

The one thing that remained in her mind at the end of his speech was not in the least the main concern. She looked at him with pain in her eyes.

"Has it been nothing but a bit of theatricalism, after all?"

He dared not permit himself to answer from his heart. He kept up his show of amusement, or indifference to sentiment.

"We have played theatric roles to a small but carefully selected audience," he said. "I for a fee, and you—for needful ends. We might as well be frank, as we were the day it all began."

It was the way of a woman to be hurt. She felt there was something of a sting in what he said. She knew she had halted his impassioned declaration of love—but only because of the right. She had heard it, despite her protest—and had treasured it since, and echoed it over in her heart repeatedly.

She wished him to say it all again—all of it and more—but—not just yet. She wanted him to let her know that he loved her more than anything else in the world, but not by spoken words of passion.

"I am sorry if I've seemed so—so heartless in it all," she said. "I hadn't the slightest intention of—of permitting you to——"

"I know," he interrupted, certain he knew what she meant. "I haven't accused anyone. It was all my own fault. We'll drop it, if you wish."

"You haven't let me finish," she insisted. "I started to say that I had no intention of making you feel like—like nothing more than an agent—toward me—I mean, I had no intention of appearing to you like a selfish, heartless woman, willing to sacrifice the sweetest—the various things of life to gain my ends. I want you to believe that I—I'd rather you wouldn't call it all just mere theatrics."

Garrison gripped his chair, to restrain the impulse to rise and take her in his arms. He could almost have groaned, for the love in his heart must lie there, dumb and all but hopeless.

"Dorothy," he said when he felt his mastery complete, "I have already made it hard enough for myself by committing a folly against which you gave me ample warning. I am trying now to redeem myself and merit your trust and regard."

Her eyes met his in a long, love-revealing look—a look that could bridge all the gulfs of time and the vast abyss of space itself—and words would have been but a jar. Whatever the outcome, after this, nothing could rob them of the deep, supernal joy that flashed there between them for a moment.

Even when her lashes fell, at last, the silence was maintained.

After a time Garrison spoke again, returning to earth and the unfinished labor before him.

"I must go," he said, consulting his watch. "I hope to catch a train for Branchville in order to be there early in the morning."

"On our—this business?" she inquired.

He felt it quite impossible to raise her hopes—or perhaps her fears—by announcing he felt he should find John Hardy's latest will. Moreover, he had undergone a wakeful man's distrust of the "dream" he had experienced after falling at the hands of Wicks. He resorted to a harmless deceit, which, after all, was not entirely deceitful.

"Mr. Fairfax left for Branchville—he said to spring a surprise," he imparted. "I thought it would do no harm to be on hand and prepare for his moves, as far as possible."

He had risen. Dorothy did likewise. A slight suggestion of paleness overspread her face, followed at once by a faint, soft flush of color.

"I hope you will try to avoid him—avoid anything that might be dangerous," she faltered. "I feel already I shall never be able to forgive myself for the dangers into which I have sent you."

"This is the surest way to avoid any possible dangers," he assured her. "And, by the way, there is no particular reason now why you should longer remain away from Ninety-third Street. The newspaper men have done their worst, and the Robinsons will be entirely disarmed by the various events that have happened—unless Theodore should happen to spring a new surprise, and in any event you might be far more comfortable."

"Perhaps I will return—some time to-morrow," she said. "I'll see."

Garrison went to the door and she walked at his side.

He merely said: "Good-night—and Heaven bless you, Dorothy."

She answered: "Good-night, Jerold," and gave him her hand.

He held it for a moment—the riches of the world. And when he had gone they felt they had divided, equally, a happiness too great for terrestrial measurement.



CHAPTER XXXV

JOHN HARDY'S WILL

Garrison slept the sleep of physical exhaustion that night in Branchville. The escape from New York's noise and turmoil was welcome to his weary body. He had been on a strain day after day, and much of it still remained. Yet, having cleared away the mystery concerning Hardy's death, he felt entitled to a let-down of the tension.

In the morning he was early on the road to Hickwood—his faculties all eagerly focused on the missing will. He felt it might all prove the merest vagary of his mind—his theory of his respecting old Hardy and this testament. But stubbornly his mind clung fast to a few important facts.

Old Hardy had always been secretive, for Dorothy had so reported. He had carried his will away with him on leaving Albany. It had not been stolen—so far as anyone could know. Coupled with all this was the fact that the dead man's hands' had been stained upon the knuckles—stained black, with a grimy something hard to wash away—perhaps the soot, the greasy, moldy old soot of a chimney, encountered in the act of secreting the will, and later only partially removed. It seemed as clear as crystal to the reasoning mind of Garrison as he hastened along on the road.

He passed the home of Scott, the inventor, and mentally jotted down a reminder that the man, being innocent, must be paid his insurance now without delay.

Mrs. Wilson was working in her garden, at the rear of the house, when Garrison arrived. She was wonderfully pleased to see him. She had read the papers—which Garrison had not—and discovered what a truly remarkable personage he was.

The credit of more than ordinarily clever work had been meted out by the columnful, and his name glared boldly from the vivid account of all he had done in the case. All this and more he found himself obliged to face at the hands of Mrs. Wilson, before he could manage to enter the house and go as before to Hardy's room.

It was just precisely as he had seen it on his former visit. It had not been rented since, partially on account of the fact that Hardy's fate had cast an evil shadow upon it.

Garrison lost no time in his search. He followed his theory. It led him straight to the fireplace, with its crudely painted board, built to occupy its opening. Behind this, he felt, should be the will.

The board was stuck. Mrs. Wilson hastened to her sitting-room to fetch a screwdriver back to pry it out. Garrison gave it a kick, at the bottom, in her absence, thus jarring it loose, and the top fell forward in his hand.

He put his hand far up, inside the chimney—and on a ledge of brick, where his knuckles picked up a coating of moldy, greasy soot, his fingers encountered an envelope and knocked it from its lodgment. It fell on the fender at the bottom of the place. He caught it up, only taking time to note a line, "Will of John Hardy," written upon it—and, cramming it into his pocket, thrust the board back into place as Mrs. Wilson entered at the door.

It was not with intent to deceive the good woman that he had thus abruptly decided to deny her the knowledge of his find, but rather as a sensible precaution against mere idle gossip, which could achieve no particular advantage.

Therefore when she pried the board from place, and nothing was discovered behind it, he thanked her profusely, made a wholly perfunctory examination of the room, and presently escaped.

Not until he found himself far from any house, on the road he was treading to Branchville, did he think of removing the package from his pocket. He found it then to be a plain white envelope indorsed with this inscription:

Last will of John Hardy. To be opened after my death, and then by my niece, Dorothy Fairfax, only.

Denied the knowledge whether it might mean fortune or poverty to the girl he loved, and feeling that, after all, his labors might heap great unearned rewards on Fairfax, bestowing on himself the mere hollow consciousness that his work had been well performed, he was presently seated once more in a train that roared its way down to New York.

There was still an hour left of the morning when he alighted at the Grand Central Station. He went at once to Dorothy's latest abode.

She was out. The landlady knew nothing whatever of her whereabouts. Impatient of every delay, and eager to know not only the contents of the will, but what it might mean to have Dorothy gone in this manner, he felt himself baffled and helpless. He could only leave a note and proceed to his office.

Tuttle was there when he arrived. He had nothing to report of Fairfax—of whom Garrison himself had heard no word in Branchville—but concerning the house in Ninety-third Street there was just a mite of news.

He had been delayed in entering by the temporary absence of the caretaker. He had finally succeeded in making his way to the closet in Theodore's room—and the telephone was gone. Theodore had evidently found a means to enter by the stairs at the rear, perhaps through the house next door. The caretaker felt quite certain he had not set foot inside the door since Garrison issued his orders.

Garrison wrote a note to Theodore, in reply to the one received the day before, suggesting a meeting here at this office at noon, or as soon as convenient.

"Take that out," he said to Tuttle, "and send it by messenger. Then return to the house where Fairfax had his room and see if there's any news of him."

Tuttle opened the door to go just as Dorothy, who had arrived outside, was about to knock. Garrison beheld her as she stepped slightly back. He rose from his seat and hastened towards her.

"Excuse me," said Tuttle, and he went his way.

"Come in," said Garrison. "Come in, Dorothy. I've been at your house and missed you."

She was somewhat pale.

"Yes, I couldn't stay—I wanted to see you the moment you returned," she told him. "Theodore has found my address, I don't know how, and sent me a note in which he says he has something new—some dreadful surprise——"

"Never mind Theodore," Garrison interrupted. "Sit down and get your breath. He couldn't have come upon much in all his hunting—much, I mean, that we do not already know. In the meantime, get ready for news—I can't tell what sort of news, but—I've found your uncle's latest will!"

Dorothy made no attempt to speak for a moment. Her face became almost ashen. Then it brightened. Alarm went from her eyes and she even mustered a smile.

"It doesn't make a great deal of difference now, whatever Uncle John may have done," she said. "Foster and Alice will be all right—but, where did you find it? Where has it been?"

"I found it at the room he occupied in Hickwood—and fetched it along."

He produced it from his pocket and placed it in her hand.

Despite her most courageous efforts she was weak and nervously excited. Her hands fairly trembled as she tore the envelope across.

"Take it calmly," said Garrison. "Don't be hurried."

She could make no reply. She drew the will from its sheath and, spreading it open, glanced through it rapidly.

"Dear Uncle John!" she presently said, in a voice that all but broke. "He has willed it all to me, with no conditions—all except a nice little sum for Foster—poor Foster, I'm so glad!"

She broke down and cried.

Garrison said nothing. He went to the window and let her cry it out.

She was drying her eyes, in an effort to regain her self-control, when someone knocked and immediately opened the door.

Garrison turned. Dorothy had risen quickly to her feet.

It was Theodore who stood in the doorway. He had come before Garrison's note could be delivered.

"Come in," said Garrison. "You're just the man I wish to see."



CHAPTER XXXVI

GARRISON'S VALUED FRIEND

Dorothy, catching up the precious will, had retreated from Theodore's advance. She made no effort to greet him, even with so much as a nod.

"I thought I might possibly find you both, and save a little time," said Robinson, striding in boldly, with no sign of removing his hat. "Seems I hit it off about right."

"Charmingly," said Garrison. "Won't you sit down and take off your hat and stay a while?"

"You sound cheerful," said Theodore, drawing forth a chair and seating himself in comfort. "Perhaps you realize the game is up at last."

"Yes," agreed Garrison. "I think we do—but it's good of you to come and accept our notice, I'm sure."

"I didn't come to accept notice—I came to give it," said young Robinson self-confidently. "I've recently returned from Rockbeach, where I went to investigate your so-called marriage."

He had seen or heard nothing of Fairfax; that was obvious.

"Well?" said Garrison. "Proceed."

"That's about enough, ain't it?" said Theodore. "The marriage having been a fraud, what's the use of beating around the bush? If you care to fix it up on decent terms, I'll make no attempt to break the will when it comes up for probate, but otherwise I'll smash your case to splinters."

"You've put it quite clearly," said Garrison. "You are offering to compromise. Very generous. Let me have the floor for half a minute. I've had your man Tuttle on your trail, when you thought you had him on mine, for some little time.

"I happen to know that you stole two necklaces in the keeping of Mrs. Fairfax, on the night I met you first, and placed them on the neck of some bold young woman in the house next door, where, as you may remember, I saw you dressed as Mephistopheles. You——"

"I stole nothing of the kind!" interrupted Theodore. "She's got them——"

"Never mind that," Garrison interposed. "Let's go on. You installed a 'phone in your closet, at the house in Ninety-third Street, and on the night when you overheard an appointment I made with Mrs. Fairfax, you plugged in, overheard it, abducted Dorothy, under the influence of chloroform, stole her wedding-certificate, and delivered me over to the hands of a pair of hired assassins to have me murdered in Central Park.

"All this, with the robbery you hired Tuttle to commit at Branchville, ought to keep you reflecting in prison for some little time to come—if you think you'd like to go to court and air your grievances publicly."

Theodore was intensely white. Yet his nerve was not entirely destroyed.

"All this won't save your bacon, when I turn over all my affidavits," he said. "The property won't go to you when the will's before the court. The man who married you in Rockbeach was no justice of the peace, and you know it, Mr. Jerold Garrison. You assumed the name of Fairfax and hired a low-down political heeler, who hadn't been a justice for fully five years, to act the part and marry you to Dorothy.

"I've got the affidavits. If you think that's going to sound well in public—if you think it's pleasant to Dorothy now to know what a blackguard you are, why let's get on the job, both of us flinging the mud!"

Dorothy was pale and tense with new excitement.

"Wait a minute, please," said Garrison. "You say you have legal affidavits that the man who performed that marriage ceremony was a fraud, paid to act the part?—that the marriage was a sham—no marriage at all?"

"You know it wasn't!" Theodore shouted at him triumphantly, pulling legal-looking papers from his pocket. "And you were married to another wretched woman at the time. Let Dorothy try to get some joy out of that, if she can—and you, too!"

"Thank you, I've got mine," said Garrison quietly. "You're the very best friend I've seen for weeks. Fairfax, the man who has done this unspeakable wrong, is a lunatic, somewhere between here and up country, at this moment. He was here in town for a couple of days, and I thought you might have met him."

"You—what do you mean?" demanded Theodore.

"Just what I say," said Garrison. "I'll pay you five hundred dollars for your affidavits, if they're genuine, and you may be interested to know, by the way of news, that a later will by your step-uncle, John Hardy, has come to light, willing everything to Dorothy—without conditions. You wasted time by going out of town."

"A new will!—I refuse to believe it!" said Robinson, weak with apprehension.

Garrison drew open a drawer of his desk and took out a loaded revolver. He knew his man and meant to take no risk. Crossing to Dorothy, he took the will from her hand.

"This is the document," he said. "Signed and witnessed in the best of legal form. And speaking of leaving town, let me suggest that you might avoid a somewhat unhealthily close confinement by making your residence a good long way from Manhattan."

Robinson aged before their very eyes. The ghastly pallor remained on his face. His shoulders lost something of their squareness. A muscle was twitching about his mouth. His eyes were dulled as he tried once more to meet the look of the man across the desk.

He knew he was beaten—and fear had come upon him, fear of the consequences earned by the things he had done. He had neither the will nor the means to renew the fight. Twice his lips parted, in his effort to speak, before he mastered his impotent rage and regained the power to think. He dropped his documents weakly on the desk.

"I'll take your five hundred for the papers," he said. "How much time will you give me to go?"

"Two days," said Garrison. "I'll send you a check to-morrow morning."

Theodore turned to depart. Tuttle had returned. He knocked on the door and entered. Startled thus to find himself face to face with Robinson, he hesitated where he stood.

"So," said Theodore with one more gasp of anger, "you sold me out, did you, Tuttle? I might have expected it of you!"

Tuttle would have answered, and not without heat. Garrison interposed.

"It's all right, Tuttle," he said. "Robinson knows when he's done. I told him you were in a better camp. Any news of Mr. Fairfax for us all?"

"It's out in the papers," said Tuttle in reply, taking two copies of an evening edition from his pocket. "It seems a first wife of Mr. Fairfax has nabbed him, up at White Plains. But he's crazy, so she'll put him away."

For the first time in all the scene Dorothy spoke.

She merely said, "Thank Heaven!"



CHAPTER XXXVII

A HONEYMOON

A month had flown to the bourne whence no summer charms return.

August had laid a calming hand on all the gray Atlantic, dimpling its surface with invitations to the color and glory of the sky. The world turned almost visibly here, in this vast expanse of waters, bringing its meed of joys and sorrows to the restless human creatures on its bosom.

Jerold and Dorothy, alone at last, even among so many passengers, were four days deep in their honeymoon, with all the delights of Europe looming just ahead.

There was nothing left undone in the case of Hardy. Scott had been paid his insurance; the Robinsons had fled; Foster Durgin and his wife were united by a bond of work and happiness; the house in Ninety-third Street was rented, and Fairfax was almost comfortable at a "sanatorium" where his wife came frequently to see him.

With their arms interlocked, Dorothy and Jerold watched the sun go down, from the taffrail of the mighty ocean liner.

When the moon rose, two hours later, they were still on deck, alone.

And when they came to a shadow, built for two, they paused in their perfect understanding. She put her arms about his neck and gave him a kiss upon the lips. His arms were both about her, folding her close to his breast.

"It's such a rest to love you all I please," she whispered. "It was very, very hard, even from the first, to keep it from telling itself."

Such is the love that glorifies the world.



THE END