THE WARNING
It was characteristic of Dorothy Dale that she did not once say to
Tavia, “I told you so!” She might so easily have done so, considering
her own distrust of these two men and Tavia’s acceptance of them; of one
of them, at least.
As for the latter, she was filled with chagrin to find that her handsome
stranger was nothing but a cheap trickster after all—if indeed, he was
not worse—and longed fervently to punish “Cal,” _alias_ Stanley Blake.
“Oh, you just watch me snub him the next time we meet,” she cried, with
relish. “I will make him feel about as little as the toy chameleon on
his watch fob. Did you ever notice that chameleon, Dorothy? It was the
most fascinating thing I ever saw, fairly hypnotized me.”
“Something certainly did!” Dorothy retorted dryly, which was as near as
she ever came to saying, “I told you so.”
“That’s mean, considering that I am so frightfully penitent and all
that,” Tavia reproached her. “Can’t you let bygones be bygones?”
“I am not worrying about what has already happened,” Dorothy returned.
“It’s the future that troubles me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about Garry, if I were you,” advised her chum.
“Our friend Gibbons may think he is as innocent as a babe and all that,
but you and I know better. If there is any funny business going on, you
can bet Garry isn’t blind to it.”
“But this fellow spoke as if there were others plotting against him,
too,” said Dorothy, adding bitterly: “It isn’t fair, so many against
one.”
“Garry has friends, too, you know,” Tavia reminded her. “Even Stanley
Blake admits that. You can make sure Lance Petterby isn’t the only one,
either. Garry’s the kind that makes friends. Imagine hearing Lance’s
name here in the dining room of the Blenheim Hotel!” she added with a
chuckle, as Dorothy’s thoughtful silence still continued. “The world is
certainly a small place.”
“As I believe countless thousands have remarked before you,” sighed
Dorothy. “Oh, Tavia, I wish you could say something original—think what
we ought to do next.”
“Why, if you mean about Garry, it seems to me you have already done
about all you can do,” returned Tavia. “That telegram will warn him to
be on his guard.”
“If only they had gone on talking for a little while longer,” sighed
Dorothy. “I have a feeling that they were about to reveal something that
might have been enlightening.”
“Well, no use crying about spilled milk,” said Tavia, stretching herself
out luxuriously on the bed. “If you will excuse me, I think I will take
a wink or two of sleep. You would be wise to do the same. We have had,
as I need not tell you, a long and tiresome journey.”
But Dorothy had no intention of taking her friend’s advice. In the first
place she was so excited that she could not have slept had she tried. In
the second, there was the feeling that she could not afford to waste a
precious minute that might bring her nearer to finding Joe or to the
discovery of just what danger it was that threatened Garry.
So, while Tavia took her beauty sleep, Dorothy brushed her hair, pulled
her hat down tight over the soft mass of it and sallied forth to do a
little sleuthing on her own account.
Joe had bought a ticket for Chicago. On such slender information Dorothy
undertook the great task of finding him.
She went first to the railroad station and there met her first big
disappointment.
If her surmise that Joe had gone to Garry was founded on fact, she
realized that his first action after reaching Chicago would be to buy a
ticket for Dugonne, the railroad station nearest to Garry’s ranch.
If she could find any of the ticket agents at the station who remembered
seeing a lad answering Joe’s description—it was a slight enough hope,
but all she had—then she and Tavia might carry on the search.
But after a weary round she decided that even this one small hope must
perish. No one had noticed a lad of Joe’s description and one or two
were rather short about saying so, intimating that they were far too
busy to be troubled with trivial things.
Turning away, weary and discouraged, deciding to give up the search for
that time at least, Dorothy was startled by a touch upon her shoulder
and turned quickly to see a young Italian standing beside her.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he said, with a boyish eagerness that at once
disarmed any annoyance Dorothy might have felt at his presumption. “I
heard you talk to the man over there and maybe I can tell you
something—not much, but something.”
Dorothy’s weary face lit up and she regarded the youth pleadingly. She
did not speak, but her very silence questioned him.
“I work over there, sell the magazines,” he explained, making a graceful
gesture toward the piled-up counter of periodicals near them. “Another
man work with me. He tell me one day two, t’ree days ago he saw young
feller like young feller you speak about. But I don’ know no more nor
that.”
“Oh, where is he? Let me speak to him!” begged Dorothy frantically, but
the young Latin made a gesture eloquent of resignation.
“That feller seeck,” he said. “No come to work—must be seeck.”
“But tell me his address. I will go to him,” cried Dorothy in a fever of
impatience.
Again the Italian shrugged resignedly.
“No can do that either,” he answered regretfully. “I don’ know where he
live!”