THE "SHADOW"
Nothing more disquieting than this possession of the necklaces could
possibly have happened to Garrison. He was filled with vague
suspicions and alarms. The thing was wholly baffling.
What it signified he could not conjecture. His mind went at once to
that momentary scene at the house he had entered by mistake, and in
which he had been confronted by the masked young woman, with the jewels
on her throat, she who had patted his face and familiarly called him by
name.
He could not possibly doubt the two ropes of gems were the same. The
fact that Dorothy's cousin, in the garb of Satan, had undoubtedly
participated in the masking party, aroused disturbing possibilities in
Garrison's mind.
What was the web in which he was entangled?
To have Theodore come to the house in his long, concealing coat,
straight from the maskers next door; to have him disappear, and then to
have Dorothy bring forth these gems with such wholly unimaginable trust
in his honesty, brought him face to face with a brand-new mystery from
which he almost shrank. Reflections on thefts, wherein women were
accomplices, could not be driven from his brain.
Here was Dorothy suddenly requiring a pseudo-husband--for what? Here
was a party next door to the house--a party on which he had stumbled
accidentally--where a richly dressed young woman chanced to greet him,
with her jewels on her neck. Here was, apparently, a family
disturbance, engendered by his marriage with old Robinson's niece. And
now--here were the necklaces, worth, at the least estimation, the sum
of thirty thousand dollars--delivered to himself!
He could not escape the thought of a "fence," in which he himself had
possibly been impressed as a tool, by the cleverest intrigue. The
entire attitude of the Robinsons might, he realized, have been but a
part of the game. He had witnessed Dorothy's acting. It gave him a
vivid sense of her powers, some others of which might well lie
concealed behind her appearance of innocence.
And yet, when he thought of the beautiful girl who had begged him not
to desert her, he could not think her guilty of the things which this
singular outcome might suggest. He was sure she could clear up the
mystery, and set herself straight in his eyes.
Not a little disturbed as to what he should do with these precious
baubles, sparkling and glinting in his hand, he knitted his brow in
perplexity. He was due to leave New York at once, on orders from
Wicks. No safe deposit vault was available at such an hour. He dared
not leave the things behind in this room. There was no alternative, he
must carry them along in his pocket.
Inasmuch as the problem could not possibly be solved at once, and in
view of the fact that his mind, or his heart, refused to credit Dorothy
with guilt, there was nothing to do but dismiss the subject, as far as
possible, and make ready to depart.
He opened a drawer to procure the few things requisite for his trip.
On top of a number of linen garments lay a photograph--the picture of a
sweetly pretty young woman. He took it up, gazed at it calmly, and
presently shook his head.
He turned it over.
On the back was written: "With the love of my heart--Ailsa."
He had kissed this picture a thousand times, in rapture. It had once
represented his total of earthly happiness, and then--when the notice
of her marriage had come so baldly, through the mail--it had symbolized
his depths of despair. Through all his hurt he had clung, not only to
the picture, but also to some fond belief that Ailsa loved him still;
that the words she had spoken and the things she had done, in the days
of their courtship, had not been mere idle falsehoods.
To-night, for the first time since his dream had been shattered, the
photograph left him cold and unfeeling. Something had happened, he
hardly knew what--something he hardly dared confess to himself, with
Dorothy only in his vision. The lifeless picture's day was gone at
last.
He tossed it back in the drawer with a gesture of finality, drew forth
a number of collars and ties, then went to a closet, opened the door
and studied his two suit-cases thoughtfully. He knew not which to
take. One was an ordinary, russet-leather case; the other was a
thin-steel box, veneered with leather, but of special construction, on
a plan which Garrison himself had invented. Indeed, the thing was a
trap, ingeniously contrived when the Biddle robbery had baffled far
older men than himself, and had then been solved by a trick.
On the whole, he decided he would take this case along. It had brought
him luck on the former occasion, and the present was, perhaps, a
criminal case. He lifted it out, blew off some dust, and laid it,
open, on the bed.
To all appearances the thing was innocent enough. On the under side of
the cover was a folding flap, fastened with a string and a button.
Unremembered by Garrison, Ailsa's last letter still reposed in the
pocket, its romance laid forever in the lavender of rapidly fading
memories.
Not only was the case provided with a thin false bottom, concealing its
mechanism, but between the cover and the body proper, on either side,
were wing-like pieces of leather, to judge from their looks, that
seemed to possess no function more important than the ordinary canvas
strips not infrequently employed on a trunk to restrain the cover from
falling far backward when opened. But encased in these wings were
connections to powerful springs that, upon being set and suddenly
released, would snap down the cover like the hammer of a gun and catch,
as in the jaws of a trap, any meddling hands that might have been
placed inside the case by a thief, at the same time ringing a bell. To
set it was a matter of the utmost simplicity, while to spring it one
had barely to go at the contents of the case and touch the trigger
lightly.
The springs were left unset, as Garrison tossed in the trifles he
should need. Then he changed his clothes, turned off the gas, and was
presently out once more in the open of the street, walking to the Grand
Central Station, near at hand.
The man who had followed all the way from Dorothy's residence not only
was waiting, but remained on Garrison's trail.
At a quarter of ten Garrison ensconced himself in a train for
Branchville. His "shadow" was there in the car. The run required
fifty minutes. Hickwood, a very small village, was passed by the cars
without a stop. It was hardly two miles from the larger settlement.
The hour was late when Garrison arrived. He and his "shadow" alighted
from the train and repaired to a small, one-story hotel near the
railway depot, the only place the town afforded. They were presently
assigned to adjoining rooms.
Garrison opened his suit-case on the bureau, removed one or two
articles, and left the receptacle open, with the cover propped against
the mirror. Despite the lateness of the hour he then went out, to roam
about the village. His fellow traveler watched only to see him out of
the house, and then returned in haste.
In the town there was little to be seen. The houses extended far back
from the railroad, on considerably elevated hills. There was one main
thoroughfare only, and this was deserted. The dwellings were dark. No
one seemed stirring in the place, though midnight had not yet struck.
Garrison was out for half an hour. When he returned his suit-case was
closed. He thought nothing of a matter so trifling till he looked
inside, and then he underwent a feeling as if it had been rifled. But
nothing was gone, so far as he could see. Then he noticed the
folding-pocket, for its fastening cord was undone. How well he
remembered placing there the letter from Ailsa, months ago! A little
surprised that he had so utterly forgotten its existence, he slipped
his hand inside the place--and found it empty!
Even then he entertained no suspicions, for a moment. The letter, like
the photograph, was no longer a valued possession. Yet he wondered
where it could have gone. Vaguely uncertain, after all, as to whether
he had left it here or not, his eye was suddenly caught by the
slightest movement in the world, reflected in the mirror of the bureau.
The movement was up at the transom, above a door that led to the next
adjoining room.
Instantly turning away, to allay any possible suspicion that he might
be aware of the fact that someone was spying upon him, Garrison moved
the suit-case to a chair, drew from his pocket a folded paper that
might have appeared important--although merely a railroad
folder--placed it carefully, as if to hide it, under various articles
of apparel, set the springs of the vicious steel-trap, and, leaving the
suitcase open as before, took a turn around the room.
All this business was merely for the benefit of the man whom he knew to
be watching from over the door. Starting as if to undress, he paused,
appeared to remember something left neglected, and hastened from his
room, purposely leaving the door more than half-way ajar. Down the
hall he strode, to the office, where he looked on the register and
discovered the name of his neighbor--John Brown--an obvious alias.
He had hardly been thus engaged for two minutes when the faint, far-off
sound of a ringing bell came distinctly to his ears.
"My alarm-clock's gone off," he said to the man at the desk, and he
fled up the hall like a sprinter.
A clatter of sounds, as of someone struggling, had come before he
reached his room. As he bounded in he beheld his suit-case, over at
the window, jerking against the sash and sill as if possessed of evil
spirits. No thief was visible. The fellow, with the trap upon his
fingers, had already leaped to the ground.
Within a yard of his captured burglar Garrison beheld the suit-case
drop, and his man had made good his escape.
He thrust his head outside the window, but the darkness was in favor of
the thief, who was not to be seen.
Chagrined to think Mr. "Brown" had contrived to get loose, Garrison
took up the case, carried it back to the bureau, and opened it up, by
skillfully releasing the springs. Three small patches of finger-skin
were left in the bite of its jaws--cards of the visitor left as
announcements of his visit.
The room next door was not again occupied that night. The hotel saw no
more of Mr. Brown.