A COMPLICATION
With ample time in which to wonder what Dorothy's summons might imply,
Garrison naturally found himself in the dark, despite his utmost
efforts at deduction.
He welcomed the chance thus made possible to behold her again so soon,
after what he had so recently discovered, and yet he almost dreaded the
necessity of ferreting out all possible facts concerning her actions
and motives for the past six weeks, the better to work up his case.
Wherever it led him, he knew he must follow unrelentingly.
Masquerading as her husband, he had involved himself in--Heaven alone
knew what--but certainly in all her affairs, even to the murder itself,
since he was alleged to have married her prior to John Hardy's death,
and was now supposed to benefit, in all probability, by some will that
Hardy had executed.
The recent developments disturbed him incessantly. He almost wished he
had never heard of Mr. Wicks, who had come to his office with
employment. And yet, with Dorothy entangled as she was in all this
business, it was better by far that he should know the worst, as well
as the best, that there was to be discovered.
He wondered if the whole affair might be charged with insidious
fatalities--either for himself or Dorothy. He was groping in the
dark--and the only light was that which shone in Dorothy's eyes; there
was nothing else to guide him. He could not believe it was a baneful
light, luring him on to destruction--and yet--and yet----
His gaze wandered out at the window on a scene of Nature's loveliness.
The bright June day was perfect. In their new, vivid greens, the
fields and the trees were enchanting. How he wished that he and
Dorothy might wander across the hills and meadows together!
A sweet, lawless wildness possessed his rebellious nature. His mind
could reason, but his heart would not, despite all his efforts at
control.
Thus the time passed until New York was reached.
Unobserved, the man who had shadowed Garrison so faithfully left the
train at the Harlem station, to take the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth
Street crosstown car, in his haste to get to Ninety-third Street, where
the Robinsons were waiting.
Garrison went on to the Grand Central, carried his suit-case to his
room, freshened his dress with new linen, and then, going forth,
lunched at a corner café, purchased another bunch of roses, and
proceeded on to Dorothy's.
It was a quarter of two when he rang the bell. He waited only the
briefest time. The door was opened, and there stood young Robinson,
smiling.
"Why, how do you do, Cousin Jerold?" he said, cordially extending his
hand. "Come right in. I'm delighted to see you."
Garrison had expected any reception but this. He felt his old dislike
of the Robinsons return at once. There was nothing to do, however, but
to enter.
"Is Dorothy----" he started.
"Won't you go right up?" interrupted Theodore. "I believe you are not
unexpected."
Garrison was puzzled. A certain uneasiness possessed him. He
proceeded quietly up the stairs, momentarily expecting Dorothy to
appear. But the house was silent. He reached the landing and turned
to look at Theodore, who waved him on to the room they had occupied
before.
When he entered he was not at all pleased to find the elder Robinson
only awaiting his advent. He halted just inside the threshold and
glanced inquiringly from father to son.
"How do you do?" he said stiffly. "Is Dorothy not at home?"
"She is not," said old Robinson, making no advance and giving no
greeting. "Will you please sit down?"
Garrison remained where he was.
"Do you expect her soon?" he inquired.
"We shall get along very well without her. We've got something to say
to you--alone."
Garrison said: "Indeed?"
He advanced to a chair and sat down.
"In the first place, perhaps you will tell us your actual name," said
old Robinson, himself taking a seat.
Garrison was annoyed.
"Let me assure you, once for all, that I do not in the least recognize
your right to meddle in my concerns, or subject me to any inquisitions."
"That's another way of saying you refuse to answer!" snapped Robinson
tartly. "You know your name isn't Fairfax, any more than it's mine.
Your name is Garrison."
Garrison stared at him coldly.
"You seem to have made up your mind very decidedly," he said. "Is that
all you have to say?"
"You don't deny it?" cried the old man, exasperated by his calmness.
"You don't dare deny it!"
Garrison grew calmer.
"I haven't the slightest reason to deny anything," he said. "I
frequently require a pseudonym. Dorothy knows that I employ the name
Garrison whenever occasion demands."
The old man was wild.
"Will you swear that your right name is Fairfax?" he said. "That's
what I demand to know!"
Garrison answered: "I came here to see my wife. I warn you I am
growing impatient with your hidden insinuations!"
"Your wife!" cried old Robinson, making a dive into one of his pockets
with his hand. "What have you to say to this letter, from the woman
who is doubtless by now your _legal_ wife?" Suddenly snatching a
letter from his coat, he projected himself toward Garrison and held up
the missive before him.
It was the letter from Ailsa--the one that Garrison had missed--the
letter in which she had agreed to become his wife. He put forth his
hand to receive it.
"No, you don't!" cried the old man, snatching it out of his reach.
"I'll keep this, if you please, to show my niece."
Garrison's eyes glittered.
"So, it was _your_ hired thief who stole it, up at Branchville?" he
said. "I don't suppose he showed you the skin that he left behind from
his fingers."
"That's got nothing to do with the point!" the old man cried at him
triumphantly. "I don't believe you are married to my niece. If you
think you can play your game on me----"
Garrison interrupted.
"The theft of that letter was a burglary in which you are involved.
You are laying up trouble for yourself very rapidly. Give that letter
to me!"
"Give it up, hey? We'll see!" said Robinson. "Take it to court if you
dare! I'm willing. This letter shows that another woman accepted you,
and _that's_ the point you don't dare face in the law!"
Whatever else he discerned in the case. Garrison did not understand in
the least how Dorothy could have summoned him back here for this.
"That letter is an old one," he replied to Robinson calmly. "Look at
the date. It's a bit of ancient history, long since altered."
"There is no date!" the old man shrilled in glee; and he was right.
Garrison's reply was never uttered. The door behind him abruptly
opened, and there stood Dorothy, radiant with color and beauty.
"Why, Jerold!" she cried. "Why, when did you come? I didn't even know
you were in town."
She ran to him ardently, as she had before, with her perfect art, and
kissed him with wifely affection.