A DISTURBING LOSS
Garrison, holding the limp, helpless form in his arms, gazed quickly
about the room and saw the couch. He crossed the floor and placed her
full length upon its cushions.
She lay there so white and motionless that he was frightened. He felt
it impossible to call the Robinsons. He needed water, quickly. He
knew nothing of the house. His searching glance fell at once on the
vase of roses, standing on the table. He caught it up, drew out the
flowers, and was presently kneeling at Dorothy's side, wetting his
handkerchief with the water from the vase and pressing it closely on
her forehead.
She did not respond to his ministrations. He tore at her dress, where
it fastened at the neck, and laid it wide open for several inches. On
the creamy whiteness of her throat he sprinkled the water, then sprang
to the window, threw it up, and was once more kneeling beside her.
The fresh breeze swept in gratefully and cooled her face and neck. She
stirred, slightly turned, opened her eyes in a languid manner, and
partially relapsed into coma.
"Thank God!" said Garrison, who had feared for her life, and he once
more applied his wetted handkerchief. He spoke to her, gently:
"Forgive me, Dorothy--it's all right--everything's all right," but her
senses accepted nothing of his meaning.
For another five minutes, that seemed like an age, he rubbed at her
hands, resprinkled her throat and face, and waved a folded paper to
waft her the zephyr of air. When she once more opened her eyes she was
fairly well restored. She recovered her strength by a sheer exertion
of will and sat up, weakly, passing her hand across her brow.
"I must have fainted," she said. She was very white.
"You're all right now--the heat and unusual excitement," he answered
reassuringly. "Don't try to do anything but rest."
She looked at him with wide, half-frightened eyes. Her fears had
returned with her awakened intelligence.
"You mustn't stay," she told him with a firmness he was not prepared to
expect. "Please go as soon as you can."
"But--can I leave you like this? You may need me," he answered. "If
there's anything I can do----"
"Nothing now. Please don't remain," she interrupted. "I shall go to
my room at once."
Garrison realized she was in no condition for further questioning.
Whatsoever the status of the case or his doubts, there was nothing more
possible, with Dorothy in this present condition. He knew she very
much desired to be alone.
"But--when shall I see you? What shall I----" he started.
"I can't tell. Please go," she interrupted, and she sank back once
more on the cushions, looking at him wildly for a moment, and then
averting her gaze. "Please don't stay another minute."
He could not stay. His mind was confused as to his duty. He knew that
he loved her and wished to remain; he knew he was under orders and must
go. Disturbed and with worry at his heart, he took her hand for one
brief pressure.
"Don't forget I'm your friend--and protector," he said. "Please don't
forget."
He took his hat, said good-by, saw her lips frame a brief, half-audible
reply, then slipped from the room, to avoid giving undue notice to the
Robinsons, went silently down the stairs to the door, and let himself
out in the street.
Aware, in a dim sort of way, that a "shadow" was once more lurking on
his trail, as he left the house, he was almost indifferent to the
fellow's intrusion, so much more disturbing had been the climax of his
visit with Dorothy.
The outcome of his announcement concerning her uncle's death had
affected Dorothy so instantaneously as to leave him almost without
hope. The blow had reacted on himself with staggering force. He was
sickened by the abruptness with which the accusing circumstances had
culminated. And yet, despite it all, he loved her more than
before--with a fierce, aggressive love that blindly urged him to her
future protection and defense.
His half-formed plan to visit the dealer who had sold the cigars
departed from his mind. He wanted no more facts or theories that
pointed as so many were pointing. Indeed, he knew not where he was
going, or what he meant to do, till at length a sign on a window
aroused him to a sense of things neglected. The sign read simply:
BANK. SAFE DEPOSIT VAULTS.
He entered the building, hired a box in the vault, and placed within it
the jewels he had carried. Then he remembered Wicks.
Instructions had been given to report, not only fully, but promptly.
He must make a report--but what? He knew he could not tell of the
horrible tissue of facts and circumstances that wound like a web about
the girl he loved. He would far rather give up the case. And once he
gave it up, he knew that no man alive could ever come again upon the
damning evidence in his possession.
He would say his work was incomplete--that it looked like a natural
death--that Scott had acted suspiciously, as indeed he had--that he
needed more time--anything but what appeared to be the sickening truth.
Later, should Dorothy prove to be but some artful, dangerous creature,
masquerading as a sweet young girl behind her appearance of beauty,
innocence, and exquisite charm--that would be time enough to move.
Perfectly willing to be followed for a time by his "shadow," he walked
to the nearest Subway station in upper Broadway and was presently borne
downtown.
He was barely in time at the big insurance office, for Wicks was
preparing to leave. No less nervous, snappy, or pugnacious than
before, the little sharp-faced man appeared more smiling than ever, and
yet with an expression even more sardonic.
"Well?" he said, as he ushered Garrison into a small, private room.
"What have you to report?"
"Nothing very much to report as yet," said Garrison, slightly flushing
at withholding the truth. "It looks very much as if the coroner's
verdict may have been correct--although Scott acts a little like a man
so absorbed in his inventions that he'd stop at nothing for money."
"Needs money, does he?" demanded Wicks. "He has admitted that?"
"Yes," said Garrison, "he speaks so plainly of his need and makes such
heartless and selfish references to the money he hopes to procure on
this insurance policy that I hardly know what to make of his character."
"Capable of murder, is he?"
"He's fanatical about his invention and--he needs money."
"You don't think him guilty?" announced Mr. Wicks, with rare
penetration.
"There seems to be little or nothing against him as yet," said
Garrison. "There was nothing found on the body, so far as I have been
able to learn, to indicate murder."
"If murder at all, how could it have been done," demanded Mr. Wicks.
"Only by poison."
"H'm! You saw the dead man's effects, of course. What did they
comprise?"
Garrison detailed the dead man's possessions, as found at the coroner's
office. He neglected nothing, mentioning the cigars as candidly as he
did the few insignificant papers.
"In what possible manner could the man have been poisoned?" demanded
Wicks, rising, with his watch in his hand. "Was there anything to eat
at his apartments--or to drink?"
"Not that I can trace. The only clew that seems important, so far, is
that Scott spent fifteen minutes in Hardy's room, alone, on the night
of his death."
"That's something!" said Wicks, with the slightest possible show of
approval. "Put on your hat and go uptown with me and tell me exactly
all about it."
They left the office, proceeded to the Subway, boarded an uptown
express that was jammed to the guards with struggling humanity, all
deserting the small end of Gotham at once; and here, with Wicks crowded
flat up against him, and hanging, first to a strap and then to his
shoulder. Garrison related the few facts that he had already briefly
summarized.
"Well--nothing to say to you but go ahead," said Wicks, as they neared
the Grand Central Station, where he meant to take a train. "Stick to
the case till you clean it up. That's all."
Garrison, presently alone on the crowded street, with no particular
objective point in view, felt thoroughly depressed and lonely.
He wished he had never discovered the poisoned cigar at Branchville.
Mechanically, his hand sought his pocket, where the second charged weed
had been placed.
Then he started and searched his waistcoat wildly.
The deadly cigar was gone!