IN QUEST OF DOROTHY
More than half ready to believe that Dorothy had been spirited away,
Garrison examined everything available, with the intention of
discovering, if possible, any scrap that might indicate the destination
to which the trio had proceeded.
The Robinsons had left almost nothing of the slightest value or
importance, since what clothing remained was of no significance
whatever.
It was not until he opened up the old man's books on the subject of
wills that Garrison found the slightest clew, and then he came upon a
postal-card addressed to "Sykey Robinson, Esq.," from Theodore's
mother. It mentioned the fact that she had arrived quite safely at
"the house," and requested that her husband forward a pair of her
glasses, left behind when she started.
The address of the place where she was stopping was given as 1600
Myrtle Avenue. The postmark was Woodsite, Long Island.
Garrison made up his mind to go to Woodsite. If Dorothy were found, he
meant to steal her--if need be, even against her will.
Warmed to the business by his few discoveries, he returned at once to
Dorothy's apartments and opened her bureau and dressing-table for a
superficial inspection. To his complete surprise, he found that every
drawer was in utter confusion as to its contents. That each and all
had been rudely overhauled there could not be a doubt for a moment.
Not one showed the order apparent in all things else about the rooms.
There could be but one conclusion. Some one had searched them
hurriedly, sparing not even the smallest. The someone could not have
been Dorothy, for many reasons--and Garrison once more rejoiced.
He was thoroughly convinced that Dorothy had been taken from the house
by force.
Whatever else she might be guilty of, he felt she must be innocent of
the dastardly attempt upon his life. And, wherever she was, he meant
to find her and take her away, no matter what the cost.
The hour was late--too late, he was aware--for anything effective. Not
without a certain satisfaction in his sense of ownership, and with grim
resolutions concerning his dealings in future with the Robinsons, he
extinguished the lights in the rooms he had searched, and, glad of the
much-needed rest, retired in calm for six solid hours of sleep.
This brought him out, refreshed and vigorous, at a bright, early hour
of the morning. The housekeeper, not yet stirring in her downstairs
quarters, failed to hear him let himself out at the door--and his way
was clear for action.
His breakfast he took at an insignificant café. Then he went to his
room in Forty-fourth Street.
The "shadow," faithful to his charge, was waiting in the street before
the house. His presence was noted by Garrison, who nodded to himself
in understanding of the fellow's persistency.
Arrived upstairs, he discovered three letters, none of which he took
the time to read. They were thrust in his pocket--and forgotten.
The metal bomb, which was still in his coat, he concealed among a lot
of shoes in his closet.
From among his possessions, accumulated months before, when the needs
of the Biddle robbery case had arisen, he selected a thoroughly
effective disguise, which not only grew a long, drooping mustache upon
his lip, but aged him about the eyes, and appeared to reduce his
stature and his width of shoulders. With a pair of shabby gloves on
his hands, and a book beneath his arms, he had suddenly become a
genteel if poor old book-agent, whose appearance excited compassion.
Well supplied with money, armed with a loaded revolver, fortified by
his official badge, and more alert in all his faculties than he had
ever felt in all his life, he passed down the stairs and out upon the
street, under the very nose of the waiting "shadow," into whose face he
cast a tired-looking glance, without exciting the slightest suspicion.
Twenty minutes later he had hired a closed automobile, and was being
carried toward the Williamsburg Bridge and Long Island. The car
selected was of a type renowned for achievements in speed.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he stood at length on the sidewalk
opposite 1600 Myrtle Avenue, Woodsite, a modest cottage standing on a
corner. It was one of the houses farthest from the center of the town;
nevertheless, it had its neighbors all about, if somewhat scattered.
There was no sign of life about the place. The shades were drawn; it
bore a look of desertion. Only pausing for a moment, as even a
book-agent might, after many repeated rebuffs, Garrison wended his way
across the street, proceeded slowly up the concrete walk, ascended the
steps, and rang the bell.
There was no result. He rang again, and out of the corner of his eye
beheld the curtain pushed a trifle aside, in the window near at hand,
where someone looked out from this concealment. For the third time he
rang--and at last the door was opened for a distance no more than six
inches wide. The face he saw was old man Robinson's.
The chain on the door was securely fastened, otherwise Garrison would
have pushed his way inside without further ado. He noted this barely
in time to save himself from committing an error.
"Go away!" said old Robinson testily. "No books wanted!"
"I hope you will not refuse a tired old man," said Garrison, in a voice
that seemed trembling with weakness. "The books I have to offer are
quite remarkable indeed.
"Don't want them. Good-day!" said Robinson. He tried to close the
door, but Garrison's foot prevented.
"One of my books is particularly valuable to read to headstrong young
women. If you have a daughter--or any young woman in the house----"
"She can't see anyone--I mean there's no such person here!" snapped
Robinson. "What's the matter with that door?"
"My other book is of the rarest interest," insisted Garrison. "An
account of the breaking of the Butler will--a will drawn up by the most
astute and crafty lawyer in America, yet broken because of its flaws.
A book----"
"Whose will was that?" demanded Robinson, his interest suddenly roused.
"Some lawyer, did you say?" He relaxed his pressure on the door and
fumbled at the chain.
"The will of Benjamin Butler--the famous Benjamin Butler," Garrison
replied. "One of the most remarkable----"
"Come in," commanded old Robinson, who had slipped off the chain. "How
much is the book?"
"I am only taking orders to-day," answered Garrison, stepping briskly
inside and closing the door with his heel. "If you'll take this copy
to the light----"
"Father!" interrupted an angry voice. "Didn't I tell you not to let
anyone enter this house? Get out, you old nuisance! Get out with your
book?"
Garrison looked down the oak-finished hall and saw Theodore coming
angrily toward him.
Alive to the value of the melodramatic, he threw off both his hat and
mustache and squared up in Theodore's path.
Young Robinson reeled as if struck a staggering blow.
"You--you----" he gasped.
Old Robinson recovered his asperity with remarkable promptness.
"How dare you come into this house?" he screamed. "You lying----"
"That's enough of that," said Garrison quietly. "I came for
Dorothy--whom you dared to carry away."
"You--you--you're mistaken," said Theodore, making a most tremendous
effort at calmness, with his face as white as death. "She isn't here."
"Don't lie. Your father has given the facts away," said Garrison. "I
want her--and I want her now."
"Look here," said Theodore, rapidly regaining his rage, "if you think
you can come to my house like this----" He was making a move as if to
slip upstairs--perhaps for a gun.
Garrison pulled his revolver without further parley.
"Stay where you are! Up with your hands! Don't either of you make a
move that I don't order, understand? I said I'd come to take my wife
away."
"For Heaven's sake, don't shoot!" begged old Robinson. "Don't shoot!"
"You fool--do you think I'd bring her here?" said Theodore, trying to
grin, but putting up his hands. "Put away your gun, and act like a man
in his senses, or I'll have you pulled for your pains."
"You've done talking enough--and perhaps _I'll_ have just a word to say
about pulling, later on," said Garrison. "In the meantime, don't you
open your head again, or you'll get yourself into trouble."
He raised his voice and shouted tremendously:
"Dorothy!"
"Jerold!" came a muffled cry, from somewhere above in a room.
He heard her vainly tugging at a door.
"Go up ahead of me, both of you," he commanded, making a gesture with
the gun. "I prefer not to break in the door."