NEW HAPPENINGS
Still puzzled, unable to believe his senses, Garrison made a second
quick search of the vicinity that was rapidly being cleared and
restored to order by a couple of efficient police officers, but without
avail.
Neither Dorothy nor the chauffeur could be found.
One of the officers ordered him to move along with his car. There was
nothing else to be done. Reluctantly, and not without feelings of
annoyance and worry, combined with those of baffled mystery and
chagrin, Garrison was presently obliged to climb to the driver's seat
and take the wheel in hand.
The motor was running, slowly, to a rhythmic beat. He speeded it up,
threw off the brake, put the gears in the "low," and slipped in the
clutch. Over the bridge in the halted procession of traffic he steered
his course--a man bereft of his comrade and his driver and with a
motor-car thrust upon his charge.
Through the streets of New York he was finally guiding the great
purring creature of might, which in ordinary circumstances would have
filled his being with delight. Thorough master of throttle,
spark-advance, and speed-lever, he would have asked nothing better than
to drive all day--if Dorothy were only at his side.
He had never felt more utterly disconcerted in his life. Where had she
gone--and why?
What did it mean to have the chauffeur also disappear?
Had the two gone off together?
If so, why should she choose a companion of his type?
If not, then what could have formed the motive for the man's abrupt
flight from the scene?
And what should be done with the motor-car, thus abandoned to his care?
A quick suspicion that the car had been stolen came to Garrison's mind.
Nevertheless it was always possible that Dorothy had urged the driver
to convey her out of the crowd, and that the driver had finally
returned to get his car, and found it gone; but this, for many reasons,
seemed unlikely.
Dorothy had shown her fear in her last startled question: "Jerold, you
don't suspect me?" She might have fled in some sort of fear after
that. But the driver--what was it that had caused him also to vanish
at a time so unexpected?
Garrison found himself obliged to give it up. He could think of
nothing to do with the car but to take it to the stand where he had
hired it in the morning. The chauffeur might, by chance, appear and
claim his property. Uneasy, with the thing thus left upon his hands,
and quite unwilling to be "caught with the goods," Garrison was swiftly
growing more and more exasperated.
He knew he could not roll the car to the stand and simply abandon it
there, for anyone so inclined to steal; he objected to reporting it
"found" in this peculiar manner at any police headquarters, for he
could not be sure it had been stolen, and he himself might be suspected.
Having hired the car in crowded Times Square, near his Forty-fourth
Street rooms, he ran it up along Broadway with the thought of awaiting
the driver.
The traffic was congested with surface cars, heavy trucks, other
motors, and carriages. His whole attention was riveted on the task in
hand. Driving a car in the streets of New York ceases to be enjoyment,
very promptly. The clutch was in and out continuously. He crept here,
he speeded up to the limit for a space of a few city blocks, and crept
again.
Past busy Fourteenth Street and Union Square he proceeded, and on to
Twenty-third Street with Madison Square, green and inviting, lying to
his right. Pushed over into the Fifth Avenue traffic by the
regulations, he contemplated returning to the Broadway stream as soon
as possible, and was crawling along with his clutch barely rubbing,
when a hansom cab, containing a beautiful but pale young woman, slowly
passed. The occupant abruptly rose from her seat and scrutinized the
car in obvious excitement.
Garrison barely caught a glimpse of her face, busied as he was with the
driving. He continued on. Two minutes later he was halted by a jam of
carriages and the hansom returned at full speed. Once more the pale
young woman was leaning half-way out.
"Stop!" she cried at the astounded Garrison. "You've stolen that car!
I'll have you arrested! You've got to return it at once!"
Garrison almost smiled, the half-expected outcome had arrived so
promptly. He saw that half a dozen drivers of cabs and other vehicles
were looking on in wonder and amusement.
"Kindly drive into Twenty-sixth Street, out of this confusion," he
answered. "I shall be glad to halt there and answer all requirements."
He was so obviously a thorough gentleman, and his manner was so calm
and dignified, that the strange young lady almost felt abashed at the
charges she had made.
The jam was broken. Garrison ran the car to the quieter side street,
and the cab kept pace at his side.
Presently he halted, got down from the seat and came to the hansom,
lifting his hat. How thankful he was that no policeman had overheard
the young woman's cry, and followed, she might never suspect.
"Permit me to introduce myself as a victim of another's man's wrongful
intentions," he said. "I hired this car this morning uptown--in fact,
in Times Square, and was driven out to Long Island. Returning, we were
halted on the bridge--and the chauffeur disappeared--ran away, leaving
me to drive for myself.
"I feared at the time it might be the man was a thief, and I am greatly
relieved to find the owner of the car so promptly. If this or any
other explanation, before an officer, or any court, will gratify you
more, I shall be glad to meet every demand you may make upon my time."
The young woman looked at him with widely blazing eyes. She believed
him, she hardly knew why. She had alighted from the hansom.
"I've been driving up and down Fifth Avenue all morning!" she said. "I
felt sure I could find it that way. It isn't mine. It was only left
in my charge. I was afraid that something might happen. I didn't want
to have it in the first place! I knew it would cause me endless
trouble. I don't know what to do with it now."
"I should be gratified," said Garrison, "if you will state that you do
not consider me guilty of a theft so stupid as this would appear."
"I didn't think you were the man," she answered. "A chauffeur my
cousin discharged undoubtedly stole it. Policemen are after him now,
with the man who runs the garage. They went to Long Island City, or
somewhere, to find him, this morning. Perhaps he saw them on the
bridge."
She was regaining color. She was a very fine-looking young woman,
despite the expression of worry on her face. She was looking Garrison
over in a less excited manner--and he knew she held no thought of guilt
against him.
"Let me suggest that you dismiss your cab and permit me to take you at
once to your garage," he said, adding to the man on the box: "Cabby,
how much is your bill?"
"Five dollars," said the man, adding substantially to his charge.
"Take ten and get out!" said Garrison, handing him a bill.
"Oh, but please----" started the pretty young woman.
Garrison interrupted.
"The man who stole your car did yeoman service for me. I promised him
five times this amount. He may never dare appear to get his money.
Kindly step in. Will you drive the car yourself?"
"No, thank you," she murmured, obeying because of his masterly manner.
"But really, I hardly know----"
"Please say nothing further about it," he once more interrupted. "I am
sorry to have been in any manner connected with an event which has
caused you uneasiness; but I am very glad, indeed, to be instrumental
in returning your property and relieving your worry. Where do you keep
your car?"
She told him the place. It was up in the neighborhood of Columbus
Circle. Twenty minutes later the car was "home"--where it would never
get away on false pretenses again, and the news of its coming began to
go hotly out by wire.
Garrison heard the men call his fair companion Miss Ellis. He called a
cab, when she was ready to go, asked for permission to escort her home,
and was driven in her company to an old-fashioned house downtown, near
Washington Square. There he left her, with a nice old motherly person,
and bade her good-by with no expectation of ever beholding her again,
despite the murmured thanks she gave him and the half-timid offer of
her hand.
When he left and dismissed the cabman he was face to face with the
problem of what he should do to find his "wife." His worry all surged
back upon him.
He wondered where Dorothy had gone--where she could go, why she had
fled from him--and what could he do but wait with impatience some word
of her retreat. He had felt her innocence all but established, and
love had come like a new great tide upon him. He was lonely now, and
thoroughly disturbed.
He had warned her she must go to live in some other house than her own;
nevertheless she might have proceeded to the Ninety-third Street
residence for things she would require. It was merely a hope. He made
up his mind to go to the house without delay, aware that the Robinsons
might make all haste to get there and gain an advantage.
Half an hour later he was once more in the place. The housekeeper
alone was in charge. No one had been there in his absence.
He had no intention of remaining long, with Dorothy to find, although
he felt inclined to await the possible advent of Theodore and his
father, whom he meant to eject from the place. As yet he dared not
attempt to order the arrest of the former, either for Dorothy's
abduction or the crime attempted on himself in the park. The risk was
too great--the risk to the fictional marriage between himself and
Dorothy.
He climbed the stairs, wandered aimlessly through the rooms, sat down,
waited, somewhat impatiently, tried to think what were best to do,
worried himself about Dorothy again, and finally made up his mind she
might attempt to wire him at his office address. Calling up the
housekeeper, he gave her strict instructions against admitting any of
the Robinsons--an order which the woman received with apparent
gratification. They were merely to be referred to himself, at this
address, should they come upon the scene.
He started off. He had barely closed the door and heard the woman put
on the chain, and was turning to walk down the brownstone steps when
Theodore, half-way up, panting from haste, confronted him, face to face.
For a moment the two stood staring at each other in surprise. Garrison
was first to break the silence.
"You came a little late, you see. I have just issued orders you are
not to be admitted to this house again, except with my special
permission."
"By Heaven, you---- We'll see about that!" said Theodore. "I'll have
you put under arrest!"
"Try it," said Garrison, grinning in his face. "A charge of abduction,
plus a charge even larger, may cause you more than mere annoyance.
You've been looking for trouble with me, and you're bound to have it.
Let me warn you that you are up against a number of facts that you may
have overlooked--and you may hear something drop!"
"You think you've been clever, here and in Woodsite, I suppose," said
Theodore, concealing both wrath and alarm. "I could drop a couple of
facts on you that would fade you a little, I reckon. And this house
isn't yours yet!"
"I wonder how many lessons you are going to need," answered Garrison
coldly. "If you put so much as your hand inside this building, I'll
have you arrested for burglary. Now, mind what I say--and get out!"
"I'll see you later, all right," said Robinson, glaring for a moment in
impotent rage, and he turned and retreated from the place.
Garrison, with his mind made up to a _coup_ of distinct importance, was
presently headed for his room in Forty-fourth Street. Before he left
the Subway he went to a waiting-room, replaced the long mustache upon
his face--the one with which he had started away in the morning--and
walked the few short blocks from the station to his house.
The street was nearly deserted, but the "shadow" he had duped in the
morning was on watch, still undismissed from duty by young Robinson.
Garrison went up to him quietly--and suddenly showing his gun, pulled
away the false mustache.
"I'm the man you've been waiting to follow," he said. "Now, don't say
a word, but come on."
"Hell!" said the man.
He shrugged his shoulders and was soon up in Garrison's room.