A NEW ALARM
Without, for a moment, comprehending the drift of Dorothy's fears,
Garrison led her to a parlor of the house, looking at her in a manner
so fixed that she realized their troubles were not confined to the loss
of her certificate.
"What do you think? What do you fear? There isn't anything else?" she
said, as he still remained dumb for a moment. "What shall we do?"
"Theodore threatened that something might occur," he said. "He has
evidently done his worst, all at once."
"Why--but I thought perhaps my certificate was stolen here," whispered
Dorothy in agitation. "How could Theodore----"
"No one in this house could have known you had such a document about
you," interrupted Garrison. "While you were drugged, or chloroformed,
in the Robinsons' house, the old woman, doubtless, searched you
thoroughly. You told me your certificate was sewed inside----"
"Inside--yes, inside," she interrupted. "I thought it was safe, for
they put a blank paper in its place, and I might not have thought of
anything wrong if I had not discovered a black thread used instead of
the white silk I had been so careful to employ."
"There is ample proof that Theodore has utilized his wits to good
advantage," he said. "Your marriage-certificate episode is only a part
of what he has achieved. This paper contains all the story--suggesting
that your uncle may have been murdered, and telling the conditions of
the will."
He held up the paper before her startled eyes, and saw the look of
alarm that came upon her.
"Printed--in the paper!" she exclaimed in astonishment and utter
dismay. "Why, how could such a thing happen?"
She took the paper and scanned the story hurriedly, making exclamations
as she read.
"Theodore--more of Theodore," said Garrison. "From his point of view,
and with all his suspicions concerning our relationship, it is a
master-stroke. It renders our position exceedingly difficult."
"But--how could he have found out all these things?" gasped Dorothy.
"How could he know?"
"He has guessed very shrewdly, and he has doubtless pumped your
stepbrother of all that he happened to know."
"What shall we do?" she repeated hopelessly. "We can't prove
anything--just now--and what will happen when the will comes up for
probate?"
"I'll land him in prison, if he doesn't pull out of it now," said
Garrison, angered as much by Theodore's diabolical cleverness as he was
by this premature publicity given to the story. "He has carried it all
with a mighty high hand, assured of our fear to take the business into
court. He has stirred up a fight that I don't propose to lose!--a
fight that has roused all the red-hot Crusader of my being!"
"But--what shall we do? All the newspaper people will be digging at
the case and doing their best to hunt up everyone concerned!"
"No reporters can be seen. If the fact leaks out that you are here,
through anyone connected with the house, you must move at once, and
change your name, letting no one but me know where you are."
She looked at him blankly. "Alone? Can't you help me, Jerold?"
"It is more important for me to hasten up country now than it was
before," he answered. "I must work night and day to clear things up
about the murder."
"But--if Foster should really be guilty?"
"He'll be obliged to take his medicine--otherwise suspicion might
possibly rest upon you."
"Good Heavens!"
She was very pale.
"This story in the _Star_ has precipitated everything," he added.
"Already it contains a hint that you and your 'husband' are the ones
who benefit most by the possible murder of John Hardy."
She sank on a chair and looked at him helplessly.
"I suppose you'll have to go--but I don't know what I shall do without
you. How long do you think you'll be away?"
"It is quite impossible to say. I shall return as soon as
circumstances permit. I'll write whenever I can."
"I shall need some things from the house," she said. "I have
absolutely nothing here."
"Buy what you need, and remain indoors as much as you can," he
instructed. "Reporters will be sure to haunt the house in Ninety-third
Street, hoping to see us return."
"It's horrible!" said Dorothy. "It almost makes me wish I had never
heard of any will!"
Garrison looked at her with frank adoration in his eyes.
"Whatever the outcome, I shall always be glad," he said--"glad of the
day you needed--needed assistance--glad of the chance it has given me
to prove my--prove my--friendship."
"I'll try to be worthy of your courage," she answered, returning his
look with an answering glance in which the love-light could only at
best be a trifle modified. "But--I don't see how it will end."
"About this marriage certificate----" he started, when the door-bell
rang interruptingly.
In fear of being overheard by the landlady, already attending a caller,
Garrison halted, to wait. A moment later the door was opened by the
lady of the house herself, and a freshly-groomed, smooth-shaven young
man was ushered in. The room was the only one in the house for this
semi-public use.
"Excuse me," said the landlady sweetly. "Someone to see Miss Ellis."
The visitor bowed very slightly to Dorothy and Garrison, and stood
somewhat awkwardly near the door, with his hat in his hand. The
landlady, having made her excuses for such an intrusion, disappeared to
summon Miss Ellis.
Garrison was annoyed. There was nothing to do but to stand there in
embarrassing silence. Then Miss Ellis came shyly in at the door,
dressed so becomingly that it seemed not at all unlikely she had hoped
for the evening's visitor.
"Oh, Mr. Hunter, this is a very pleasant surprise!" she said. "Allow
me to introduce my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax." She added to
Garrison and Dorothy, "This is Mr. Hunter, of the New York _Star_."
Prepared to bow and let it go at that, Garrison started, ever so
slightly, on learning the visitor's connection. Mr. Hunter, on his
part, meeting strangers unexpectedly, appeared to be diffident and
quite conventional, but pricked up his ears, which were strung to catch
the lightest whisper of news, at the mention of the Fairfax name.
"Not the Fairfax of the Hardy case?" he said, for the moment intent on
nothing so moving as a possible service to his paper. "Of course
you've seen----"
Garrison sat down on the copy of the _Star_ which Dorothy had left in a
chair. He deftly tucked it up beneath his coat.
"No, oh, no, certainly not," he said, and pulling out his watch, he
added to Dorothy, "I shall have to be going. Put on your hat and come
out for a two-minute walk."
Then, to the others:
"Sorry to have to run off in this uncomplimentary fashion, but I trust
we shall meet again."
Hunter felt by instinct that this was the man of all men whom he ought,
in all duty, to see. He could not insist upon his calling in such a
situation, however, and Garrison and Dorothy, bowing as they passed,
were presently out in the hall with the parlor door closed behind them.
In half a minute more they were out upon the street.
"You'll be obliged to find other apartments at once," he said. "You'd
better not even go back to pay the bill. I'll send the woman a couple
of dollars and write that you made up your mind to go along home, after
all."
"But--I wanted to ask a lot of questions--of Miss Ellis," said Dorothy,
thereby revealing the reason she had wished to come here before. "I
thought perhaps----"
"Questions about me?" interrupted Garrison, smiling upon her in the
light of a street-lamp they were passing. "I can tell you far more
about the subject than she could even guess--if we ever get the time."
Dorothy blushed as she tried to meet his gaze.
"Well--it wasn't that--exactly," she said. "I only thought--thought it
might be interesting to know her."
"It's far more interesting to know where you will go," he answered.
"Let me look at this paper for a minute."
He pulled forth the _Star_, turned to the classified ads, found the
"Furnished Rooms," and cut out half a column with his knife.
"Let me go back where I was to-night," she suggested. "I am really too
tired to hunt a place before to-morrow. I can slip upstairs and retire
at once, and the first thing in the morning I can go to a place where
Alice used to stay, with a very deaf woman who never remembers my name
and always calls me Miss Root."
"Where is the place?" said Garrison, halting as Dorothy halted.
"In West Eighteenth Street." She gave him the number. "It will look
so very queer if I leave like this," she added. "I'd rather not excite
suspicion."
"All right," he replied, taking out a booklet and jotting down "Miss
Root," and the address she had mentioned. "I'll write to you in the
name the deaf woman remembers, or thinks she remembers, and no one need
know who you are. If I hurry now I can catch the train that connects
with the local on the Hartford division for Rockdale."
They turned and went back to the house.
"You don't know how long you'll be gone?" she said as they neared the
steps. "You cannot tell in the least?"
"Long enough to do some good, I hope," he answered. "Meantime, don't
see anybody. Don't answer any questions; and don't neglect to leave
here early in the morning."
She was silent for a moment, and looked at him shyly.
"I shall feel a little bit lonely, I'm afraid," she confessed--"with
none of my relatives, or friends. I hope you'll not be very long.
Good-by."
"Good-by," said Garrison, who could not trust himself to approach the
subject she had broached; and with his mind reverting to the subject of
his personal worry in the case, he added: "By the way, the loss of your
wedding certificate can be readily repaired if you'll tell me the name
of the preacher, or the justice of the peace----"
"I'd rather not--just at present," she interrupted, in immediate
agitation. "Good-night--I'll have to go in."
She fled up the steps, found the door ajar, and pushing it open, stood
framed by the light for a moment, as she turned to look back where he
was standing.
Only for a moment did she hover there, however.
He could not see her face as she saw his.
He could not know that a light of love and a mute appeal for
forgiveness lay together in the momentary glance bestowed upon him.
Then she closed the door; and as one in a dream he slowly walked away.