A DEARTH OF CLEWS
Garrison's ride on the train was a matter of several hours' duration.
Not only did he read every line of the story in the _Star_, which he
felt convinced had been furnished by young Robinson, but he likewise
had time to reflect on all the phases, old and new, of the case in
which he was involved.
But wander where they would, his thoughts invariably swung around the
troubled circle to Dorothy and the topic was she married or not, and if
she was,--where was the man?
He could not reach a decision.
Heretofore he had reasoned there could be no genuine Fairfax; to-night
he entertained many doubts of his former deductions. He found it
possible to construe Dorothy's actions both ways. She was afraid to
have him search out the man who had written her wedding certificate,
perhaps because it was a fraud, or perhaps because there _was_ a
Fairfax somewhere, concerning whom something must be hidden.
The murder mystery, the business of the will, even the vengeance he
promised himself he would wreak on Theodore, sank into significance in
the light of his personal worry. There was only one thing worth while,
and that was love.
He was rapidly approaching a frame of mind in which no sacrifice would
be too great to be made, could he only be certain of winning Dorothy,
heart-free, for his own.
For more than an hour he sat thinking, in the car, oblivious to the
flight of time, or to the towns through which he was passing. He gave
it up at last and, taking from his pocket a book he employed for
memoranda, studied certain items there, supplied by Dorothy, concerning
her uncle and his ways of life. There were names of his friends and
his enemies among the scribbled data, together with descriptive bits
concerning Hardy's personality.
Marking down additional suggestions and otherwise planning his work to
be done at Rockdale, Garrison reflected there was little apparent hope
of clearing young Durgin of suspicion, unless one trifling hint should
supply the clew. Dorothy had stated that her Uncle John had long had
some particularly bitter and malicious enemy, a man unknown to herself,
from whom she believed Mr. Hardy might have been fleeing, from time to
time, in the trips which had become the habit of his life.
That this constant moving from place to place had been the bane of his
existence was a theory that Dorothy had formed a year before. Yet, for
all she knew, it might have been young Foster Durgin whom her uncle was
trying to avoid!
The train connection for Rockdale was wretchedly timed. What with a
long wait at the junction and a long delay at a way station farther
out, it was nearly one o'clock when at length his destination was
reached and Garrison, with his steel-trap suit-case in hand, found his
way to a second-rate hotel, where, to his great relief, the beds were
far better than they looked.
He had taken the precaution to register as Henry Hilborn, realizing
that Rockdale doubtless abounded in acquaintances of Hardy's who would
probably read the published story of his will in their own local papers
in the morning. He wrote at once to Dorothy, under the name of Miss
Root, apprising her of his altered name and his address.
In the morning he was early at his work. Representing himself as
nothing more than the agent of the New York Insurance Company, for
which he was, in fact, conducting his various investigations, at least
in part, he rapidly searched out one after another of the persons whose
names Dorothy had supplied, but all to little purpose.
He found the town very much alive indeed to the news which the _Star_
had blazoned to the world. Hardy had been a well-known figure, off and
on, for many years in Rockdale, and the names of the Durgins and of
Dorothy were barely less familiar.
Garrison's difficulty was not that the people talked too little, but
rather that they talked too much, and said almost nothing in the
process. New trivialities were exceedingly abundant.
He worked all day with no results of consequence. The persons whose
names had been supplied by Dorothy had, in turn, furnished more names
by the dozen, alleging that this man or that knew John Hardy better
than the proverbial brother, if possible; nevertheless, one after
another, they revealed their ignorance of any vital facts that Garrison
could use.
On the following day he learned that Paul Durgin, the nephew credited
with having claimed the body of the murdered man, lived ten miles out
on a farm, amassing a fortune rearing ducks.
Hiring a team, Garrison drove to Durgin's farm. He found his man in
the center of a vast expanse of duck-pens, where ducks by the thousand,
all singularly white and waterless, were greeting their master with
acclaim.
Durgin came out of the duck midst to see his visitor. He was a large,
taciturn being, healthy, strong, independent, a trifle suspicious and
more than a trifle indifferent as to the final disposal of John Hardy's
fortune.
Garrison, at first, found him hard to handle. He had not yet read the
papers. He knew nothing at all of what was being said; and now that he
heard it at last, from Garrison's lips, he scarcely did more than nod
his head.
Garrison was annoyed. He determined on awakening the duck-stupored
being, unless the task should prove hopeless.
"Mr. Durgin," he said, "the reasons for supposing that Hardy was
murdered--poisoned--are far more convincing than anyone really
supposes--and suspicion points particularly at a person in whom you may
and may not be interested--your younger brother, Foster Durgin."
A curious white appearance crept all about the smooth-shaven mouth of
the duck man. He was not in the least an emotionless clod; he was not
even cold or indifferent, but silent, slow at giving expression to
anything but excellent business capabilities.
He looked at Garrison steadily, but with dumb appeal in his eyes. The
blow had gone home with a force that made Garrison sorry.
"How could that be?" the man inquired, "even with Foster wild?"
"He may not be guilty--it's my business to discover who is," said
Garrison, with ready sympathy. "It looks as if he had a motive. With
his knowledge of photography and his dabbling in the art, he has almost
certainly handled poison--the particular poison used to destroy John
Hardy's life. He was there in Hickwood at the time of the crime. He
has gambled in Wall Street, and lost, and now has disappeared. You can
see I need your help to clear the case."