THE FRET OF WAITING
Tuttle had performed his services fairly well. He reported that young
Robinson had returned to town and had lost no time in dismissing him,
with a promise to pay for services rendered by the end of the week.
Theodore had seemed content with the bald report which Tuttle had made
concerning Garrison's almost total absence from his office, and had
rather appeared to be satisfied to let the case develop for the present.
Tuttle knew nothing of the note on Garrison's desk from Theodore, and
was therefore unaware how his news affected his chief, who wondered yet
again what might be impending.
Concerning Fairfax there was news that was equally disquieting. He had
been here once, apparently quite sane again. He had talked with Tuttle
freely of a big surprise he had in store for the man who had hidden his
wife, and then he had gone to his lodgings, near at hand, departing
almost immediately with a suit-case in his hand and proceeding to the
station, where he had taken a train on a ticket purchased for
Branchville.
Tuttle, uninstructed as to following in a circumstance like this, had
there dropped the trail.
"What seemed to be the nature of the big surprise he had in mind?"
inquired Garrison. "Could you gather anything at all?"
"Nothing more than that. He appeared to be brooding over some sort of
revenge he had in his mind, or something he meant to do, but he was
careful to keep it to himself."
"He said nothing at all of leaving New York?"
"Not a word."
"You are positive he bought a ticket for Branchville?"
"Oh, sure," said Tuttle.
Garrison reflected for a moment. "I rather wish you had followed.
However, he may return. Keep your eye on the place where he was
rooming. Have you noticed anyone else around the office
here--reporters, for instance?"
"No. The story's a sort of a dead one with the papers. Young Robinson
was gone, and you kept out of sight, and nothing came up to prove any
thing."
"You must have been talking to some newspaper man yourself," was
Garrison's comment. He looked at Tuttle keenly.
"I did, yes, sir. One of them saw me here two or three times and
finally asked me what paper I represented. I told him the _Cable_."
Garrison paced up and down the floor somewhat restlessly.
"I think of nothing further except for you to keep an eye on the
Robinsons," he said. "Wait a minute. I want you to go to the
Ninety-third Street house with a note I'll give you to the housekeeper,
and examine the closet, in the back room, first flight up, to see if an
equipment telephone is still in place there, concealed beneath a lot of
clothing."
He sat down, wrote the note, and gave it to Tuttle, who departed with
instructions to return with his report as soon as possible.
The office oppressed Garrison. It seemed to confine him. He prodded
himself with a hundred vague notions that there ought to be something
he could do, some way to get at things more rapidly. He wondered how
far he would find it possible to go with Foster Durgin, and what the
fellow would say or do, if confronted with the cold-blooded facts
already collated.
Up and down and up and down he paced, impatient of every minute that
sped away bringing nothing to the door. Would Barnes arrive in time,
or at all? Would Durgin fail to come? Did Dorothy know of his
presence in the city?
Everything always swung back to Dorothy. What would she do concerning
Fairfax? What would Fairfax himself attempt to do, so far baffled, but
a factor with a hold upon her name and, perhaps, upon her fortune? And
if the thing should all be cleared at last, and come to its end, as all
things must, what would be the outcome for himself and Dorothy?
She had told him at the start that when her business ends had been
completely served she would wish him to dismiss himself,--from her life
and her memory forever. He smiled at the utter futility of such a
behest. It had gone beyond his power to forget like this, though a
century of time should elapse.
For an hour he paced his cage impatiently, and nothing happened. A
dozen times he went to the door, opened it and looked out in the
hall--to no avail. The moment for young Durgin to arrive was at hand.
It was almost time for young Barnes to appear.
Tuttle should have made his trip by this. The postman should have
brought that photograph from Israel Snow, of Rockdale. Dorothy might
at least 'phone.
It was maddening to wait and feel so impotent! His mind reverted to
various phases of the case, but lingered most upon the second
will--that might mean so much to Dorothy. Where had it gone? Had it
been stolen--or hidden? Some way he felt it was hidden. For some
reason, wholly illogical, he thought of Hardy lying dead with those
grease-like stains upon his knuckles. What did they mean?
Working out a line of thought about the will, he was halted abruptly by
a shadow on the glass of his door. He sat down quickly at his desk and
assumed an air of calmness he was far from feeling. At the knock which
came he called to the visitor to enter.
The visitor entered. It was Wicks.
"Oh, how do you do?" said Garrison, rising from his chair. "Come in.
Come in, Mr. Wicks."