"A man that Theodore hired to shadow me," said Garrison. "I took him into camp and now he is shadowing Theodore. Let me ask you one or two questions before he returns. You were ill the morning after I left, and did not go at all to Eighteenth Street."

"I couldn't go," she said. "I tried not to give up and be so ill, but perhaps the effects of the drug that the Robinsons employed caused the trouble. At last I thought you might have written to the Eighteenth Street address, so I sent around and got your letters, before I could even send a wire."

"You wired because Fairfax had appeared?"

"Yes, I thought you ought to know."

"How did you know he was here in New York? Did he call at the house where you were staying?"

"No. He sent a note declaring he would call. That was this morning.

Miss Ellis's friend, of the _Star_, had an intuition as to who we were, that evening when he called. When I finally requested Miss Ellis to ask him not to print more stories about us, he had already spoken to the editor, and more of the matter had appeared. Since you left, however, I haven't seen a single reporter."

"Fairfax got his clew to your whereabouts from the press, of course.

The question now is, where do you wish to go? And what do you wish me to do--concerning the role I have filled?"

Dorothy was thoroughly disturbed by the topic.

"Oh, I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I wish I could never see that man again! What do you advise?"

"We hardly know what the situation may require, till we discover more about this latest will," said Garrison. "Things may be altered materially. If you wish it, you can doubtless manage to secure a separation from Fairfax. In the meantime I would strongly advise that you rent an apartment without delay, where no one can find you again."

She looked at him wistfully. "Not even you?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to see me, once in a while," he told her, suppressing the pa.s.sionate outcry of his heart, "unless you wish to secure the services of someone who will make no mistakes."

She was hurt. She loved him. Her nature cried out for the sure protection of his arms, but her womanhood forbade. More than anything else in the world she wished to please him, but not by confessing her fondness.

However much she might loathe the thought, she was the wife of Jerold Fairfax, with everything precious to guard. By the token of the wound that Garrison had inflicted, she knew that she had wounded him. It could not have been avoided--there was nothing but a chasm between them.

"Please do not make me feel that I have been utterly despicable," she pleaded. "You have made no mistakes--in the conduct of the case. I should be so helpless without you."

Garrison knew he had hurt her. He was sorry. He knew her position was the only one possible for a woman such as he could love. He reviled himself for his selfishness. He forced himself now to return her gaze with no hint of anything save business in his eyes.

"Dorothy, I shall be honored to continue with your work," he said. "I mean to see you through."

"Thank you--Jerold," she said. Her voice all but broke. She had never loved him so much as now, and because of that had given herself the one little joy of calling him thus by his name. She added more bravely: "I'll find a room and send you the address as soon as possible.

Meantime, I hope we will soon discover about this latest will."

"I shall do my best," he a.s.sured her. "Let me take you now to the annex elevator, in case anyone should be waiting to see you at the other. Get yourself a heavy veil, and be sure you avoid being followed when you hunt up your room. Take the apartment in the name of Miss Root, and send me word in that name also, just for precaution. Leave Fairfax and the others to me. I may go up to Albany about the will."

He opened the door, but she hesitated a moment longer.

"I hope it will all end somehow, for the best," she said. "It's very hard for you."

He smiled, but not mirthfully.

"It was here in this room I a.s.sumed my role," he said, "and here I drop it."

For a moment she failed to understand.

"Drop it?" she echoed. "How?"

"I'm no longer even your pseudo-husband. I drop the name Fairfax, with all it might imply."

She blushed crimson and could not meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry if I've been the cause----" she started.

Garrison interrupted.

"I'm glad--glad of everything that's happened. We'll say no more of that. But--Theodore--how he will gloat over this!"

"If he finds out Mr. Fairfax is crazy, he could overthrow the will,"

suggested Dorothy. "But--what's the use of thinking of that, if a new will comes to light? It's a dreadfully mixed affair." She stepped out in the hall and Garrison led the way to the elevator farther to the rear. The chains of a car were descending rapidly.

"Please try not to detest the hour I came to see you first," she said, holding out her hand, "if you can."

"I'll try," said Garrison, holding the precious little fingers for a second over the conventional time.

Glancing up at him quickly she saw a bright smile in his eye. Joy was in her heart. The car was at the floor.

"Good-by," she said, "till we meet again--soon."

"Good-by," he answered.

She stepped in the cage and was dropped from his sight, but her last glance remained--and made him happy.

CHAPTER XXIX

NIGHT-WALKERS

Tuttle had returned by the time Garrison came once more to his office.

He entered the room behind his chief, and Garrison closed the door.

"Well?" said Jerold, "any news?"

"I got a line on young Robinson," answered Tuttle. "He's gone to a small resort named Rockbeach, up on the coast of Ma.s.sachusetts, but his father doesn't know his business, or if he does he denies it."

"Rockbeach?" said Garrison, who realized at once that Theodore had gone there to search out the justice of the peace who had married Dorothy and Fairfax. "Is he up there still?"

"He hadn't come home this morning."

What so long an absence on Theodore's part might signify was a matter purely of conjecture. There was nothing more to be done but await developments. Whatever young Robinson's scheme, it might be wholly disorganized by the latest will that John Hardy had drawn.

"What about the two dagos--the fellows who attacked me in the park?"