by Jack Steele
CHAPTER XII
A DISTURBING LOSS
Garrison, holding the limp, helpless form in his arms, gazed quicklyabout the room and saw the couch. He crossed the floor and placed herfull length upon its cushions.
She lay there so white and motionless that he was frightened. He feltit impossible to call the Robinsons. He needed water, quickly. Heknew nothing of the house. His searching glance fell at once on thevase of roses, standing on the table. He caught it up, drew out theflowers, and was presently kneeling at Dorothy's side, wetting hishandkerchief with the water from the vase and pressing it closely onher forehead.
She did not respond to his ministrations. He tore at her dress, whereit fastened at the neck, and laid it wide open for several inches. Onthe creamy whiteness of her throat he sprinkled the water, then sprangto the window, threw it up, and was once more kneeling beside her.
The fresh breeze swept in gratefully and cooled her face and neck. Shestirred, slightly turned, opened her eyes in a languid manner, andpartially relapsed into coma.
"Thank God!" said Garrison, who had feared for her life, and he oncemore applied his wetted handkerchief. He spoke to her, gently:
"Forgive me, Dorothy--it's all right--everything's all right," but hersenses accepted nothing of his meaning.
For another five minutes, that seemed like an age, he rubbed at herhands, resprinkled her throat and face, and waved a folded paper towaft her the zephyr of air. When she once more opened her eyes she wasfairly well restored. She recovered her strength by a sheer exertionof will and sat up, weakly, passing her hand across her brow.
"I must have fainted," she said. She was very white.
"You're all right now--the heat and unusual excitement," he answeredreassuringly. "Don't try to do anything but rest."
She looked at him with wide, half-frightened eyes. Her fears hadreturned with her awakened intelligence.
"You mustn't stay," she told him with a firmness he was not prepared toexpect. "Please go as soon as you can."
"But--can I leave you like this? You may need me," he answered. "Ifthere's anything I can do----"
"Nothing now. Please don't remain," she interrupted. "I shall go tomy room at once."
Garrison realized she was in no condition for further questioning.Whatsoever the status of the case or his doubts, there was nothing morepossible, with Dorothy in this present condition. He knew she verymuch desired to be alone.
"But--when shall I see you? What shall I----" he started.
"I can't tell. Please go," she interrupted, and she sank back oncemore on the cushions, looking at him wildly for a moment, and thenaverting her gaze. "Please don't stay another minute."
He could not stay. His mind was confused as to his duty. He knew thathe loved her and wished to remain; he knew he was under orders and mustgo. Disturbed and with worry at his heart, he took her hand for onebrief pressure.
"Don't forget I'm your friend--and protector," he said. "Please don'tforget."
He took his hat, said good-by, saw her lips frame a brief, half-audiblereply, then slipped from the room, to avoid giving undue notice to theRobinsons, went silently down the stairs to the door, and let himselfout in the street.
Aware, in a dim sort of way, that a "shadow" was once more lurking onhis trail, as he left the house, he was almost indifferent to thefellow's intrusion, so much more disturbing had been the climax of hisvisit with Dorothy.
The outcome of his announcement concerning her uncle's death hadaffected Dorothy so instantaneously as to leave him almost withouthope. The blow had reacted on himself with staggering force. He wassickened by the abruptness with which the accusing circumstances hadculminated. And yet, despite it all, he loved her more thanbefore--with a fierce, aggressive love that blindly urged him to herfuture protection and defense.
His half-formed plan to visit the dealer who had sold the cigarsdeparted from his mind. He wanted no more facts or theories thatpointed as so many were pointing. Indeed, he knew not where he wasgoing, or what he meant to do, till at length a sign on a windowaroused him to a sense of things neglected. The sign read simply:
BANK. SAFE DEPOSIT VAULTS.
He entered the building, hired a box in the vault, and placed within itthe jewels he had carried. Then he remembered Wicks.
Instructions had been given to report, not only fully, but promptly.He must make a report--but what? He knew he could not tell of thehorrible tissue of facts and circumstances that wound like a web aboutthe girl he loved. He would far rather give up the case. And once hegave it up, he knew that no man alive could ever come again upon thedamning evidence in his possession.
He would say his work was incomplete--that it looked like a naturaldeath--that Scott had acted suspiciously, as indeed he had--that heneeded more time--anything but what appeared to be the sickening truth.Later, should Dorothy prove to be but some artful, dangerous creature,masquerading as a sweet young girl behind her appearance of beauty,innocence, and exquisite charm--that would be time enough to move.
Perfectly willing to be followed for a time by his "shadow," he walkedto the nearest Subway station in upper Broadway and was presently bornedowntown.
He was barely in time at the big insurance office, for Wicks waspreparing to leave. No less nervous, snappy, or pugnacious thanbefore, the little sharp-faced man appeared more smiling than ever, andyet with an expression even more sardonic.
"Well?" he said, as he ushered Garrison into a small, private room."What have you to report?"
"Nothing very much to report as yet," said Garrison, slightly flushingat withholding the truth. "It looks very much as if the coroner'sverdict may have been correct--although Scott acts a little like a manso absorbed in his inventions that he'd stop at nothing for money."
"Needs money, does he?" demanded Wicks. "He has admitted that?"
"Yes," said Garrison, "he speaks so plainly of his need and makes suchheartless and selfish references to the money he hopes to procure onthis insurance policy that I hardly know what to make of his character."
"Capable of murder, is he?"
"He's fanatical about his invention and--he needs money."
"You don't think him guilty?" announced Mr. Wicks, with rarepenetration.
"There seems to be little or nothing against him as yet," saidGarrison. "There was nothing found on the body, so far as I have beenable to learn, to indicate murder."
"If murder at all, how could it have been done," demanded Mr. Wicks.
"Only by poison."
"H'm! You saw the dead man's effects, of course. What did theycomprise?"
Garrison detailed the dead man's possessions, as found at the coroner'soffice. He neglected nothing, mentioning the cigars as candidly as hedid the few insignificant papers.
"In what possible manner could the man have been poisoned?" demandedWicks, rising, with his watch in his hand. "Was there anything to eatat his apartments--or to drink?"
"Not that I can trace. The only clew that seems important, so far, isthat Scott spent fifteen minutes in Hardy's room, alone, on the nightof his death."
"That's something!" said Wicks, with the slightest possible show ofapproval. "Put on your hat and go uptown with me and tell me exactlyall about it."
They left the office, proceeded to the Subway, boarded an uptownexpress that was jammed to the guards with struggling humanity, alldeserting the small end of Gotham at once; and here, with Wicks crowdedflat up against him, and hanging, first to a strap and then to hisshoulder. Garrison related the few facts that he had already brieflysummarized.
"Well--nothing to say to you but go ahead," said Wicks, as they nearedthe Grand Central Station, where he meant to take a train. "Stick tothe case till you clean it up. That's all."
Garrison, presently alone on the crowded street, with no particularobjective point in view, felt thoroughly depressed and lonely.
He wished he had never discovered the poisoned cigar at Branchville.
Mechanically, his hand sought his pocket, where the second charged weedhad been placed.
Then he started and searched his waistcoat wildly.
The deadly cigar was gone!
