by Jack Steele
CHAPTER XXV
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 hefelt convinced had been furnished by young Robinson, but he likewisehad time to reflect on all the phases, old and new, of the case inwhich he was involved.
But wander where they would, his thoughts invariably swung around thetroubled circle to Dorothy and the topic was she married or not, and ifshe was,--where was the man?
He could not reach a decision.
Heretofore he had reasoned there could be no genuine Fairfax; to-nighthe entertained many doubts of his former deductions. He found itpossible to construe Dorothy's actions both ways. She was afraid tohave him search out the man who had written her wedding certificate,perhaps because it was a fraud, or perhaps because there _was_ aFairfax somewhere, concerning whom something must be hidden.
The murder mystery, the business of the will, even the vengeance hepromised himself he would wreak on Theodore, sank into significance inthe 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 wouldbe 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 theflight of time, or to the towns through which he was passing. He gaveit up at last and, taking from his pocket a book he employed formemoranda, studied certain items there, supplied by Dorothy, concerningher uncle and his ways of life. There were names of his friends andhis enemies among the scribbled data, together with descriptive bitsconcerning Hardy's personality.
Marking down additional suggestions and otherwise planning his work tobe done at Rockdale, Garrison reflected there was little apparent hopeof clearing young Durgin of suspicion, unless one trifling hint shouldsupply the clew. Dorothy had stated that her Uncle John had long hadsome particularly bitter and malicious enemy, a man unknown to herself,from whom she believed Mr. Hardy might have been fleeing, from time totime, in the trips which had become the habit of his life.
That this constant moving from place to place had been the bane of hisexistence was a theory that Dorothy had formed a year before. Yet, forall she knew, it might have been young Foster Durgin whom her uncle wastrying to avoid!
The train connection for Rockdale was wretchedly timed. What with along wait at the junction and a long delay at a way station fartherout, it was nearly one o'clock when at length his destination wasreached and Garrison, with his steel-trap suit-case in hand, found hisway to a second-rate hotel, where, to his great relief, the beds werefar better than they looked.
He had taken the precaution to register as Henry Hilborn, realizingthat Rockdale doubtless abounded in acquaintances of Hardy's who wouldprobably read the published story of his will in their own local papersin the morning. He wrote at once to Dorothy, under the name of MissRoot, apprising her of his altered name and his address.
In the morning he was early at his work. Representing himself asnothing more than the agent of the New York Insurance Company, forwhich he was, in fact, conducting his various investigations, at leastin part, he rapidly searched out one after another of the persons whosenames 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 andon, for many years in Rockdale, and the names of the Durgins and ofDorothy were barely less familiar.
Garrison's difficulty was not that the people talked too little, butrather that they talked too much, and said almost nothing in theprocess. New trivialities were exceedingly abundant.
He worked all day with no results of consequence. The persons whosenames had been supplied by Dorothy had, in turn, furnished more namesby the dozen, alleging that this man or that knew John Hardy betterthan the proverbial brother, if possible; nevertheless, one afteranother, they revealed their ignorance of any vital facts that Garrisoncould use.
On the following day he learned that Paul Durgin, the nephew creditedwith having claimed the body of the murdered man, lived ten miles outon a farm, amassing a fortune rearing ducks.
Hiring a team, Garrison drove to Durgin's farm. He found his man inthe center of a vast expanse of duck-pens, where ducks by the thousand,all singularly white and waterless, were greeting their master withacclaim.
Durgin came out of the duck midst to see his visitor. He was a large,taciturn being, healthy, strong, independent, a trifle suspicious andmore than a trifle indifferent as to the final disposal of John Hardy'sfortune.
Garrison, at first, found him hard to handle. He had not yet read thepapers. He knew nothing at all of what was being said; and now that heheard it at last, from Garrison's lips, he scarcely did more than nodhis head.
Garrison was annoyed. He determined on awakening the duck-stuporedbeing, unless the task should prove hopeless.
"Mr. Durgin," he said, "the reasons for supposing that Hardy wasmurdered--poisoned--are far more convincing than anyone reallysupposes--and suspicion points particularly at a person in whom you mayand may not be interested--your younger brother, Foster Durgin."
A curious white appearance crept all about the smooth-shaven mouth ofthe duck man. He was not in the least an emotionless clod; he was noteven cold or indifferent, but silent, slow at giving expression toanything but excellent business capabilities.
He looked at Garrison steadily, but with dumb appeal in his eyes. Theblow 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," saidGarrison, with ready sympathy. "It looks as if he had a motive. Withhis knowledge of photography and his dabbling in the art, he has almostcertainly handled poison--the particular poison used to destroy JohnHardy's life. He was there in Hickwood at the time of the crime. Hehas gambled in Wall Street, and lost, and now has disappeared. You cansee I need your help to clear the case."
