by Jack Steele
CHAPTER XXXV
JOHN HARDY'S WILL
Garrison slept the sleep of physical exhaustion that night inBranchville. The escape from New York's noise and turmoil was welcometo his weary body. He had been on a strain day after day, and much ofit still remained. Yet, having cleared away the mystery concerningHardy's death, he felt entitled to a let-down of the tension.
In the morning he was early on the road to Hickwood--his faculties alleagerly focused on the missing will. He felt it might all prove themerest vagary of his mind--his theory of his respecting old Hardy andthis testament. But stubbornly his mind clung fast to a few importantfacts.
Old Hardy had always been secretive, for Dorothy had so reported. Hehad carried his will away with him on leaving Albany. It had not beenstolen--so far as anyone could know. Coupled with all this was thefact that the dead man's hands' had been stained upon theknuckles--stained black, with a grimy something hard to washaway--perhaps the soot, the greasy, moldy old soot of a chimney,encountered in the act of secreting the will, and later only partiallyremoved. It seemed as clear as crystal to the reasoning mind ofGarrison as he hastened along on the road.
He passed the home of Scott, the inventor, and mentally jotted down areminder that the man, being innocent, must be paid his insurance nowwithout delay.
Mrs. Wilson was working in her garden, at the rear of the house, whenGarrison arrived. She was wonderfully pleased to see him. She hadread the papers--which Garrison had not--and discovered what a trulyremarkable personage he was.
The credit of more than ordinarily clever work had been meted out bythe columnful, and his name glared boldly from the vivid account of allhe had done in the case. All this and more he found himself obliged toface at the hands of Mrs. Wilson, before he could manage to enter thehouse and go as before to Hardy's room.
It was just precisely as he had seen it on his former visit. It hadnot been rented since, partially on account of the fact that Hardy'sfate had cast an evil shadow upon it.
Garrison lost no time in his search. He followed his theory. It ledhim straight to the fireplace, with its crudely painted board, built tooccupy its opening. Behind this, he felt, should be the will.
The board was stuck. Mrs. Wilson hastened to her sitting-room to fetcha screwdriver back to pry it out. Garrison gave it a kick, at thebottom, in her absence, thus jarring it loose, and the top fell forwardin his hand.
He put his hand far up, inside the chimney--and on a ledge of brick,where his knuckles picked up a coating of moldy, greasy soot, hisfingers encountered an envelope and knocked it from its lodgment. Itfell on the fender at the bottom of the place. He caught it up, onlytaking time to note a line, "Will of John Hardy," written upon it--and,cramming it into his pocket, thrust the board back into place as Mrs.Wilson entered at the door.
It was not with intent to deceive the good woman that he had thusabruptly decided to deny her the knowledge of his find, but rather as asensible precaution against mere idle gossip, which could achieve noparticular advantage.
Therefore when she pried the board from place, and nothing wasdiscovered behind it, he thanked her profusely, made a whollyperfunctory examination of the room, and presently escaped.
Not until he found himself far from any house, on the road he wastreading to Branchville, did he think of removing the package from hispocket. He found it then to be a plain white envelope indorsed withthis inscription:
Last will of John Hardy. To be opened after my death, and then by myniece, Dorothy Fairfax, only.
Denied the knowledge whether it might mean fortune or poverty to thegirl he loved, and feeling that, after all, his labors might heap greatunearned rewards on Fairfax, bestowing on himself the mere hollowconsciousness that his work had been well performed, he was presentlyseated once more in a train that roared its way down to New York.
There was still an hour left of the morning when he alighted at theGrand Central Station. He went at once to Dorothy's latest abode.
She was out. The landlady knew nothing whatever of her whereabouts.Impatient of every delay, and eager to know not only the contents ofthe will, but what it might mean to have Dorothy gone in this manner,he felt himself baffled and helpless. He could only leave a note andproceed to his office.
Tuttle was there when he arrived. He had nothing to report ofFairfax--of whom Garrison himself had heard no word in Branchville--butconcerning the house in Ninety-third Street there was just a mite ofnews.
He had been delayed in entering by the temporary absence of thecaretaker. He had finally succeeded in making his way to the closet inTheodore's room--and the telephone was gone. Theodore had evidentlyfound a means to enter by the stairs at the rear, perhaps through thehouse next door. The caretaker felt quite certain he had not set footinside the door since Garrison issued his orders.
Garrison wrote a note to Theodore, in reply to the one received the daybefore, suggesting a meeting here at this office at noon, or as soon asconvenient.
"Take that out," he said to Tuttle, "and send it by messenger. Thenreturn to the house where Fairfax had his room and see if there's anynews of him."
Tuttle opened the door to go just as Dorothy, who had arrived outside,was about to knock. Garrison beheld her as she stepped slightly back.He rose from his seat and hastened towards her.
"Excuse me," said Tuttle, and he went his way.
"Come in," said Garrison. "Come in, Dorothy. I've been at your houseand missed you."
She was somewhat pale.
"Yes, I couldn't stay--I wanted to see you the moment you returned,"she told him. "Theodore has found my address, I don't know how, andsent me a note in which he says he has something new--some dreadfulsurprise----"
"Never mind Theodore," Garrison interrupted. "Sit down and get yourbreath. He couldn't have come upon much in all his hunting--much, Imean, that we do not already know. In the meantime, get ready fornews--I can't tell what sort of news, but--I've found your uncle'slatest will!"
Dorothy made no attempt to speak for a moment. Her face became almostashen. Then it brightened. Alarm went from her eyes and she evenmustered a smile.
"It doesn't make a great deal of difference now, whatever Uncle Johnmay have done," she said. "Foster and Alice will be all right--but,where did you find it? Where has it been?"
"I found it at the room he occupied in Hickwood--and fetched it along."
He produced it from his pocket and placed it in her hand.
Despite her most courageous efforts she was weak and nervously excited.Her hands fairly trembled as she tore the envelope across.
"Take it calmly," said Garrison. "Don't be hurried."
She could make no reply. She drew the will from its sheath and,spreading it open, glanced through it rapidly.
"Dear Uncle John!" she presently said, in a voice that all but broke."He has willed it all to me, with no conditions--all except a nicelittle sum for Foster--poor Foster, I'm so glad!"
She broke down and cried.
Garrison said nothing. He went to the window and let her cry it out.
She was drying her eyes, in an effort to regain her self-control, whensomeone knocked and immediately opened the door.
Garrison turned. Dorothy had risen quickly to her feet.
It was Theodore who stood in the doorway. He had come beforeGarrison's note could be delivered.
"Come in," said Garrison. "You're just the man I wish to see."
CHAPTER XXXVI
GARRISON'S VALUED FRIEND
Dorothy, catching up the precious will, had retreated from Theodore'sadvance. She made no effort to greet him, even with so much as a nod.
"I thought I might possibly find you both, and save a little time,"said Robinson, striding in boldly, with no sign of removing his hat."Seems I hit it off about right."
"Charmingly," said Garrison. "Won't you sit down and take off your hatand stay a while?"
"You sound cheerful," said Theodore, drawing forth a cha
ir and seatinghimself in comfort. "Perhaps you realize the game is up at last."
"Yes," agreed Garrison. "I think we do--but it's good of you to comeand accept our notice, I'm sure."
"I didn't come to accept notice--I came to give it," said youngRobinson self-confidently. "I've recently returned from Rockbeach,where I went to investigate your so-called marriage."
He had seen or heard nothing of Fairfax; that was obvious.
"Well?" said Garrison. "Proceed."
"That's about enough, ain't it?" said Theodore. "The marriage havingbeen a fraud, what's the use of beating around the bush? If you careto fix it up on decent terms, I'll make no attempt to break the willwhen it comes up for probate, but otherwise I'll smash your case tosplinters."
"You've put it quite clearly," said Garrison. "You are offering tocompromise. Very generous. Let me have the floor for half a minute.I've had your man Tuttle on your trail, when you thought you had him onmine, for some little time.
"I happen to know that you stole two necklaces in the keeping of Mrs.Fairfax, on the night I met you first, and placed them on the neck ofsome bold young woman in the house next door, where, as you mayremember, I saw you dressed as Mephistopheles. You----"
"I stole nothing of the kind!" interrupted Theodore. "She's gotthem----"
"Never mind that," Garrison interposed. "Let's go on. You installed a'phone in your closet, at the house in Ninety-third Street, and on thenight when you overheard an appointment I made with Mrs. Fairfax, youplugged in, overheard it, abducted Dorothy, under the influence ofchloroform, stole her wedding-certificate, and delivered me over to thehands of a pair of hired assassins to have me murdered in Central Park.
"All this, with the robbery you hired Tuttle to commit at Branchville,ought to keep you reflecting in prison for some little time to come--ifyou think you'd like to go to court and air your grievances publicly."
Theodore was intensely white. Yet his nerve was not entirely destroyed.
"All this won't save your bacon, when I turn over all my affidavits,"he said. "The property won't go to you when the will's before thecourt. The man who married you in Rockbeach was no justice of thepeace, and you know it, Mr. Jerold Garrison. You assumed the name ofFairfax and hired a low-down political heeler, who hadn't been ajustice for fully five years, to act the part and marry you to Dorothy.
"I've got the affidavits. If you think that's going to sound well inpublic--if you think it's pleasant to Dorothy now to know what ablackguard you are, why let's get on the job, both of us flinging themud!"
Dorothy was pale and tense with new excitement.
"Wait a minute, please," said Garrison. "You say you have legalaffidavits that the man who performed that marriage ceremony was afraud, paid to act the part?--that the marriage was a sham--no marriageat all?"
"You know it wasn't!" Theodore shouted at him triumphantly, pullinglegal-looking papers from his pocket. "And you were married to anotherwretched woman at the time. Let Dorothy try to get some joy out ofthat, if she can--and you, too!"
"Thank you, I've got mine," said Garrison quietly. "You're the verybest friend I've seen for weeks. Fairfax, the man who has done thisunspeakable wrong, is a lunatic, somewhere between here and up country,at this moment. He was here in town for a couple of days, and Ithought you might have met him."
"You--what do you mean?" demanded Theodore.
"Just what I say," said Garrison. "I'll pay you five hundred dollarsfor your affidavits, if they're genuine, and you may be interested toknow, by the way of news, that a later will by your step-uncle, JohnHardy, has come to light, willing everything to Dorothy--withoutconditions. You wasted time by going out of town."
"A new will!--I refuse to believe it!" said Robinson, weak withapprehension.
Garrison drew open a drawer of his desk and took out a loaded revolver.He knew his man and meant to take no risk. Crossing to Dorothy, hetook the will from her hand.
"This is the document," he said. "Signed and witnessed in the best oflegal form. And speaking of leaving town, let me suggest that youmight avoid a somewhat unhealthily close confinement by making yourresidence a good long way from Manhattan."
Robinson aged before their very eyes. The ghastly pallor remained onhis face. His shoulders lost something of their squareness. A musclewas twitching about his mouth. His eyes were dulled as he tried oncemore to meet the look of the man across the desk.
He knew he was beaten--and fear had come upon him, fear of theconsequences earned by the things he had done. He had neither the willnor the means to renew the fight. Twice his lips parted, in his effortto speak, before he mastered his impotent rage and regained the powerto think. He dropped his documents weakly on the desk.
"I'll take your five hundred for the papers," he said. "How much timewill you give me to go?"
"Two days," said Garrison. "I'll send you a check to-morrow morning."
Theodore turned to depart. Tuttle had returned. He knocked on thedoor and entered. Startled thus to find himself face to face withRobinson, he hesitated where he stood.
"So," said Theodore with one more gasp of anger, "you sold me out, didyou, Tuttle? I might have expected it of you!"
Tuttle would have answered, and not without heat. Garrison interposed.
"It's all right, Tuttle," he said. "Robinson knows when he's done. Itold him you were in a better camp. Any news of Mr. Fairfax for usall?"
"It's out in the papers," said Tuttle in reply, taking two copies of anevening edition from his pocket. "It seems a first wife of Mr. Fairfaxhas nabbed him, up at White Plains. But he's crazy, so she'll put himaway."
For the first time in all the scene Dorothy spoke.
She merely said, "Thank Heaven!"
CHAPTER XXXVII
A HONEYMOON
A month had flown to the bourne whence no summer charms return.
August had laid a calming hand on all the gray Atlantic, dimpling itssurface with invitations to the color and glory of the sky. The worldturned almost visibly here, in this vast expanse of waters, bringingits meed of joys and sorrows to the restless human creatures on itsbosom.
Jerold and Dorothy, alone at last, even among so many passengers, werefour days deep in their honeymoon, with all the delights of Europelooming just ahead.
There was nothing left undone in the case of Hardy. Scott had beenpaid his insurance; the Robinsons had fled; Foster Durgin and his wifewere united by a bond of work and happiness; the house in Ninety-thirdStreet was rented, and Fairfax was almost comfortable at a "sanatorium"where his wife came frequently to see him.
With their arms interlocked, Dorothy and Jerold watched the sun godown, from the taffrail of the mighty ocean liner.
When the moon rose, two hours later, they were still on deck, alone.
And when they came to a shadow, built for two, they paused in theirperfect understanding. She put her arms about his neck and gave him akiss upon the lips. His arms were both about her, folding her close tohis breast.
"It's such a rest to love you all I please," she whispered. "It wasvery, very hard, even from the first, to keep it from telling itself."
Such is the love that glorifies the world.
THE END
