by Jack Steele
CHAPTER V
THE "SHADOW"
Nothing more disquieting than this possession of the necklaces couldpossibly have happened to Garrison. He was filled with vaguesuspicions and alarms. The thing was wholly baffling.
What it signified he could not conjecture. His mind went at once tothat momentary scene at the house he had entered by mistake, and inwhich he had been confronted by the masked young woman, with the jewelson her throat, she who had patted his face and familiarly called him byname.
He could not possibly doubt the two ropes of gems were the same. Thefact that Dorothy's cousin, in the garb of Satan, had undoubtedlyparticipated in the masking party, aroused disturbing possibilities inGarrison's mind.
What was the web in which he was entangled?
To have Theodore come to the house in his long, concealing coat,straight from the maskers next door; to have him disappear, and then tohave Dorothy bring forth these gems with such wholly unimaginable trustin his honesty, brought him face to face with a brand-new mystery fromwhich he almost shrank. Reflections on thefts, wherein women wereaccomplices, could not be driven from his brain.
Here was Dorothy suddenly requiring a pseudo-husband--for what? Herewas a party next door to the house--a party on which he had stumbledaccidentally--where a richly dressed young woman chanced to greet him,with her jewels on her neck. Here was, apparently, a familydisturbance, engendered by his marriage with old Robinson's niece. Andnow--here were the necklaces, worth, at the least estimation, the sumof thirty thousand dollars--delivered to himself!
He could not escape the thought of a "fence," in which he himself hadpossibly been impressed as a tool, by the cleverest intrigue. Theentire attitude of the Robinsons might, he realized, have been but apart of the game. He had witnessed Dorothy's acting. It gave him avivid sense of her powers, some others of which might well lieconcealed behind her appearance of innocence.
And yet, when he thought of the beautiful girl who had begged him notto desert her, he could not think her guilty of the things which thissingular outcome might suggest. He was sure she could clear up themystery, and set herself straight in his eyes.
Not a little disturbed as to what he should do with these preciousbaubles, sparkling and glinting in his hand, he knitted his brow inperplexity. He was due to leave New York at once, on orders fromWicks. No safe deposit vault was available at such an hour. He darednot leave the things behind in this room. There was no alternative, hemust carry them along in his pocket.
Inasmuch as the problem could not possibly be solved at once, and inview of the fact that his mind, or his heart, refused to credit Dorothywith guilt, there was nothing to do but dismiss the subject, as far aspossible, and make ready to depart.
He opened a drawer to procure the few things requisite for his trip.On top of a number of linen garments lay a photograph--the picture of asweetly pretty young woman. He took it up, gazed at it calmly, andpresently shook his head.
He turned it over.
On the back was written: "With the love of my heart--Ailsa."
He had kissed this picture a thousand times, in rapture. It had oncerepresented his total of earthly happiness, and then--when the noticeof her marriage had come so baldly, through the mail--it had symbolizedhis depths of despair. Through all his hurt he had clung, not only tothe picture, but also to some fond belief that Ailsa loved him still;that the words she had spoken and the things she had done, in the daysof their courtship, had not been mere idle falsehoods.
To-night, for the first time since his dream had been shattered, thephotograph left him cold and unfeeling. Something had happened, hehardly knew what--something he hardly dared confess to himself, withDorothy only in his vision. The lifeless picture's day was gone atlast.
He tossed it back in the drawer with a gesture of finality, drew fortha number of collars and ties, then went to a closet, opened the doorand studied his two suit-cases thoughtfully. He knew not which totake. One was an ordinary, russet-leather case; the other was athin-steel box, veneered with leather, but of special construction, ona plan which Garrison himself had invented. Indeed, the thing was atrap, ingeniously contrived when the Biddle robbery had baffled farolder men than himself, and had then been solved by a trick.
On the whole, he decided he would take this case along. It had broughthim luck on the former occasion, and the present was, perhaps, acriminal case. He lifted it out, blew off some dust, and laid it,open, on the bed.
To all appearances the thing was innocent enough. On the under side ofthe cover was a folding flap, fastened with a string and a button.Unremembered by Garrison, Ailsa's last letter still reposed in thepocket, its romance laid forever in the lavender of rapidly fadingmemories.
Not only was the case provided with a thin false bottom, concealing itsmechanism, but between the cover and the body proper, on either side,were wing-like pieces of leather, to judge from their looks, thatseemed to possess no function more important than the ordinary canvasstrips not infrequently employed on a trunk to restrain the cover fromfalling far backward when opened. But encased in these wings wereconnections to powerful springs that, upon being set and suddenlyreleased, would snap down the cover like the hammer of a gun and catch,as in the jaws of a trap, any meddling hands that might have beenplaced inside the case by a thief, at the same time ringing a bell. Toset it was a matter of the utmost simplicity, while to spring it onehad barely to go at the contents of the case and touch the triggerlightly.
The springs were left unset, as Garrison tossed in the trifles heshould need. Then he changed his clothes, turned off the gas, and waspresently out once more in the open of the street, walking to the GrandCentral Station, near at hand.
The man who had followed all the way from Dorothy's residence not onlywas waiting, but remained on Garrison's trail.
At a quarter of ten Garrison ensconced himself in a train forBranchville. His "shadow" was there in the car. The run requiredfifty minutes. Hickwood, a very small village, was passed by the carswithout a stop. It was hardly two miles from the larger settlement.
The hour was late when Garrison arrived. He and his "shadow" alightedfrom the train and repaired to a small, one-story hotel near therailway depot, the only place the town afforded. They were presentlyassigned to adjoining rooms.
Garrison opened his suit-case on the bureau, removed one or twoarticles, and left the receptacle open, with the cover propped againstthe mirror. Despite the lateness of the hour he then went out, to roamabout the village. His fellow traveler watched only to see him out ofthe house, and then returned in haste.
In the town there was little to be seen. The houses extended far backfrom the railroad, on considerably elevated hills. There was one mainthoroughfare only, and this was deserted. The dwellings were dark. Noone seemed stirring in the place, though midnight had not yet struck.
Garrison was out for half an hour. When he returned his suit-case wasclosed. He thought nothing of a matter so trifling till he lookedinside, and then he underwent a feeling as if it had been rifled. Butnothing was gone, so far as he could see. Then he noticed thefolding-pocket, for its fastening cord was undone. How well heremembered placing there the letter from Ailsa, months ago! A littlesurprised that he had so utterly forgotten its existence, he slippedhis hand inside the place--and found it empty!
Even then he entertained no suspicions, for a moment. The letter, likethe photograph, was no longer a valued possession. Yet he wonderedwhere it could have gone. Vaguely uncertain, after all, as to whetherhe had left it here or not, his eye was suddenly caught by theslightest movement in the world, reflected in the mirror of the bureau.The movement was up at the transom, above a door that led to the nextadjoining room.
Instantly turning away, to allay any possible suspicion that he mightbe aware of the fact that someone was spying upon him, Garrison movedthe suit-case to a chair, drew from his pocket a folded paper thatmight have appeared important--although merely a railroadfolder--
placed it carefully, as if to hide it, under various articlesof apparel, set the springs of the vicious steel-trap, and, leaving thesuitcase open as before, took a turn around the room.
All this business was merely for the benefit of the man whom he knew tobe watching from over the door. Starting as if to undress, he paused,appeared to remember something left neglected, and hastened from hisroom, purposely leaving the door more than half-way ajar. Down thehall he strode, to the office, where he looked on the register anddiscovered the name of his neighbor--John Brown--an obvious alias.
He had hardly been thus engaged for two minutes when the faint, far-offsound of a ringing bell came distinctly to his ears.
"My alarm-clock's gone off," he said to the man at the desk, and hefled up the hall like a sprinter.
A clatter of sounds, as of someone struggling, had come before hereached his room. As he bounded in he beheld his suit-case, over atthe window, jerking against the sash and sill as if possessed of evilspirits. No thief was visible. The fellow, with the trap upon hisfingers, had already leaped to the ground.
Within a yard of his captured burglar Garrison beheld the suit-casedrop, and his man had made good his escape.
He thrust his head outside the window, but the darkness was in favor ofthe thief, who was not to be seen.
Chagrined to think Mr. "Brown" had contrived to get loose, Garrisontook up the case, carried it back to the bureau, and opened it up, byskillfully releasing the springs. Three small patches of finger-skinwere left in the bite of its jaws--cards of the visitor left asannouncements of his visit.
The room next door was not again occupied that night. The hotel saw nomore of Mr. Brown.