by Jack Steele
CHAPTER XI
THE SHOCK OF TRUTH
For one second only Garrison was a trifle confused. Then he gave herthe roses he had brought.
She carried them quickly to the table, hiding her face in theirfragrant petals.
"Just a moment, Dorothy," said Garrison. "You didn't know I'd come totown? You wired----" He halted and looked at the Robinsons. "Oh," headded, "I think I begin to see."
Dorothy felt something in the air.
"What is it, Jerold?" she said. "I haven't wired. What do you mean?"
Garrison faced the Robinsons.
"I mean that these two _gentlemen_ telegraphed me at Branchville tocome here at once--and signed your name to the wire."
"Telegraphed you? In my name?" repeated Dorothy. "I don't believe Iunderstand."
"We may as well understand things first as last," said her uncle. "Idon't believe this man is your husband! I don't believe his name isFairfax! He was registered as Garrison. Furthermore----"
Garrison interrupted, addressing Dorothy:
"They think they have discovered something important or vital in thefact that I sometimes use the name Garrison. And they have managed tosteal an old letter----"
"I'll tell about the letter, if you please!" cried old Robinsonshrilly. He turned to Dorothy, who was very white. "There you are!"he said, waving the letter before her face. "There's the letter fromhis sweetheart--the woman he asked to become his wife! Here's heracceptance, and her protestations of love. She is doubtless his wifeat this moment! Read it for yourself!"
He thrust it into Dorothy's hand with aggressive insistence.
Dorothy received it obediently. She hardly knew what she should say ordo to confute the old man's statements, or quiet his dangeroussuspicions. His arrival at the truth concerning herself and Garrisonhad disconcerted her utterly.
Garrison did not attempt to take the letter, but he addressed herpromptly:
"I am perfectly willing to have you read the letter. It was writtenover a year ago. It is Ailsa's letter. I told you I was once engagedto Ailsa; that she married my friend, without the slightest warning;that I had not destroyed her last letter. She never acquired the habitof dating her letters, and therefore this one might appear to be a bitof recent correspondence."
"A very pretty explanation!" cried old Robinson. "We'll see--we'llsee! Dorothy, read it for yourself!"
Dorothy was rapidly recovering her self-possession. She turned to heruncle quite calmly, with the folded bit of paper in her hand.
"How did you come by this letter," she inquired. "You didn't reallysteal it?"
Garrison answered: "The letter was certainly stolen. My suit-case wasrifled the night of my arrival at Branchville. These gentlemen hired athief to go through my possessions."
"I've been protecting my rights!" the old man answered fiercely. "Ifyou think you can cheat me out of my rightful dues you'll find out yourmistake!"
"I wouldn't have thought you could stoop to this," said Dorothy. "Youcouldn't expect to shake my faith in Jerold."
She handed Garrison the letter to show her confidence.
Garrison placed it in his pocket. He turned on the Robinsons angrily.
"You are both involved in a prison offense," he said--"an ordinary,vulgar burglary. I suppose you feel secure in the fact that forDorothy's sake I shall do nothing about it--to-day. But I warn youthat I'll endure no more of this sort of thing, in your efforts tothrow discredit on Dorothy's relationship with me! Now then, kindlyleave the room."
Aware that Garrison held the upper hand, old Robinson was more thanchagrined; he was furious. His rage, however, was impotent; there wasno immediate remedy at hand. Theodore, equally baffled, returned tohis attitude of friendliness.
"No harm's been done, and none was intended," he said. "There'snothing in family rows, anyhow. Father, come along."
His father, on the point of discharging another broadside of anger,altered his mind and followed his son to a room at the rear of thehouse.
Garrison closed the door.
Dorothy was looking at him almost wildly.
"What does it mean?" she asked in a tone barely above a whisper. "Theyhaven't really found out anything?"
"They suspect the truth, I'm afraid," he answered. "I shall be obligedto ask you a number of questions."
Her face became quite ashen.
"I can see that your employment has become very trying," she said, "butI trust you are not contemplating retreat."
The thought made her pale, for her heart, too, had found itselfpotently involved.
"No; I have gone too far for that," he answered, making an effort tofight down the dictates of his increasing love and keep his headthoroughly clear.
"In the first place, when you wire me in the future use another name,for safety--say Jeraldine. In the next place, I am very much hamperedby the blindness of my mission. I can see, I think, that the Robinsonsexpected some legacy which you are now apparently about to inherit, andyour marriage became necessary to fulfill some condition of the will.Is this correct?"
"Yes, quite correct." She remained very pale.
"Who was it that died, leaving the will? And when did he die?"
"Another uncle, Mr. John Hardy--quite recently," she answered.
"You are not in mourning."
"By his special request. He died very suddenly. He left a conditionin his will that I should inherit his fortune provided I should havebeen married at least one month prior to his death to a healthy,respectable man--who was not to be my cousin."
"Theodore?"
She nodded. "You can see I had to have a husband."
"Exactly."
Garrison thought he saw a light that cleared her as he could havewished. He hastened to a question bearing directly upon it.
"Did the Robinsons know of this clause in your Uncle Hardy's will--say,two or three weeks ago?"
"No. They knew nothing of it then."
Garrison's heart sank. "You are sure?"
"Absolutely positive. Uncle John was very secretive."
The suggestion that the Robinsons, having known the condition in thewill, had destroyed John Hardy in the belief that Dorothy, beingunmarried, would thereby lose the inheritance, was vanishing. Garrisonstill had hope.
"You once alluded to certain obligations that--well, compelled you tohire a husband," he said. "You had no urgent need of funds in a largeamount?"
She darted him a startled look. "I shall have a pressing need--soon.I suppose you have a right to know."
Garrison was almost in despair. There was nothing to do but go on.
"Did Mr. Hardy know anything of this need?"
"No."
"You feared he might not be in sympathy with your requirements?"
"No, he---- Have these questions anything to do with our--case?" Sheseemed to be frightened.
"They have," he said. "You have your diamonds and pearls. You mightraise quite a sum on such valuable gems."
The look of fear upon her face increased.
"I couldn't!" she said, as if she feared the walls might hear andbetray. "Please don't mention----"
"You didn't tell me what they are, or why you wish to keep them," hesaid. "What does it mean?"
"Please don't ask!" She was greatly agitated. "Please trust me--alittle while longer! You probably have to return to Branchville andyour work."
He determined then and there upon the one supreme test of the situation.
"That reminds me," he said, averting his gaze; "the work on which I amengaged in Branchville is the case of a man named Hardy. I'm glad hewas not your uncle."
Her face took on the hue of death. Her lips moved, but for a momentmade no sound. Then, with an effort, she replied:
"You're glad--but--why?"
"Because," he replied, with a forced smile on his lips, "the man up atBranchville was murdered."
She made no sound.
She simply closed her
eyes and swayed toward him, weakly collapsing asshe fell. He caught her quickly against his breast, a heavy, preciousburden that he knew he must love, though the angels of heaven accuseher.
"Dorothy--Dorothy--forgive me," he said, but her senses were deaf tohis voice.