For one second only Garrison was a trifle confused. Then he gave her the roses he had brought.

She carried them quickly to the table, hiding her face in their fragrant petals.

"Just a moment, Dorothy," said Garrison. "You didn't know I'd come to town? You wired——" He halted and looked at the Robinsons. "Oh," he added, "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 to come here at once—and signed your name to the wire."

"Telegraphed you? In my name?" repeated Dorothy. "I don't believe I understand."

"We may as well understand things first as last," said her uncle. "I don't believe this man is your husband! I don't believe his name is Fairfax! He was registered as Garrison. Furthermore——"

Garrison interrupted, addressing Dorothy:

"They think they have discovered something important or vital in the fact that I sometimes use the name Garrison. And they have managed to steal an old letter——"

"I'll tell about the letter, if you please!" cried old Robinson shrilly. He turned to Dorothy, who was very white. "There you are!" he said, waving the letter before her face. "There's the letter from his sweetheart—the woman he asked to become his wife! Here's her acceptance, and her protestations of love. She is doubtless his wife at 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 or do to confute the old man's statements, or quiet his dangerous suspicions. His arrival at the truth concerning herself and Garrison had disconcerted her utterly.

Garrison did not attempt to take the letter, but he addressed her promptly:

"I am perfectly willing to have you read the letter. It was written over a year ago. It is Ailsa's letter. I told you I was once engaged to Ailsa; that she married my friend, without the slightest warning; that I had not destroyed her last letter. She never acquired the habit of dating her letters, and therefore this one might appear to be a bit of recent correspondence."

"A very pretty explanation!" cried old Robinson. "We'll see—we'll see! Dorothy, read it for yourself!"

Dorothy was rapidly recovering her self-possession. She turned to her uncle quite calmly, with the folded bit of paper in her hand.

"How did you come by this letter," she inquired. "You didn't really steal it?"

Garrison answered: "The letter was certainly stolen. My suit-case was rifled the night of my arrival at Branchville. These gentlemen hired a thief to go through my possessions."

"I've been protecting my rights!" the old man answered fiercely. "If you think you can cheat me out of my rightful dues you'll find out your mistake!"

"I wouldn't have thought you could stoop to this," said Dorothy. "You couldn'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 for Dorothy's sake I shall do nothing about it—to-day. But I warn you that I'll endure no more of this sort of thing, in your efforts to throw discredit on Dorothy's relationship with me! Now then, kindly leave the room."

Aware that Garrison held the upper hand, old Robinson was more than chagrined; he was furious. His rage, however, was impotent; there was no immediate remedy at hand. Theodore, equally baffled, returned to his attitude of friendliness.

"No harm's been done, and none was intended," he said. "There's nothing 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 the house.

Garrison closed the door.

Dorothy was looking at him almost wildly.

"What does it mean?" she asked in a tone barely above a whisper. "They haven't really found out anything?"

"They suspect the truth, I'm afraid," he answered. "I shall be obliged to ask you a number of questions."

Her face became quite ashen.

"I can see that your employment has become very trying," she said, "but
I trust you are not contemplating retreat."

The thought made her pale, for her heart, too, had found itself potently involved.

"No; I have gone too far for that," he answered, making an effort to fight down the dictates of his increasing love and keep his head thoroughly 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 hampered by the blindness of my mission. I can see, I think, that the Robinsons expected some legacy which you are now apparently about to inherit, and your 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 condition in his will that I should inherit his fortune provided I should have been 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 have wished. 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 the will, had destroyed John Hardy in the belief that Dorothy, being unmarried, would thereby lose the inheritance, was vanishing. Garrison still had hope.

"You once alluded to certain obligations that—well, compelled you to hire a husband," he said. "You had no urgent need of funds in a large amount?"

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?" She seemed to be frightened.

"They have," he said. "You have your diamonds and pearls. You might raise 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 and betray. "Please don't mention——"

"You didn't tell me what they are, or why you wish to keep them," he said. "What does it mean?"

"Please don't ask!" She was greatly agitated. "Please trust me—a little while longer! You probably have to return to Branchville and your 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 am engaged in Branchville is the case of a man named Hardy. I'm glad he was not your uncle."

Her face took on the hue of death. Her lips moved, but for a moment made 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 at
Branchville was murdered."

She made no sound.

She simply closed her eyes and swayed toward him, weakly collapsing as she fell. He caught her quickly against his breast, a heavy, precious burden that he knew he must love, though the angels of heaven accuse her.

"Dorothy—Dorothy—forgive me," he said, but her senses were deaf to his voice.