Garrison, holding the limp, helpless form in his arms, gazed quickly about the room and saw the couch. He crossed the floor and placed her full length upon its cushions.

She lay there so white and motionless that he was frightened. He felt it impossible to call the Robinsons. He needed water, quickly. He knew nothing of the house. His searching glance fell at once on the vase of roses, standing on the table. He caught it up, drew out the flowers, and was presently kneeling at Dorothy's side, wetting his handkerchief with the water from the vase and pressing it closely on her forehead.

She did not respond to his ministrations. He tore at her dress, where it fastened at the neck, and laid it wide open for several inches. On the creamy whiteness of her throat he sprinkled the water, then sprang to the window, threw it up, and was once more kneeling beside her.

The fresh breeze swept in gratefully and cooled her face and neck. She stirred, slightly turned, opened her eyes in a languid manner, and partially relapsed into coma.

"Thank God!" said Garrison, who had feared for her life, and he once more applied his wetted handkerchief. He spoke to her, gently:

"Forgive me, Dorothy—it's all right—everything's all right," but her senses accepted nothing of his meaning.

For another five minutes, that seemed like an age, he rubbed at her hands, resprinkled her throat and face, and waved a folded paper to waft her the zephyr of air. When she once more opened her eyes she was fairly well restored. She recovered her strength by a sheer exertion of will and sat up, weakly, passing her hand across her brow.

"I must have fainted," she said. She was very white.

"You're all right now—the heat and unusual excitement," he answered reassuringly. "Don't try to do anything but rest."

She looked at him with wide, half-frightened eyes. Her fears had returned with her awakened intelligence.

"You mustn't stay," she told him with a firmness he was not prepared to expect. "Please go as soon as you can."

"But—can I leave you like this? You may need me," he answered. "If there's anything I can do——"

"Nothing now. Please don't remain," she interrupted. "I shall go to my room at once."

Garrison realized she was in no condition for further questioning. Whatsoever the status of the case or his doubts, there was nothing more possible, with Dorothy in this present condition. He knew she very much desired to be alone.

"But—when shall I see you? What shall I——" he started.

"I can't tell. Please go," she interrupted, and she sank back once more on the cushions, looking at him wildly for a moment, and then averting her gaze. "Please don't stay another minute."

He could not stay. His mind was confused as to his duty. He knew that he loved her and wished to remain; he knew he was under orders and must go. Disturbed and with worry at his heart, he took her hand for one brief pressure.

"Don't forget I'm your friend—and protector," he said. "Please don't forget."

He took his hat, said good-by, saw her lips frame a brief, half-audible reply, then slipped from the room, to avoid giving undue notice to the Robinsons, went silently down the stairs to the door, and let himself out in the street.

Aware, in a dim sort of way, that a "shadow" was once more lurking on his trail, as he left the house, he was almost indifferent to the fellow's intrusion, so much more disturbing had been the climax of his visit with Dorothy.

The outcome of his announcement concerning her uncle's death had affected Dorothy so instantaneously as to leave him almost without hope. The blow had reacted on himself with staggering force. He was sickened by the abruptness with which the accusing circumstances had culminated. And yet, despite it all, he loved her more than before—with a fierce, aggressive love that blindly urged him to her future protection and defense.

His half-formed plan to visit the dealer who had sold the cigars departed from his mind. He wanted no more facts or theories that pointed as so many were pointing. Indeed, he knew not where he was going, or what he meant to do, till at length a sign on a window aroused him to a sense of things neglected. The sign read simply:

BANK. SAFE DEPOSIT VAULTS.

He entered the building, hired a box in the vault, and placed within it the jewels he had carried. Then he remembered Wicks.

Instructions had been given to report, not only fully, but promptly. He must make a report—but what? He knew he could not tell of the horrible tissue of facts and circumstances that wound like a web about the girl he loved. He would far rather give up the case. And once he gave it up, he knew that no man alive could ever come again upon the damning evidence in his possession.

He would say his work was incomplete—that it looked like a natural death—that Scott had acted suspiciously, as indeed he had—that he needed more time—anything but what appeared to be the sickening truth. Later, should Dorothy prove to be but some artful, dangerous creature, masquerading as a sweet young girl behind her appearance of beauty, innocence, and exquisite charm—that would be time enough to move.

Perfectly willing to be followed for a time by his "shadow," he walked to the nearest Subway station in upper Broadway and was presently borne downtown.

He was barely in time at the big insurance office, for Wicks was preparing to leave. No less nervous, snappy, or pugnacious than before, the little sharp-faced man appeared more smiling than ever, and yet with an expression even more sardonic.

"Well?" he said, as he ushered Garrison into a small, private room.
"What have you to report?"

"Nothing very much to report as yet," said Garrison, slightly flushing at withholding the truth. "It looks very much as if the coroner's verdict may have been correct—although Scott acts a little like a man so absorbed in his inventions that he'd stop at nothing for money."

"Needs money, does he?" demanded Wicks. "He has admitted that?"

"Yes," said Garrison, "he speaks so plainly of his need and makes such heartless and selfish references to the money he hopes to procure on this insurance policy that I hardly know what to make of his character."

"Capable of murder, is he?"

"He's fanatical about his invention and—he needs money."

"You don't think him guilty?" announced Mr. Wicks, with rare penetration.

"There seems to be little or nothing against him as yet," said Garrison. "There was nothing found on the body, so far as I have been able to learn, to indicate murder."

"If murder at all, how could it have been done," demanded Mr. Wicks.

"Only by poison."

"H'm! You saw the dead man's effects, of course. What did they comprise?"

Garrison detailed the dead man's possessions, as found at the coroner's office. He neglected nothing, mentioning the cigars as candidly as he did the few insignificant papers.

"In what possible manner could the man have been poisoned?" demanded Wicks, rising, with his watch in his hand. "Was there anything to eat at his apartments—or to drink?"

"Not that I can trace. The only clew that seems important, so far, is that Scott spent fifteen minutes in Hardy's room, alone, on the night of his death."

"That's something!" said Wicks, with the slightest possible show of approval. "Put on your hat and go uptown with me and tell me exactly all about it."

They left the office, proceeded to the Subway, boarded an uptown express that was jammed to the guards with struggling humanity, all deserting the small end of Gotham at once; and here, with Wicks crowded flat up against him, and hanging, first to a strap and then to his shoulder. Garrison related the few facts that he had already briefly summarized.

"Well—nothing to say to you but go ahead," said Wicks, as they neared the Grand Central Station, where he meant to take a train. "Stick to the case till you clean it up. That's all."

Garrison, presently alone on the crowded street, with no particular objective point in view, felt thoroughly depressed and lonely.

He wished he had never discovered the poisoned cigar at Branchville.

Mechanically, his hand sought his pocket, where the second charged weed had been placed.

Then he started and searched his waistcoat wildly.

The deadly cigar was gone!