Tuttle had performed his services fairly well. He reported that young Robinson had returned to town and had lost no time in dismissing him, with a promise to pay for services rendered by the end of the week. Theodore had seemed content with the bald report which Tuttle had made concerning Garrison's almost total absence from his office, and had rather appeared to be satisfied to let the case develop for the present.

Tuttle knew nothing of the note on Garrison's desk from Theodore, and was therefore unaware how his news affected his chief, who wondered yet again what might be impending.

Concerning Fairfax there was news that was equally disquieting. He had been here once, apparently quite sane again. He had talked with Tuttle freely of a big surprise he had in store for the man who had hidden his wife, and then he had gone to his lodgings, near at hand, departing almost immediately with a suit-case in his hand and proceeding to the station, where he had taken a train on a ticket purchased for Branchville.

Tuttle, uninstructed as to following in a circumstance like this, had there dropped the trail.

"What seemed to be the nature of the big surprise he had in mind?" inquired Garrison. "Could you gather anything at all?"

"Nothing more than that. He appeared to be brooding over some sort of revenge he had in his mind, or something he meant to do, but he was careful to keep it to himself."

"He said nothing at all of leaving New York?"

"Not a word."

"You are positive he bought a ticket for Branchville?"

"Oh, sure," said Tuttle.

Garrison reflected for a moment. "I rather wish you had followed. However, he may return. Keep your eye on the place where he was rooming. Have you noticed anyone else around the office here—reporters, for instance?"

"No. The story's a sort of a dead one with the papers. Young Robinson was gone, and you kept out of sight, and nothing came up to prove any thing."

"You must have been talking to some newspaper man yourself," was
Garrison's comment. He looked at Tuttle keenly.

"I did, yes, sir. One of them saw me here two or three times and finally asked me what paper I represented. I told him the Cable."

Garrison paced up and down the floor somewhat restlessly.

"I think of nothing further except for you to keep an eye on the Robinsons," he said. "Wait a minute. I want you to go to the Ninety-third Street house with a note I'll give you to the housekeeper, and examine the closet, in the back room, first flight up, to see if an equipment telephone is still in place there, concealed beneath a lot of clothing."

He sat down, wrote the note, and gave it to Tuttle, who departed with instructions to return with his report as soon as possible.

The office oppressed Garrison. It seemed to confine him. He prodded himself with a hundred vague notions that there ought to be something he could do, some way to get at things more rapidly. He wondered how far he would find it possible to go with Foster Durgin, and what the fellow would say or do, if confronted with the cold-blooded facts already collated.

Up and down and up and down he paced, impatient of every minute that sped away bringing nothing to the door. Would Barnes arrive in time, or at all? Would Durgin fail to come? Did Dorothy know of his presence in the city?

Everything always swung back to Dorothy. What would she do concerning Fairfax? What would Fairfax himself attempt to do, so far baffled, but a factor with a hold upon her name and, perhaps, upon her fortune? And if the thing should all be cleared at last, and come to its end, as all things must, what would be the outcome for himself and Dorothy?

She had told him at the start that when her business ends had been completely served she would wish him to dismiss himself,—from her life and her memory forever. He smiled at the utter futility of such a behest. It had gone beyond his power to forget like this, though a century of time should elapse.

For an hour he paced his cage impatiently, and nothing happened. A dozen times he went to the door, opened it and looked out in the hall—to no avail. The moment for young Durgin to arrive was at hand. It was almost time for young Barnes to appear.

Tuttle should have made his trip by this. The postman should have brought that photograph from Israel Snow, of Rockdale. Dorothy might at least 'phone.

It was maddening to wait and feel so impotent! His mind reverted to various phases of the case, but lingered most upon the second will—that might mean so much to Dorothy. Where had it gone? Had it been stolen—or hidden? Some way he felt it was hidden. For some reason, wholly illogical, he thought of Hardy lying dead with those grease-like stains upon his knuckles. What did they mean?

Working out a line of thought about the will, he was halted abruptly by a shadow on the glass of his door. He sat down quickly at his desk and assumed an air of calmness he was far from feeling. At the knock which came he called to the visitor to enter.

The visitor entered. It was Wicks.

"Oh, how do you do?" said Garrison, rising from his chair. "Come in.
Come in, Mr. Wicks."