Part 17 (1/2)

”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 relations.h.i.+p 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 att.i.tude 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.