A Husband by Proxy Part 38

"Why not a minister?"

"Mr. Fairfax preferred the justice."

Garrison remained by the window stubbornly.

"You said the man is crazy. What did you mean?"

"Didn't you see?" she answered. "That light in his eyes is insanity.

I thought it a soul-light shining through, though it worried me often, I admit. We were married at two in the afternoon and went at once to the station to wait there for the train. He bought the tickets and talked in his brilliant way until the train arrived. It only stopped for a moment.

"He put me on, then a spell came over him suddenly, I don't know what, and he pushed me off the steps, just as the train was moving out--and said the very thing you heard him say in here--and rode away and left me there, deserted."

She told it all in a dry-voiced way that cost her an effort, as Garrison felt and comprehended. He had turned about, in sheer sympathy for her predicament.

"What happened then?"

"I saw in a paper, two days later, he had been detained in a town in Ohio as being mentally unbalanced. In the meantime I had written to my Uncle John, while we were waiting at the station, telling him briefly I was married and to whom. The note was posted not five minutes before a postman came along and took up the letters in the box. I couldn't have stopped it had I wished to, and it never occurred to my mind to stop it, anyway."

"What did your uncle reply?"

"He wrote at once that he was thoroughly pleased. He had long hoped I might marry someone other than Theodore. He confessed that his will contained a clause to the effect that I should inherit no more than five thousand dollars, should I not have been married at least one month prior to his death, to a healthy, respectable man who was not my cousin.

"I dared not write that I had been deserted, or that Mr. Fairfax might be insane. I couldn't tell what to do. I hardly knew what to expect, or what I was, or anything. I could only pretend I was off on my honeymoon--and wait. Then came uncle's sudden death, and my lawyer sent me word about the will, asking when he should file it for probate.

Then--then I knew I had to have a _sane_ husband."

"And the will is not yet filed?"

"Not yet. And fortunately Mr. Trowbridge has had to be away."

Garrison pursued the topic of the will for purposes made necessary by his recent discoveries concerning a new one.

"Mr. Trowbridge had your uncle's testament in his keeping?"

Dorothy shook her head. "No. I believe he conferred with uncle's lawyer, just after his death, and read it there."

"Where did your uncle's lawyer live?"

"In Albany."

"Do you know his name?"

"I think it is Spikeman. Why?"

Garrison was looking at her again with professional coldness, despite the fact that his heart was fairly burning in his breast.

"Because," he said, "I learned from your stepbrother, Paul Durgin, near Rockdale, that your uncle made a later will, and we've got to get trace of the doc.u.ment before you can know where you stand."

Dorothy looked at him with her great brown eyes as startled as a deer's.

"Another will!" she said. "I may have lost everything, after all!

What in the world would become of Foster then--and Alice?"

"And yourself?" added Garrison.

"Oh, it doesn't make the least difference about me," she answered in her bravery--bravery that made poor Garrison love her even more than before, "but they all depend so much upon me! Tell me, please, what did you find out about Foster?"

"Not a great deal," Garrison confessed. "This new will business was my most important discovery. Nevertheless, I confirmed your story of a man whom your uncle greatly feared. His name, it seems, is Hiram Cleave."

"That's the name! That's the man!" cried Dorothy. "I remember now!

He once pinched my face till I cried."

"You have seen him, then? What sort of a looking being is he?"

"I don't remember much--only the horrid grin upon his face. I was only a child--and that impressed me. You didn't hear anything of Foster?"

"Not of his whereabouts--quite a bit concerning his character, none of it particularly flattering."

"I don't know where in the world he can be," said Dorothy. "Poor Alice! What are we going to do now, with all these new complications?"

"Do the best we can," said Garrison. "Aside from the will, and my work on the murder of your uncle, a great deal depends upon yourself, and your desires."

Dorothy looked at him in silence for a moment. A slight flush came to her face.

She said: "In what respect?"

Garrison had no intention of mincing matters now. He a.s.sumed a hardness of aspect wholly incompatible with his feelings.

"In respect to Mr. Fairfax," he answered. "He will doubtless return--dog your footsteps--make himself known to the Robinsons, and otherwise keep us entertained."

She met his gaze as a child might have done.

"What can I do? I've depended so much upon you. I don't like to ask too much--after this--or ever---- You've been more than kind. I didn't mean to be so helpless--or to wound your feelings, or----"

A knock at the door interrupted, and Tuttle entered the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A HELPLESS SITUATION

Confused thus to find himself in the presence of Dorothy as well as Garrison, Tuttle s.n.a.t.c.hed off his hat and looked about him helplessly.

"How are you, Tuttle?" said Garrison. "Glad to see you. Come back in fifteen minutes, will you? I want your report."

"Fifteen minutes; yes, sir," said Tuttle, and he backed from the place.

"Who was that?" said Dorothy. "Anyone connected with the case?"