selfish, heartless woman, willing to sacrifice the sweetest--the
various things of life to gain my ends. I want you to believe that
I--I'd rather you wouldn't call it all just mere theatrics."

Garrison gripped his chair, to restrain the impulse to rise and take
her in his arms. He could almost have groaned, for the love in his
heart must lie there, dumb and all but hopeless.

"Dorothy," he said when he felt his mastery complete, "I have already
made it hard enough for myself by committing a folly against which you
gave me ample warning. I am trying now to redeem myself and merit your
trust and regard."

Her eyes met his in a long, love-revealing look--a look that could
bridge all the gulfs of time and the vast abyss of space itself--and
words would have been but a jar. Whatever the outcome, after this,
nothing could rob them of the deep, supernal joy that flashed there
between them for a moment.

Even when her lashes fell, at last, the silence was maintained.

After a time Garrison spoke again, returning to earth and the
unfinished labor before him.

"I must go," he said, consulting his watch. "I hope to catch a train
for Branchville in order to be there early in the morning."

"On our--this business?" she inquired.

He felt it quite impossible to raise her hopes--or perhaps her
fears--by announcing he felt he should find John Hardy's latest will.
Moreover, he had undergone a wakeful man's distrust of the "dream" he
had experienced after falling at the hands of Wicks. He resorted to a
harmless deceit, which, after all, was not entirely deceitful.

"Mr. Fairfax left for Branchville--he said to spring a surprise," he
imparted. "I thought it would do no harm to be on hand and prepare for
his moves, as far as possible."

He had risen. Dorothy did likewise. A slight suggestion of paleness
overspread her face, followed at once by a faint, soft flush of color.

"I hope you will try to avoid him--avoid anything that might be
dangerous," she faltered. "I feel already I shall never be able to
forgive myself for the dangers into which I have sent you."

"This is the surest way to avoid any possible dangers," he assured her.
"And, by the way, there is no particular reason now why you should
longer remain away from Ninety-third Street. The newspaper men have
done their worst, and the Robinsons will be entirely disarmed by the
various events that have happened--unless Theodore should happen to
spring a new