f dark-brown weeds lay a card, on which, written in
pencil, were the words:

A BIRTHDAY GREETING--WITH LOVE.

Garrison let fall the lid and glanced with fading interest at the few
insignificant papers and other trifles which the drawer contained. He
had practically made up his mind that John Hardy had died, as the
coroner had found, of heart disease, or apoplexy, even in the act of
lighting up to smoke.

He questioned the man further, made up his mind to visit Charles Scott
and Mrs. Wilson, in Hickwood, and was presently out upon the road.

CHAPTER VII

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

Garrison walked along the road to Hickwood out of sheer love of being
in the open, and also the better to think.

Unfortunately for the case in hand, however, his thoughts wandered
truantly back to New York and the mystery about the girl masquerading
to the world as his wife. His meditations were decidedly mixed. He
thought of Dorothy always with a thrill of strong emotions, despite the
half-formed suspicions which had crossed his mind at least a dozen
times.

Her jewels were still in his pocket--a burden she had apparently found
too heavy to carry. How he wished he might accept her confidence in
him freely, unreservedly--with the thrill it could bring to his heart!

The distance to Hickwood seemed to slip away beneath his feet. He
arrived in the hamlet far too soon, for the day had charmed bright
dreams into being, and business seemed wholly out of place.

The railroad station, a store, an apothecary's shop, and a cobbler's
little den seemed to comprise the entire commercial street.

Garrison inquired his way to the home of his man--the inventor.

Scott, whom he found at a workshop, back of his home, was a thin,
stooped figure, gray as a wolf, wrinkled as a prune, and stained about
the mouth by tobacco. His eyes, beneath their overhanging brows of
gray, were singularly sharp and brilliant. Garrison made up his mind
that the blaze in their depths was none other than the light of
fanaticism.

"How do you do, Mr. Scott?" said the detective, who had determined to
pose as an upper-air enthusiast. "I was stopping in Branchville for a
day or two, and heard of your fame as a fellow inventor. I've been
interested in aeroplanes and dirigible balloons so long that I thought
I'd give myself the pleasure of a call."

"Um!" said Scott, closing the door of his shop behind him, as if to
guard a precious secret. "What did you