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"In the meantime, don't you open your head again, or you'll get yourself into trouble." He raised his voice and shouted tremendously: "Dorothy!" "Jerold!" came a muffled cry, from somewhere above in a room. He heard her vainly tugging at a door. "Go up ahead of me, both of you," he commanded, making a gesture with the gun. "I prefer not to break in the door."
"Jerold, you don't suspect me?" The car was starting across the bridge. It suddenly halted in the traffic. Almost on the instant came a crash and a cry. A dainty little brougham had been crushed against another motor car in the jam and impatience on the structure. One of its wheels had lost half its spokes, that went like a parcel of toothpicks.
He paced the length of his room, and glanced at the door. The half-painted sign on the frosted glass was legible, reversed, as the artist had left it: JEROLD CRIMINOLOGIST. He had halted the painter himself on the name, as the lettering appeared too fanciful not sufficiently plain or bold. While he stood there a shadow fell upon the glass. Someone was standing outside, in the hall.
He thought she had already seen the evening sheet. "Jerold!" she said, "something terrible has happened. When I got up, half an hour ago to dress my wedding certificate was gone!"
He tried frantically to get a connection, but it wasn't until one of the natives helped with the intricate system of signals, that he heard the voice of Andrew Smith. A few moments later Philip Jones answered, then Jerold Brown and Peter Yarbro. Each man was given quick, yet explicit, instruction. When Dick turned away from the phone, John McCarthy entered the room, followed by George Martin.
White with fear, her eyes ablaze with indignation at the Robinsons, her beauty heightened by the look of intensity in her eyes, she stood by the door, her ankles bound together by a chain which was secured to the heavy brass bed. "Jerold!" she cried as she had before, but her voice broke and tears started swiftly from her eyes.
Nevertheless it was always possible that Dorothy had urged the driver to convey her out of the crowd, and that the driver had finally returned to get his car, and found it gone; but this, for many reasons, seemed unlikely. Dorothy had shown her fear in her last startled question: "Jerold, you don't suspect me?" She might have fled in some sort of fear after that.
"Good-by," she said, "till we meet again soon." "Good-by," he answered. She stepped in the cage and was dropped from his sight, but her last glance remained and made him happy. Tuttle had returned by the time Garrison came once more to his office. He entered the room behind his chief, and Garrison closed the door. "Well?" said Jerold, "any news?" "I got a line on young Robinson," answered Tuttle.
You wired " He halted and looked at the Robinsons. "Oh," he added, "I think I begin to see." Dorothy felt something in the air. "What is it, Jerold?" she said. "I haven't wired. What do you mean?" Garrison faced the Robinsons. "I mean that these two gentlemen telegraphed me at Branchville to come here at once and signed your name to the wire." "Telegraphed you? In my name?" repeated Dorothy.
George and Mary Martin were the youngest couple, and Dick doubted whether either of them was past twenty-one. The others were all nearer thirty. They spent their time side by side, gazing over the sea, perfectly happy in each other's company. Jerold Brown and Peter Yarbro were constantly fishing, from the collapsible boat, while their wives played cards.
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