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Updated: May 9, 2025
The traffic regulations suffered absolute demolition. Like a liberated thing of flame and deviltry, happiest when rocketing through space, the car beneath the fugitives seemed to bound in the air as it whirred with a higher and higher hum of wheels and gears, and the air drove by in torrential force, leaving a cloud of smoke and dust in their wake. Dorothy clung to Jerold, half afraid.
The fearless, honest gaze of his eyes completed a personal charm that was undeniable in his entity. It seemed rather long that the two thus stood there, face to face. Garrison candidly admiring in his gaze, his visitor studious and slightly uncertain. She was the first to speak. "Are you Mr. Jerold?" "Jerold Garrison," the detective answered. "My sign is unfinished. May I offer you a chair?"
A pretty time there was of it, though, when he reached home again, and Mrs. Flin pumped out of him where he had been. "It's all of no use, Jerold Flin," said she, "for me to be a strivin' and a strivin' to keep up the honor of the house, and you continually running back to your low associates."
Scott had been paid his insurance; the Robinsons had fled; Foster Durgin and his wife were united by a bond of work and happiness; the house in Ninety-third Street was rented, and Fairfax was almost comfortable at a "sanatorium" where his wife came frequently to see him. With their arms interlocked, Dorothy and Jerold watched the sun go down, from the taffrail of the mighty ocean liner.
On the floor lay a notification of a special delivery letter, to be had at the nearest substation. He was there in the shortest possible time. The letter was from Dorothy. It began "Dear Jerold," but it merely informed him she had found apartments on Madison Avenue, not far from Twenty-ninth Street.
But this was Dorothy, half-way down the stairs, running toward him eagerly, and dressed in most exquisite taste. Briskly stepping forward, ready with the rôle he had rehearsed, he caught her in his arms as she came to the bottom of the stairs, and she kissed him like a sweet young wife, obeying the impulse of her nature. "Oh, Jerold, I'm so glad!" she said.
Jerold has assured me it is legally mine." "I know what Mr. Jerold thinks," replied the attorney. "It nettled him to hear me repeat that story. 'Why, it's incredible," he said. "'There are documents I drew up last fall that refute it completely." Mr. Bromley paused, then went on slowly: "Last fall you were in a hospital, Mr.
It looked much like blackmail and, in connection with another story I heard in circulation at Washington, seemed a systematic preparation to attack the Government's witness. Possibly you do not know it was Mr. Jerold, your legal adviser and my personal friend, who put me in touch with the magazine.
"After I 'phoned you I went to the park, was caught in the rain, and attacked by two ruffians, who knocked me down, and left me to what they supposed would be certain destruction." "Jerold!" she said, and his name thus on her lips, with no one by to whom she was acting, gave him an exquisite pleasure. There was no possibility of guilty knowledge on her part. Of this he was thoroughly convinced.
"I told you I came into your office because your name is Jerold." "Exactly," he mused. "The name I'd assume is Jerold Fairfax?" She nodded, watching him keenly. "It's a good enough name," said Garrison. He paced up and down the floor in silence a number of times. Mrs. Fairfax watched him in apparent calm. "This is a great temptation," he admitted.
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