"I don't know," answered the man. Again he paced the room. When he halted before his client he looked at her sternly.
"You haven't told me your name," he said.
She gave him her card, on which appeared nothing more than just merely the name "Mrs. Jerold Fairfax," with an address in an uptown West Side street.
Garrison glanced at it briefly.
"This is something you have provided purposely to fit your requirements," he said. "Am I not supposed to know you by any other name?"
"If you accept the—the employment," she answered, once more blushing crimson, "you may be obliged at times to call me Dorothy. My maiden name was Dorothy Booth."
Garrison merely said: "Oh!"
They were silent for a moment. The man was pondering the possibilities. His visitor was evidently anxious.
"I suppose I can find someone else if you refuse the employment," she said. "But you will understand that my search is one of great difficulty. The person I employ must be loyal, a gentleman, courageous, resourceful, and very little known. You can see yourself that you are particularly adapted for the work."
"Thank you," said Garrison, who was aware that no particular flattery was intended. He added: "I hardly suppose it could do me any harm."