A knock on the door interrupted. The landlady, a middle-aged woman who rarely appeared at Garrison's room, was standing on the landing when he went to investigate, and holding a message in her hand.
"A telegram for you," she said, and halting for a moment, she turned and retreated down the stairs.
Garrison tore the envelope apart, pulled out the yellow slip and read:
Please come over to 937 Hackatack Street, Jersey City, as soon as possible.
JERALDINE.
It was Dorothy, across the Hudson. A wave of relief, to know she was near and wished to see him, swept over Garrison's being.
"Here," he said to Tuttle, "here's the address on a card. Report to me there at six o'clock to-night. Get out now and go to young Robinson, but not at the house in Ninety-third Street."
"Why not?" inquired Tuttle. "Its the regular place——"
"I've ordered him not to enter the house again," interrupted Garrison. "By the way, should he attempt to do so, or ask you to get in there for him, agree to his instructions apparently, and let me know without delay."
"Thank you for giving me a chance," said Tuttle, who had risen from his chair. "You'll never regret it, I'm sure."