"This is the surest way to avoid any possible dangers," he assured her. "And, by the way, there is no particular reason now why you should longer remain away from Ninety-third Street. The newspaper men have done their worst, and the Robinsons will be entirely disarmed by the various events that have happened—unless Theodore should happen to spring a new surprise, and in any event you might be far more comfortable."
"Perhaps I will return—some time to-morrow," she said. "I'll see."
Garrison went to the door and she walked at his side.
He merely said: "Good-night—and Heaven bless you, Dorothy."
She answered: "Good-night, Jerold," and gave him her hand.
He held it for a moment—the riches of the world. And when he had gone they felt they had divided, equally, a happiness too great for terrestrial measurement.
CHAPTER XXXV
JOHN HARDY'S WILL
Garrison slept the sleep of physical exhaustion that night in Branchville. The escape from New York's noise and turmoil was welcome to his weary body. He had been on a strain day after day, and much of it still remained. Yet, having cleared away the mystery concerning Hardy's death, he felt entitled to a let-down of the tension.
In the morning he was early on the road to Hickwood—his faculties all eagerly focused on the missing will. He felt it might all prove the merest vagary of his mind—his theory of his respecting old Hardy and this testament. But stubbornly his mind clung fast to a few important facts.