Unobserved, the man who had shadowed Garrison so faithfully left the train at the Harlem station, to take the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street crosstown car, in his haste to get to Ninety-third Street, where the Robinsons were waiting.
Garrison went on to the Grand Central, carried his suit-case to his room, freshened his dress with new linen, and then, going forth, lunched at a corner café, purchased another bunch of roses, and proceeded on to Dorothy's.
It was a quarter of two when he rang the bell. He waited only the briefest time. The door was opened, and there stood young Robinson, smiling.
"Why, how do you do, Cousin Jerold?" he said, cordially extending his hand. "Come right in. I'm delighted to see you."
Garrison had expected any reception but this. He felt his old dislike of the Robinsons return at once. There was nothing to do, however, but to enter.
"Is Dorothy——" he started.
"Won't you go right up?" interrupted Theodore. "I believe you are not unexpected."
Garrison was puzzled. A certain uneasiness possessed him. He proceeded quietly up the stairs, momentarily expecting Dorothy to appear. But the house was silent. He reached the landing and turned to look at Theodore, who waved him on to the room they had occupied before.
When he entered he was not at all pleased to find the elder Robinson only awaiting his advent. He halted just inside the threshold and glanced inquiringly from father to son.
"How do you do?" he said stiffly. "Is Dorothy not at home?"