BANK. SAFE DEPOSIT VAULTS.
He entered the building, hired a box in the vault, and placed within it the jewels he had carried. Then he remembered Wicks.
Instructions had been given to report, not only fully, but promptly. He must make a report—but what? He knew he could not tell of the horrible tissue of facts and circumstances that wound like a web about the girl he loved. He would far rather give up the case. And once he gave it up, he knew that no man alive could ever come again upon the damning evidence in his possession.
He would say his work was incomplete—that it looked like a natural death—that Scott had acted suspiciously, as indeed he had—that he needed more time—anything but what appeared to be the sickening truth. Later, should Dorothy prove to be but some artful, dangerous creature, masquerading as a sweet young girl behind her appearance of beauty, innocence, and exquisite charm—that would be time enough to move.
Perfectly willing to be followed for a time by his "shadow," he walked to the nearest Subway station in upper Broadway and was presently borne downtown.
He was barely in time at the big insurance office, for Wicks was preparing to leave. No less nervous, snappy, or pugnacious than before, the little sharp-faced man appeared more smiling than ever, and yet with an expression even more sardonic.
"Well?" he said, as he ushered Garrison into a small, private room.
"What have you to report?"
"Nothing very much to report as yet," said Garrison, slightly flushing at withholding the truth. "It looks very much as if the coroner's verdict may have been correct—although Scott acts a little like a man so absorbed in his inventions that he'd stop at nothing for money."
"Needs money, does he?" demanded Wicks. "He has admitted that?"
"Yes," said Garrison, "he speaks so plainly of his need and makes such heartless and selfish references to the money he hopes to procure on this insurance policy that I hardly know what to make of his character."