"I—hardly know," came the barely audible reply. "Perhaps—at Central
Park and Ninety-third Street."
"I'll start at once," he assured her. "If you leave the house in fifteen minutes we shall arrive about the same time. Try to avoid being followed. Good-by."
He listened to hear her answer, but it did not come. He heard the distant receiver clink against its hook, and then the connection was broken.
He was happy, in a wild, lawless manner, as he left the place and hastened to the Elevated station. The prospect of meeting Dorothy once more, in the warm, fragrant night, at a tryst like that of lovers, made his pulses surge and his heart beat quicken with excitement. All thought of her possible connection with the Branchville crime had fled.
The train could not run fast enough to satisfy his hot impatience. He wished to be there beneath the trees when she should presently come. He alighted at last at the Ninety-third Street station, and hastened to the park.
When he came to the appointed place, he found an entrance to the greenery near by. Within were people on every bench in sight—New York's unhoused lovers, whose wooing is accomplished in the all but sylvan glades which the park affords.
Here and there a bit of animated flame made a tiny meteor streak against the blackness of the foliage—where a firefly quested for its mate, switching on its marvelous little searchlight. Beyond, on the smooth, broad roadways, four-eyed chariots of power shot silently through the avenues of trees—the autos, like living dragons, half tamed to man's control.
It was all thrilling and exciting to Garrison, with the expectation of meeting Dorothy now possessing all his nature. Then—a few great drops of rain began to fall. The effect was almost instantaneous. A dozen pairs of sweethearts, together with as many more unmated stragglers, came scuttling forth from unseen places, making a lively run for the nearest shelter.
Garrison could not retreat. He did not mind the rain, except in so far as it might discourage Dorothy. But, thinking she might have gone inside the park, he walked there briskly, looking for some solitary figure that should by this time be in waiting. He seemed to be entirely alone. He thought she had not come—and perhaps in the rain she might not arrive at all.
Back towards the entrance he loitered. A lull in the traffic of the street had made the place singularly still. He could hear the raindrops beating on the leaves. Then they ceased as abruptly as they had commenced.