A Husband by Proxy

A Husband by Proxy, by Jack
Steele

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Title: A Husband by Proxy
Author: Jack Steele
Release Date: October 10, 2006 [EBook #19523]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A
HUSBAND BY PROXY ***

Produced by Al Haines

A HUSBAND BY PROXY
By
JACK STEELE

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1909, by
Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.
THE PROPOSITION II. A SECOND EMPLOYMENT III. TWO
ENCOUNTERS IV. UNSPOKEN ANTAGONISM V. THE
"SHADOW" VI. THE CORONER VII. A STARTLING DISCOVERY
VIII. WHERE CLEWS MAY POINT IX. A SUMMONS X. A
COMPLICATION XI. THE SHOCK OF TRUTH XII. A
DISTURBING LOSS XIII. A TRYST IN THE PARK XIV. A
PACKAGE OF DEATH XV. SIGNIFICANT DISCOVERIES XVI. IN
QUEST OF DOROTHY XVII. A RESCUE BY FORCE XVIII. THE
RACE XIX. FRIGHT AND A DISAPPEARANCE XX. NEW
HAPPENINGS XXI. REVELATIONS XXII. A MAN IN THE CASE
XXIII. THE ENEMY'S TRACKS XXIV. A NEW ALARM XXV. A
DEARTH OF CLEWS XXVI. STARTLING DISCLOSURES XXVII.
LIKE A BOLT FROM THE BLUE XXVIII. A HELPLESS
SITUATION XXIX. NIGHT-WALKERS XXX. OVERTURES FROM
THE ENEMY XXXI. THE FRET OF WAITING XXXII. A TRAGIC
CULMINATION XXXIII. FOSTER DURGIN XXXIV. THE RICHES
OF THE WORLD XXXV. JOHN HARDY'S WILL XXXVI.
GARRISON'S VALUED FRIEND XXXVII. A HONEYMOON

A Husband by Proxy
CHAPTER I
THE PROPOSITION
With the hum of New York above, below, and all about him, stirring
his pulses and prodding his mental activities, Jerold Garrison, expert
criminologist, stood at the window of his recently opened office,
looking out upon the roofs and streets of the city with a new sense of
pride and power in his being.
New York at last!
He was here--unknown and alone, it was true--but charged with an
energy that he promised Manhattan should feel.
He was almost penniless, with his office rent, his licenses, and other
expenses paid, but he shook his fist at the city, in sheer good nature and
confidence in his strength, despite the fact he had waited a week for
expected employment, and nothing at present loomed upon the horizon.
His past, in a small Ohio town, was behind him. He blotted it out
without regret--or so at least he said to himself--even as to all the
gilded hopes which had once seemed his all upon earth. If his heart was
not whole, no New York eye should see its wounds--and the healing
process had begun.
He was part of the vast machine about him, the mighty brain, as it were,
of the great American nation.
He paced the length of his room, and glanced at the door. The
half-painted sign on the frosted glass was legible, reversed, as the artist
had left it:
JEROLD -------- CRIMINOLOGIST.

He had halted the painter himself on the name, as the lettering appeared
too fanciful--not sufficiently plain or bold.
While he stood there a shadow fell upon the glass. Someone was
standing outside, in the hall. As if undecided, the owner of the shadow
oscillated for a moment--and disappeared. Garrison, tempted to open
the door and gratify a natural curiosity, remained beside his desk.
Mechanically his hand, which lay upon a book entitled "A Treatise on
Poisons," closed the volume.
He was still watching the door. The shadow returned, the knob was
revolved, and there, in the oaken frame, stood a tall young woman of
extraordinary beauty, richly though quietly dressed, and swiftly
changing color with excitement.
Pale in one second, crimson in the next, and evidently concentrating all
her power on an effort to be calm, she presented a strangely appealing
and enchanting figure to the man across the room. Bravery was blazing
in her glorious brown eyes, and firmness came upon her manner as she
stepped inside, closed the door, and silently confronted the detective.
The man she was studying was a fine-looking, clean-cut fellow,
gray-eyed, smooth-shaven, with thick brown hair, and with a
gentleman-athlete air that made him distinctly attractive. The fearless,
honest gaze of his eyes completed a personal charm that was
undeniable in his entity.
It seemed rather long that the two thus stood there, face to face.
Garrison candidly admiring in his gaze, his visitor studious and slightly
uncertain.
She was the first to speak.
"Are you Mr. Jerold?"
"Jerold Garrison," the detective answered. "My sign is unfinished. May
I offer you a chair?"

His caller sat down beside the desk. She continued to study his face
frankly, with a half-shy, half-defiant