The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dreamy Hollow, by Sumner Charles Britton

DREAMY HOLLOW

TO THE GIRL OF MY DREAMS
—F. A. B.—

SHE GAZED UPON HIS KINDLY FACE, AND THEN WITH
THE JOY OF YOUTHFUL SPIRITS, PLACED
HER HANDS OVER HIS EYES.

Dreamy Hollow

BY
SUMNER CHARLES BRITTON

A
LONG ISLAND
ROMANCE

NEW YORK
WORLD SYNDICATE COMPANY, Inc.

Copyright, 1921,
By World Syndicate Company, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

CONTENTS

DREAMY HOLLOW

CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY

Dreamy Hollow may be reached three ways—by automobile, aeroplane or boat through Great South Bay. But to go there without invitation would have spoiled the welcome, for, at the time of which we write, the master of this magnificent acreage was a man of square jaw, protruding forehead, and very punctilious. He also possessed two deep blue eyes that set far back under brows of extra overhang—eyes that reflected the soul when tranquil, but in heat of passion, turned to lead.

A forest of trees and kindred foliage protected his gleaming villa from the prying gaze of curious tourists. Only from the water side could it be seen at all. When it was learned that the great concrete walls topped by heavy iron pickets admitted of no entrance except by invitation, the sight-seeing tourist scorned the gatekeeper's apology and scurried away along the gasoline trail.

For quite a long period much mystery existed as to the ownership of the magnificent estate, but this much was known: that for five straight years the great house stood empty. No one was seen to come or go, save the watchman at the ornate iron gates opening upon the motor parkway, and his fellow guardsmen in charge of the estate far in behind the trees and bushes,—out of sight. It was built by a trust company, and whoever might be the owner, he came by sea at rare intervals and sailed away at night. Only a chosen few had visited him there, but they came as he came, and departed with him as he went away. Thus the wondrous white home with its wealth of trees and shrubs came to be known to the families of neighboring estates as "Spooky Hollow."

Drury Villard, after amassing a most prodigious fortune, suddenly appeared before his directors one bright June morning, and announced his retirement forthwith, whereat there was great consternation. For a time the silence following his announcement became so tense that, as President, he felt it necessary to say something more definite. Gathered about him were men who had carried his message all over the world and had sold it for cash. Never had they known a human specimen of such overwhelming energy of body and mind. Although strong in themselves, individually, and as a group, they knew they were merely "spokes in the wheel" of a giant intellect. They had carried his banner into every port, and that banner had spelled prosperity for every agency that held it aloft. But the Master Mind would quit! Now he would lay aside his life work and "desert" the greatest organization of its kind in the world! It amounted to just that—desertion—to those who had grown up with the business—their all was involved.

The stern faces of the strong men about him finally brought President Villard to his feet and caused him to walk nervously to and fro across the room. Every eye was upon him, and he knew in advance each man's thoughts, so intimate had his relations been with them. It was his intention to be frank. He meant to tell them everything about his future plans, but he who had always dominated now halted, ill at ease. For once in his life he exhibited a diffidence of speech in the presence of his directors. They would most likely think his reasons silly—perhaps they would think him crazy! Above all else he wanted, as he well deserved, their lasting good will. Under no circumstances would he forfeit that; but there were certain men in the organization who might feel that he was in the act of jeopardizing their future welfare. Each was a special partner and entitled to the truth, therefore he determined to put his case squarely up to them as a group, regardless of their attitude toward himself. With his hands clasped behind him he finally came to a standstill before them and dreamily peered into their faces.

"Boys," said he, his lips curving into a queer little smile, "I've got to quit—but I won't desert you. I shall do nothing that will subtract from what you have, nor will I retard your progress in pursuit of your goal. I have enough—more than I ever wanted—more than is good for any one man to possess. But for you, untiring faithfuls that you are, I should have said 'good-bye' to this great business five years ago."

Being a man of few words he stopped short and leaned back against the wall where he stood as one at bay until the silence became awkward. Then in a soft sympathetic voice a member of his board of directors spoke.

"Why, Mr. Villard—why would you have done this, when at that time your zeal was at its height?"

Vice-President Parkins asked this question in all good humor.

"Because I feared to lose my soul in pursuit of riches that I did not need. Besides, I was building my future home at Dreamy Hollow. I felt that I should need one as I was on the point of marriage. None of you know that, however," concluded the President, with a far-away gleam in his eyes.

Man of silence and strength, he paused for a moment and again paced the floor. Finally he said, simply, a whimsical expression lighting up his face: "She died—but I went ahead and built a home for her just the same. It has taken years to make it into a place she would have loved. Now, at last, it is ready. Maybe she will hover about it some of the time, so I want to be there. I want to be near at hand, so that——"

President Villard stopped suddenly and looked helplessly about him, for there were strange lights in the eyes of more than one member of the board, and by each man's sobered face was shown a deep sympathy. He looked upon them in amazement, and, suddenly taking his seat at the head of the directors' table, broke out in his accustomed voice.

"Gentlemen," said he, "we must now come to order and proceed with matters to be passed upon by the Board. The first thing is my resignation. In support of that I most earnestly bespeak your hearty concurrence. I must be relieved. Parkins is the man. He has been the real head of this corporation for years—yes, you have Bill," said he, insistently—"and all of us know it. You are the 'System Sam' of the concern, and I won't desert you by any means. Make me Chairman of the Board, if you think best, and I'll come to the annual meeting, or any time you really want me, but I trust that you will find my presence unnecessary. There need be no outside talk. Just say that I am playing with my new home, but am still in the ring. Go on with the business, boys. It's yours from now on. I'll gradually draw out and let go of some stock from time to time in equal shares to you who have carried the hod. I shall keep some of it always just to be one of you, but at my death my executors will find advices from me to dispose of any remaining interest equitably between you. Also allow you time to work it out, if need be. It's all up to you."

What the retiring president had to say was so entirely unexpected that no member of the board found words for reply, although it was patent to all that a great good fortune had been handed them in a fashion never to be forgotten. After a tense period of silence Vice-President Parkins arose from his seat and, walking forward, grasped the hand of the retiring president. A look into each other's eyes told of their mutual trust and esteem; and then one by one, the directors passed in review, several of whom put an arm about Villard's broad shoulders and peered through the mist of their own eyes into his serious face. It was plain that he wanted to be sure that each man was satisfied, and when all had paid their tributes of respect he stood before them irresolutely for a moment—then, without looking back, walked out of the room.

Drury Villard carried no heart upon his sleeve. His was a vigorous nature and he was determined that his first real attempt at home life should light his path toward contentment. No one could have dreamed that this indefatigable specimen of the strenuous life could so easily adjust himself to the new order of things. The usual servants, male and female, amply vouched for by expert agencies, had entered quickly and at once became a part of his orderly household. There had been no fussy superintendence on the part of any one, each member of the menage quietly walking into an appointed place, to take up the duties belonging thereto.

All this was to the liking of the master, whose "stock" was soon "taken" by the experienced coterie of servants who forthwith gave him their approval. Thenceforward his time was his own. He would lead a new life; he would make it his sole business to solve the problem of the real gentleman of leisure. To accomplish this he must discard by degrees all superfluous endeavor. Every habit of haste and impatience must be thrown overboard. Tranquillity of mind and body must be transplanted in their stead. He had a vague notion that his loneliness would soon vanish and that certain seeds of contentment implanted by fixed habits, together with forces not hitherto encountered, would, in time, lead him "beside the still waters,"—away from the storms of life. He welcomed the thought. It stood out as a rainbow of promise before his mind's eye, and took root within his bosom.

As days followed his occupancy of the great home he had builded, he became aware of the perfect solace which now permeated his inner being. Although assured that he had control of his every faculty he did not gloat over his sudden surcease from sorrow. There was a reason for everything and consequently no need of haste in forming "half-baked" conclusions. He had been helped along by a process yet to be fathomed—most probably the will to do. His great homestead, a marvel of exquisite taste, also performed its part in the transformation. But there was something deeper still, an underlying cause, that mystified him. Then, all at once, a great thought crept forward—was she near? Did she know all—everything about his great longing for her? His heart seemed to stand still!

He gazed out of the window; evening shadows had fallen. He had been seated in a huge cushioned chair seemingly for a long time. The room was noiseless but for the deep moaning of the waters of Great South Bay lapping at the beach. Then—vaguely—he thought he heard a voice; "Drury!" it seemed to call.

Villard roused himself and stood upon his feet. He wondered at the calm within him, and with glad voice shouted back: "Winifred! you have called to me! Speak again, dear one! I——"

"There is no death!—There is no death!" came the answer clear and joyous—and then a stillness fell upon the room, so intense that through a heavy metal door could be heard the ticking of a clock in an adjoining room.

Shaken by the experience Drury Villard fell back into the soft upholstery from which position he had heard the voice. He must have time to think! What did it all mean? How much was fact—how much was fancy? Had he been asleep? Would it not be best to walk out along his private beach and breathe the salt air of the evening tide, thus to tranquilize his mind? There was nothing to brood about—that was his thought. He had witnessed a certain phenomenon, the secret of which time must disclose to him. He would wait, "patiently and without stress of mind," was his sober conclusion. In fact, as he walked out along the sandy path leading to the water's edge he found himself supremely happy over his wonderful adventure. His Winifred had kept the tryst!—such was his impression.

From within the great obscuring veil she had spoken, had called his name,—had fulfilled the promise she had given while in the life!

"'Tis naught for Sun to shine," he quoted. "God works in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. There is no death, says my Winifred. Then must I strive with all my soul to meet her in the great beyond! But I must not brood over this matter. I feel the need of fellowship. I'll send for Parkins and put my story before him. I must have some one in whom to confide," and forthwith he put his plan into action.

Never was a man more seemingly delighted than William Parkins when a "long distance" call from the Master of Dreamy Hollow invited him over for the week-end.

"I'm just beginning to want to pal with somebody I know. Five weeks is a long time to wait for friends to invite themselves, so I'm going to start in from my end. You're first on the list, and the first invitation is yours. I won't take no for an answer."

"You will not have to, my dear fellow. I'm most happy to have the opportunity. Which way shall I go out?"

"My boat will take you on board at your pleasure any time after noon on Friday, and will land you back at the same Forty-second Street Pier at such time as you suggest."

"Well, now, that would be perfectly bully! Let's see—your estate joins the Sawyer Place, does it not?"

"Yes—on the east. His hedgerow is the dividing line between us."

"Then I know exactly how to get to you, so I shall taxi over," replied Parkins with enthusiasm. "You see I can kill two birds with one stone by stealing away Friday afternoon and motoring over to my fishing hut at Patchogue—wonderful flounders down there! I have my own boat and I want to see what condition she's in, so I'll get over to your place by noon on Sunday. How does that suit your convenience?"

"Nothing could be better."

"Then it's a go—and many thanks. Bye, sir," concluded Parkins, in his usual courteous way.

"Bye, old boy. I await you with great impatience. Speed the day—S'long—keep yourself good."

A delightful sense of anticipation came into the mind of Drury Villard as he hung the receiver. He felt the need of fellowship and upon Parkins' acceptance his great frame took on a certain vigor that called for action. He must hurry the time away that intervened before Parkins should arrive on Sunday. He must make plans. Perhaps Doctor Sawyer of the adjacent estate would join him in a dinner of welcome.

Such a plan would brush away all business talk, sure to take place if Parkins and himself were left alone the first evening. His idea was to dodge business altogether. Parkins needed a rest, and, as for himself, he had no heart for ordinary commercial chit-chat. He held a great secret in his bosom, a precious secret, and even with so good a friend as Parkins he would be chary of sharing it. For the present, pending the arrival of his visitor, he had much in mind with which to occupy himself. Parkins must find an improvement in him, therefore he would hasten his plan of mastering the secret of composure. His great experience of the afternoon might be repeated if he could but put his mind in condition to receive it. Wonderful thought!—and he would strive to bring it about.

First of all, for the sake of health, another walk along the beach seemed practical, and obeying the impulse, Villard soon found himself strolling leisurely over the path leading to the waters of the bay. He could hear the heavy intonation of the milling tide as it broke upon the sands, long before he reached his destination. Its deep muffled roar was not unlike the reveille of a drum corps in a far-away encampment. As he neared his destination, such was his serenity of mind that he felt himself in tune with all nature from earth to sky. His whole being thrilled at the wonderful message from his dead love.

"There is no death!" he murmured—and then, in lower tone, almost a whisper, he repeated—"there is no death—my beloved knows the truth!"

"Oh, Winifred," he cried aloft, "speak again to me! Tell me that you are near—that I may hope—that I may——" and then a chilling blast swept over the sands that sent a shiver through his body. A voice shouted—a voice he knew and loved so well. It seemed to say—"Life never dies!"—as clear as ever a human tongue could bear a message. It was the same sweet voice as of old, but all-pervading, seeming to completely encompass the eager man on all sides—and from below, and from above. His eyes opened wide in amazement as he put forth his whole strength to control his senses. A man of iron will, he would not fail himself at such a supreme moment! Near unto him was the spirit of his dead, the soul of his loved one—a second visitation.

"Speak on, my Winifred!" he whispered hoarsely, while attempting to shout his words.

"Life, itself, is everlasting!" rang out the voice once more. "The body dies when the soul takes flight—it is no more in being."

"Yes, go on, my loved one! Tell me——"

"Life is a common fund—endless—vast as the heavens—encompassing all space. Life is universal—it permeates, and through constant vibration animates all living things, from the blade of grass to the human soul—but the body dies, and returns to earth."

"And of the soul, my Winifred? Tell me all that I should know, that I——"

"Within the last moment of your life, when your soul prepares to take its flight, all shall be revealed to you. Your soul is the mentor of your brain, and the master of your conscience. By virtue of its quality will its destiny be governed.... So live, my Drury, that when your body dies your soul shall take the flight which leads to everlasting life."

"And we shall meet again, Winifred?—and know each other——"

"The test lies with you. I'll be waiting, Drury—waiting——"

The voice ceased, and Villard, startled by the unfinished sentence, heard a faint sound as if a silken kerchief had fluttered forth upon the breezes. At once the air seemingly regained its usual warmth, the chilling blast following along in the wake of the departing spirit.

Greatly agitated the astonished man looked about him as one who had but just awakened from a dream. Nevertheless he nerved himself into a full control of his faculties as one of his great mental poise is ever capable. He felt sure that his sanity was perfect. He had experienced an extraordinary visitation, but it had left no uncanny feeling within his bosom. His real anxiety, if any, was the fear that the spirit of his loved one had revealed too much—such was her love for him—and that future visitations might thereby be thwarted. Against that possibility he compelled himself to concentrate every force of his intellect and every ounce of his soul—and with that resolve he turned his footsteps toward his home, his body erect, his face illumined—his heart enraptured.

"Winifred!" he whispered, over and over again, and, as he neared his stately mansion—all quiet, serene, and beautiful to look upon—a great wave of regret seized him because she had never crossed its threshold "in the life."

CHAPTER II. WILLIAM PARKINS ARRIVES

The arrival of William Parkins on schedule time, all energy and activity, completely changed the atmosphere of the peaceful home at Dreamy Hollow. Parkins could not sit still. His face, red with sunburn, seemed that of a dissipated man. He fidgeted in his chair, or paced the floor while talking incessantly about the business and its prospects. He had, since Villard's retirement, become its "steering wheel," according to his own estimation. Others in the great organization who, with no shouting of self-praise, had suddenly become open game for his shafts of criticism. With blearing eyes he asserted that if left to himself he would buy out the interest of two or more stockholders—"dead ones"—he called them, but for the fact that his own contract with Villard had foreclosed upon the possibility. In less than half an hour he had, by hint and innuendo, thrown a wet blanket over the future prospects of the company. The morale was "bad." A strong man was needed at the helm—that was his verdict. And in amazement Villard listened without a word from his lips. Had the man suddenly gone crazy!—that was his first thought, but—as Parkins continued, Villard became convinced that he was a knave.

"With your approval, Drury," said Parkins, assuming a new familiarity, "I can make a great institution out of the company. It would be no trick for me to put all competition out of business. In fact, I have a plan——"

"What would you do with the present organization?" Drury Villard asked softly, but with a glint in his eyes that should have warned his guest of a lack of sympathy toward such a scheme.

"I'd scrap it!" replied Parkins, with energy.

"Scrap it!"

Villard raised himself to a straight-up sitting posture.

"Completely—and I'll tell you why," replied Parkins, with an air of finality. "The boys are getting along in years. They are old-fashioned. Business has hardened since they started in, away back there, and they don't seem to know it. 'Let well enough alone' is the invisible motto they seem to see hanging upon the wall. It makes me sick—this nonchalance. They golf Saturdays, go to the shows at night, dine out with their wives, spend a lot of money and come down to business next morning unfit for their duties."

"I'd think they would work with more energy for having taken a little pleasure as they go along—and their wives should share in it!"

Villard smiled into the eyes of his visitor as he awaited his answer, although his soul revolted at the change in the man he had made vice-president of "Villard Incorporated."

"Perhaps they might—more likely they won't," replied Parkins, his voice snappy and hard. "Business is good, all right. Sales are bigger, but that comes from my work, and as complete head of the company, I could give it not only greater national scope but greater international scope as well. I tell you this because you hold the key to the situation, and you'll agree that it takes a blood and iron policy to succeed on a big scale."

"Yes, partly true," replied Villard, whose facial expression gave no clew to his real thoughts. But had William Parkins known the trend of the Villard mind he would have packed his apparel and returned to New York. For a man of his shrewdness his blunder had been colossal. Having enthused himself to believe he was on the right track, and failing to note downright objection on the part of his host toward the trend of his conversation, he began a long drawn out indictment against each member of the company.

"It isn't a case of let well enough alone, even if it is true that we have done especially well," said he. "But my plans mean millions, not hundreds of thousands, and nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of them—not even the men who have grown up with the business. With your help I can buy every interest, and if you consent I'll quadruple your fortune in a couple of years. Of course, I'd keep some of the men. All I need is the nucleus from which to expand—and your consent to proceed."

Parkins' face glowed with pride at the manner in which he had presented his case.

"There is a certain change in your appearance, William, since I last saw you. Anything happened to disturb your mind?" inquired Villard.

"Not a thing, sir. I've been working hard—very hard, Drury. This little trip to Patchogue over the week-ends is about all I do. I like to fish, and drive my car. They are the extent of my pleasures. That's what makes my face red—sunburn!" laughed Parkins.

Villard smiled affably and agreed that the ozone from salt water was almost the elixir of life. Then, referring to Parkins' aspirations to become President of the company, he said:

"I'll think the matter over and let you know before you return to the city. At the moment I'm thinking of the jolly good dinner we're going to have. I've invited Doctor Sawyer to join us. He lives across the hedge and I screwed up the courage to introduce myself. When two sit at a table alone they are apt to talk over business matters, but a third person makes it a party. How's that for an idea?"

"All right, I suppose—three—yes, of course. It is all right, and very thoughtful of you, to be sure, although I've heard it said that two is company, and three is a crowd. However, I'm delighted at the prospect of meeting the doctor. Is he an old resident—one of our plutocrats?"

"That, I do not know," replied Villard. "His estate is magnificent and his home beautiful. I do hope he will turn out to be sociable. It is not well to dwell too much alone. We must not blight our minds through lack of exercise. The brain should have its share as well as the body. And also a certain amount of rest."

"I presume you are right, although this is the first time I have considered the subject. I give no thought to those matters—time wasted, I'd say."

Parkins, the impatient, did not relish such conversation and would have taken the short cut back to business talk had not the announcement of Doctor Sawyer's arrival stopped him. The introduction to the doctor was without warmth on either side; the regulation pump handle shake of the hands left both without a word or a smile for each other. Drury Villard was quick to notice that neither guest regarded the other more than casually.

"Mr. Parkins is connected with our company, and since my retirement from business has presided over the Board meetings," volunteered Villard.

"Indeed!" responded the Doctor gravely.

"Yes, and I am making things hum!" added Parkins. "It will be a long time before I shall want to hibernate, even in such a lovely spot as this. Action, action—I crave it! I must keep on the jump. Very pretty down here, though. Both of you have been prodigal with your money, but I'll wager neither of you could sell for the amount you've spent."

For several long seconds no answer came from either the host or his neighbor. Finally the latter broke the silence by saying, "ahem!" Drury Villard, however, did give Parkins a sharp look; then almost rudely said:

"Perhaps each of us should decide for himself how he shall spend his means. 'One man's food is another man's poison'—according to an old saying that still holds true."

"Yes, all very well," persisted Parkins, "but the wealth both of you have poured into your estates might easily have endowed a great hospital, or capitalized a huge business, giving employment to many people."

At this point Mr. Sawyer frowned, and with his fingers nervously thrumbed the arm of his chair. But he said nothing in reply. Fortunately announcement was made that dinner was ready to be served,—and much to the relief of the host, whose amazement at Parkins' poor taste was only equaled by his embarrassment. At once he rose from his seat and led the way to the dining hall, a great amphitheater with high ceiling starting from the main floor and reaching to the top of the second story. Never before had the master of Dreamy Hollow dined "in state" in his own home, preferring as he did the breakfast room, unpretentious and more inviting—or a nook on a side portico overlooking the garden of roses, and the inlet from the bay. Every appointment at this great dining hall was in keeping with its huge dimensions and the acoustics accentuated the voices of those gathered at the very large table in its center.

"I have never summoned the courage to dine at this table since I came here to live," laughed Villard. "I have been so long completing the house that I have not had time to try it on to see how it would fit."

"Most generous and beautiful," said Dr. Sawyer. "I am deeply impressed with your construction plan. I made a failure of my main dining room. Too small by far. I must do some tearing out and rebuilding. By the way, have you given your estate a name?" queried the doctor.

"Dreamy Hollow," replied Villard.

"I've heard it called Spooky Hollow," laughed Parkins, whose humor ever contained a dash of acid. Then noting the frown upon Dr. Sawyer's brow the subject was changed, Parkins taking the lead. Evidently the doctor had failed to appreciate the little joke at the expense of his host.

"By the way," said Parkins, "there is a large institution out West called the Sawyer Dietariam. Was it named after you, Doctor?"

"Now, ah—I believe it was, although I beg you to believe that I was opposed to the idea," replied Sawyer, who added—"although I am a medical doctor I did not practice medicine. My specialty was that of scientific diet, but they would call me doctor."

Parkins' face flushed red at the thought of his recent rudeness toward his fellow-guest. In an effort to straighten out matters he slapped his hands upon the table and gave voice to a nervous sort of laughter.

"Well, well! I did you a great injustice, Dr. Sawyer, and I beg your pardon," said he, most courteously. "You have really been useful to mankind, after all."

"No apologies, please," replied Sawyer, affably. "I am always sympathetic with those who jump at conclusions. Ah—by the way, I have heard that Mr. Villard, our host, was most prodigal when he retired from active business, going so far as to turn over to his organization the complete running of the institution in order that each man should have the ready made opportunity of becoming substantially rich. I don't know the facts, nor did I hear them from our modest host. The point is this, that whether or not he may ever endow a charity his record for generosity toward the men who helped him to build his great business has been warmly complimented by many leading financiers who know the facts. Unless his example should yield poor results I am prone to believe that other rich men, on retiring, will follow his lead. No plan should be followed wholesale, as it were, until some sort of tabulation as to its merits are consulted. The Villard experiment is being watched with great interest."

"Spied upon?" questioned Parkins, sharply. "I wouldn't be surprised if it is!"

"Nonsense, Mr. Parkins! Business is reputable in these happy days. No one concern can get it all. Old animosities and jealousies have been cast aside. Business is becoming standardized, and, I am happy to hope—humanized. Mercantile warfare is all but a thing of the past. Only the upstart and the unsophisticated engage in cut-throat competition these days. The stronger the organization in brains and honesty, the greater the outlook for success."

Strange to say, William Parkins found no words with which to combat the logic set forth by Dr. Sawyer. That he felt himself to be entirely out of the argument showed in his demeanor. Being no fool, however, he saw that his advantage lay in getting away from the subject, and that he proceeded to do. He could feel the searching eyes of the veteran as spotlights upon himself, eyes that were unafraid—stern but fair, as shown by the kindly twinkle that crept into them—likewise the smile that seemed to bid for good-fellowship all around. That there should be no awkward period of silence, Dr. Sawyer changed the subject.

"I am very much interested in a book I picked up recently, entitled, 'The Naked Truth'—most readable indeed. I try to laugh it out of my mind, but still find myself reading along without being bored. Thus far the author has made a pretty fair case in behalf of eternal life. There is no death, he says, and puts up an argument that I am not able to cope with. I have no license, no desire to dispute his statements."

"All rot!" exclaimed Parkins. "Of course you took no stock in it! There is positively nothing known beyond the grave—I'd bet my head on that."

As he looked around for support Parkins noted that his host had suddenly turned pale, also that his hand trembled, and his fork had fallen into his plate. Fearful that he might have antagonized Villard in some ardent belief, he was glad when Dr. Sawyer came to the rescue.

"I do not believe any one is competent to designate this author's theories as rot," said the visitor. "He might be as well assured of his ground as Mr. Parkins is of his. Perhaps he has had experience not yet a part of Mr. Parkins' stock of knowledge! As a fact, we have all been taught from childhood of a great reunion in store for us. The Bible is authority for that. Is Mr. Parkins able to support a theory to the contrary?"

Sawyer tried to catch Parkins' eyes, but they were fixed upon his plate. He then turned toward his host with a remark when he noticed the pallor of Villard's face, and the trembling of his hands resting upon the edge of the table.

"Are you ill, Mr. Villard?" he inquired, solicitously.

The host looked up and attempted to smile away the inference. But instead, something from within prompted him to say:

"I have every reason to believe that the dead have power to communicate with the living."

"You have!" exclaimed Doctor Sawyer, looking sharply at his host.

"It is true—I have experienced——" then Drury Villard halted abruptly and looked anxiously into the faces of both guests. Each seemed greatly surprised at his partial answer. Perhaps they doubted. Therefore, to a certain extent he would enlighten them.

"I have witnessed the greatest phenomenon possible to occur. Within a few days I have talked with some one whom I knew in the life!"

After Villard's solemn declaration there followed a long pause. Parkins' face became very grave, but there was a sharp, quizzical look in his eyes. There sat the paramount stockholder of the corporation over which he craved ultimate control. Once in that position complete ownership might easily be made to pass along to himself. A person in Drury Villard's state of mind surely needed legal guardianship—that was his notion—therefore, "why not, by legal action, become that guardian!"

This thought, on the spur of the moment, took root at once, and craftily, and through semblance of friendly credulity, Parkins began to work upon the good graces of his host. He at once decided to humor Villard in all things put forth in behalf of his uncanny belief.

As to Sawyer he could, perhaps, through subtle diplomacy, make of him an innocent ally. But extreme caution would be necessary—he would have to change his tactics, agree to the Sawyer code of ethics, and above all, build up in him a strong sympathy for Villard, because of his affliction.

"While I am much surprised at your declaration, Drury," said Parkins, "I can truly say that you have struck the one chord nearest my heart. Brain, body and soul, I believe in immortality."

Parkins' voice had now become soft and gentle, and a winning smile was upon his lips. He observed Villard's keen eyes searching him for the truth. It was a dangerous test to invite but it was successful, the host finally relaxing into a state of calm. Having accepted Parkins' overture as bona fide, Villard, with a sigh of relief, proceeded.

"I do not know why I have disclosed my secret," said he, looking calmly into the placid face of Dr. Sawyer. "Probably because it reflected the yearnings of my soul. Involuntarily I seem to have sought the loyalty of my guests toward the truth of my statement."

"Of course, it is true, Mr. Villard," responded Sawyer. "Why not? While I have never actually heard voices from the outer world I have always yearned for, and expected, a message from my wife. Also I have believed with certainty that I would hear her voice in all naturalness—sometime. Indeed I have prayed for just that. It is bound to come—I am sure of it," he finished with a gulp.

"There is nothing more strange than our own living presence as we sit here at this table," declared Parkins soberly. "Truly the phenomena of death and resurrection are no greater than life itself. But it is all so very unaccountable that I have only my unshakable belief to make me steadfast in behalf of my senses."

"Would you care to say more in relation to your communication with a spirit from the other world?" asked Sawyer, addressing himself to Villard.

"Perhaps, sometime—but not to-night. I must make sure that I am perfectly sane, and that what I say will be regarded as truth—not a mirage of the brain. I must not be set down by either of you as a crazy man—or even a morbid thinker."

"Quite right, Mr. Villard," responded Sawyer, who had begun to notice Parkins' nervous attitude. "That would be most unfair, considering your successful career."

"The world is not ready to believe in the return of souls to comfort the living," continued Drury Villard. "I shall strive the harder for another contact with the presence of that wonderful spirit. I knew her in the life, and I loved her. She would have been my wife years ago, but for her untimely death. Now that I so greatly need her she has found a way through the great veil to give me cheer."

As Villard finished his declaration, Dr. Sawyer gave vent to an audible sigh. His sympathy was bona fide; a fellowship for his host had taken root in his heart. Parkins had become most solemn in his attitude, his face denoting a real sympathy for the older men who were striving for knowledge concerning their departed loved ones. A guilty feeling of disloyalty caused him to wonder if his plans might not be disclosed to both Villard and Sawyer through the same voice Drury had heard. A creepy sensation ran through him at the mere thought of exposure. Notwithstanding his misgivings he believed both men were suffering under a delusion born of a desire to hear from their dead. Of the two, Sawyer was the more nearly sane. This was his estimate between them, but Villard seemed the more pliable.

Parkins' own plans were far too important to himself to spoil with overhaste, therefore he resolved that all necessary time should be taken, might it be a day, a month, or a year. The game was worth the candle. He would play in this one according to the opportunity offered by each, patiently awaiting the moment when he might safely spring his legal trap on Drury Villard.

"I have often tried to find the open sesame to the spirit world but perhaps I am too earthly to succeed," volunteered Parkins after a lengthy pause. "What can you tell me, gentlemen, that will give me a lead toward the door of the unknown?"

"I know nothing whatever," averred Dr. Sawyer, with lips tightened. "Perhaps Mr. Villard may have something to offer."

"Absolutely nothing, gentlemen. I've told you of my experience without going into detail. I do not claim to know anything, which is exactly the attitude of those great thinkers, Edison, Lodge, and Conan Doyle. Edison is said to believe that he can invent an apparatus so delicate that it may record communications from the outside. But I had no such instrument. I simply heard a voice that I knew, and I'd give everything I have in the world to hear that voice again—there! Did you hear that?"

Drury Villard looked up, and around about him. Parkins' face grew pale but he avoided the searching eyes of his host.

"Winifred!" shouted Villard, as he gazed abstractedly about the great dining hall, and into the eyes of his guests. But he did not see them.

On hearing the name Winifred, Parkins' eyes opened wide, as he searched Villard's face.

"Yes—yes, I hear you," continued Villard—"yes, dear heart—go on—you say to—what! My God! Can it be true?" Then, glaring at Parkins, he exclaimed:—"Yes, it is true—I can see the situation clearly. No!—it shall never be!"

Parkins shuddered with apprehension, as Villard's jaws snapped together, and for a full half minute his eyes looked down upon the white damask table covering. When he raised them he glanced swiftly at his host and then turned with an apologetic smile toward Sawyer.

"I have an acquaintance by the name of——" the sentence remained unfinished—Villard's face flaming with anger.

"I know you will pardon me if I ask that we change the subject," said the host in his usual tone of voice, and without a tremor of excitement. "With no volition of my own I have undergone another experience. I have nothing to say on the subject and will beg that no questions be asked at this time. Let us have coffee and cigars, Jacques," said he, addressing the head servant, at the same time eyeing his guests in an open, cordial way. His glance at Parkins was searching, but the latter seemed entirely at ease, and in full sympathy.

"Permit me to say that I intuitively comprehend all that has occurred," said Dr. Sawyer to his host. He then turned his eyes upon Parkins, but that gentleman avoided the gaze, although from no real understanding of its significance.

"You heard no strange voice, Mr. Parkins?" questioned Sawyer.

"Voice! I heard Drury talking to some one, or something, invisible to me. I heard no reply—seemed to me as though he had suddenly gone crazy!"

"Crazy—Yes! Most likely you would think that!" replied Sawyer, sternly. "Sometimes old friendships dissolve through lack of sympathetic understanding."

"But I don't understand, sir!" replied Parkins with a composure well feigned. Glancing hastily toward Villard he asked with eyes widely opened—"What has happened?"

Villard gazed back at him soberly before replying. Then finally after due thought he said, somewhat harshly—

"We will talk the matter over at another time. By the way, let us have the coffee and cigars outside, gentlemen. I have wonderful outlook that will give us a glimpse of the rising of the moon, now due. Its glow over the waters of good old South Bay lends wonderful effects."

CHAPTER III. A MESSAGE FROM WINIFRED

From a nook balcony and for more than an hour the three men bathed in the beauty of a gorgeous moonlit night. Over their coffee and cigars they drank in a grandeur of gleam and shadow over sea and land with little in the way of conversation to mar the serenity of a perfect night. Each had thoughts personal to himself and the inclination of all seemed to be that of introspection.

Of the three, Parkins maintained the more silent mood. Had he been incautious? He wondered if Villard had really been warned against him by a message of some sort, or was he subject to vagarious meditations by reason of his loneliness? As for himself, he was far too practical to admit that there might be such a thing as real spiritual communication. At any rate, there was yet a preponderance of belief to the contrary. He knew of certain persons who had been confined in sanitariums for asserting queer notions on the order of "pipe dreams." Thus next friends had, by order of court, taken them in charge and put them where, in his opinion, they belonged. If friends refused to act the law stepped in and managed the case in behalf of the public welfare.

It was along this line of reasoning that Parkins finally made up his mind to execute his plans at all hazards. His consuming idea of becoming tremendously rich depended upon his success in securing control of a majority holding of "Villard Incorporated." He longed for wealth and power, to gain which he must use the weapons best fitted to the task—diplomacy first, force if called for—and he would lose no time!

It would be necessary to watch Sawyer carefully—"a very canny old gentleman, who might cause trouble," was his thought. To win him would require a diplomacy of the highest order. He must be primed with the right sort of propaganda concerning the Villard hallucination and prove it to Sawyer's satisfaction—then all would go well. He would first turn them into "old cronies," as it were; cause them to strike up a most intimate acquaintance wherein the strength of Sawyer's will power could be utilized in behalf of the Villard weakness. Indeed, Sawyer must be so convinced of Villard's need of a next friend, wholly disinterested, except for his mental welfare, that no court in the land would deny him legal guardianship. Thenceforth the path would be clear of obstruction. Having formed in outline a plan of action, Parkins broke the silence by saying—

"Never have I seen so much beauty in moonlight. It is almost as bright as day."

"Glorious!" responded Sawyer, after several moments of hesitation.

Enthralled by the peacefulness of the situation he had not cared for small conversation. Villard, evidently buried in thought, remained silent. He wondered what manner of girl was the Winifred of whom Parkins had spoken, but he asked no questions. He also wondered as to Parkins' intentions toward her.

"If the sunrise over the Alps is half as grand as the sheen on the waters reflecting this moon, I can see myself buying a ticket that way soon," said Parkins, airily. "Would you care to go along, Drury?"

The question went unanswered overlong, so absorbed was Villard with his own thoughts. Reminded of the fact that he had guests to entertain he sat up quite suddenly and gave attention to Parkins' query.

"All that is in the background with me. I've seen every part of it; been everywhere worth going. This is the spot where my dreams will come true. Here I will live—and here I will die."

"Right," agreed Sawyer. "I am glad you have come to stay. If ever a man needed comradeship it is myself. I shall haunt you, Mr. Villard, and your beautiful home, unless you agree to become a downright good neighbor who will swap visits often."

"I shall esteem it a high privilege to visit you, often," replied Villard. "You must come over the hedge every time you have the courage to choose a poor companion. Of late I have been so much alone that I need a course of training in order to become sociable. I'm willing to make a great try of it and will hope for success. You have seen me at my weakest to-night—perhaps you may never catch me again in the same mood, Dr. Sawyer. But I know you are a man of deep sympathies and that we shall be good neighbors."

"That, we must be," replied Sawyer fervently, "and now I shall be going for I am old enough in years to practice regularity. It is my bedtime—a little past the accustomed hour, so I will shake hands and be gone! We must get together soon again."

Then turning toward his fellow guest he bowed stiffly, but made no offer of his hand in parting.

"An ill omen," thought Parkins, as he threw himself into bed an hour later. "Things were not working just right," he admitted to himself, but that his goal should be reached in due time, he promised himself. "The pyramids were not built over night"—were his last muttered words before the cool air crept in from the Sound and sent him into a restless sleep.

Out on a window balcony Drury Villard, thoroughly awake, and protected from the cold by a heavy steamer blanket, sat motionless, with eyes wide open and mind obsessed with the incidents of the evening. Of the Parkins episode he very much desired to rid his mind, for, after all, he most likely stumbled into an awkward position by reason of his too practical nature. On thinking over the past he could not help but give him credit for having earned his promotion to actively head the Villard Company. He had known him as a boy—and he was now the active head of Villard Incorporated—an expert financial man. All through their years together he had been loyal, good natured, and successful in the big part he had undertaken. No higher compliment could have been paid him than that Villard's mantle of authority should fall upon his shoulders. In the light of events the question was whether or not Parkins would be capable of standing up under prosperity and great future prospects. Had an exalted ego taken possession of his once cool, analytical mind? Was he now loyal to all hands in the organization, and to Villard himself? Or had he turned traitor through anxiety to become the master of a great fortune?

After much weighing of the situation Villard decided that the matter warranted certain tests continued over a goodly period of time. He held in reserve a wholesome pity for the man who so lightly esteemed the golden opinion that he had honestly won, and he pledged himself toward leading him back to his normal self. With that in mind as a policy to be pursued, he rang for light inside and wandered his way to bed.

When Drury Villard had laid his head upon his pillow all forebodings passed away, leaving him at peace in mind and body. There was no weariness because of his duties as a host. He owed himself a good night's rest and with every intention to obey the call he shut his eyes and calmed his brain. Almost at the point of complete repose a vague and dreamy impression that some one was calling from far away came into his mind. He seemed to hear his name, and whispered so softly as to be almost inaudible. Apparently it was the voice of Winifred, and the very stillness of the night seemed boisterous by comparison. Her nearness had the effect of tingling the blood in his veins as she breathed his name—and then, with the softness of a leaf falling upon the grass beneath a low hung bough, the voice continued—

"All that is good is saved—the dross goes back to earth to enrich the soil—but the soul is divine! It never dies! Its homeward flight is nature's plan of purification—but once returned it rests, and awaits the call to go forth and serve a new-born babe of corresponding mould. Thus is inclined the congenital tendency of the human strain when mixed, and provides a natural deviation by which no two human beings are exactly alike. All nature adheres to the selfsame principle."

"And we both shall live again, my Winifred?" breathed Villard.

"We shall, but worlds there are without number, and the same universe holds all. What shall be my further progress I do not know. Enough to say of The Great Beyond that it offers rest and requitement to all souls released from the ills and sorrows of earthly habitation. Farewell, my Drury; another Winifred will come into your life ere long. I shall strive to hover near when you need me most. Meanwhile watch thy way and beware of the pitfalls that will beset thy path."

Now, suddenly, Villard raised himself to sitting posture. So intent had been his mind upon the whispered words of his loved one that her spirit had gone its way before he could command his voice to speak. As in a dream he buried his face upon his pillow, thereby to control his pent up emotions, and also to recount and memorize the exact words that she had spoken. This accomplished, he sighed deeply and lapsed into slumber. Later on he became restless and was startled into partial wakefulness. The one word "beware"—was faintly whispered, but drowsiness overcame his effort to understand although he rolled and tossed from side to side.

CHAPTER IV. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE

Drury Villard was not the only one at "Dreamy Hollow," who failed to enjoy a full night of repose. There was William Parkins, guest, and erstwhile trusted friend, whose brain teemed with plans by which he might get control of the Villard estate. A score of times he turned over in bed to escape the penalty of a sleepless night. Somewhere among the small hours approaching the light of a new day he succumbed to fatigue and had fallen into a weary doze. His last thought on going to sleep was the urgency of quick action if his plans were to succeed. His advantage lay in the present mental state of Drury Villard, whose mind, he was convinced, must border upon the edge of insanity. Hence the need of restraint, and no sane judge would dare deny a writ of sequester to a next friend pending a period of isolation while awaiting the final decree of the Court. Villard's great fortune should not be allowed to "dangle" in plain sight of "jack-leg lawyers," while he, Parkins, awaited final results of the proceedings.

During the hours he had given himself over to thoughts concerning the Villard matter Parkins' mind had been cold toward any conscientious scruple. In his judgment Villard's foolish notion that he could communicate with the soul of a dead sweetheart was as good as a free ticket to a sanitarium. Any judge would have to admit that. Nothing less than providential interference could defeat the plan. The first thing to be done was to select a lawyer of reputation and prestige. Until that was decided, no important step could be taken, except to find out how Sawyer would regard the situation. If he balked, naturally complication would ensue, but the lawyer Parkins had in mind would brook nothing in the way of nonsense. He could, if desirable, put Villard in an asylum. As for Sawyer, he would be given to understand that any interference from him would result in an investigation of his own peculiar views, he having practically coincided with Villard's belief that the latter had heard the voice of his dead love.

Dr. Sawyer had intimated plainly that he, too, had heard that voice and understood the warning words about outside influences. He wondered if Jacques, the servant who served the dinner, had witnessed Villard's excitement and understood the cause of it. He decided to find out about that matter on the following day. Meanwhile he would take one more pill—then he would rest—"sleep"—he muttered. "I must be ready for 'big game' hunting to-morrow."

With this determination he closed his eyes and fell into a nervous slumber. But an hour later Parkins found himself sitting upright in bed and screaming with fear at the top of his voice. Several servants and a night watchman soon surrounded him, the watchman holding an electric torch with which he flashed a flood of light into the face of the guest. Santzi, the Japanese attendant, and personal servant to Drury Villard, had awakened his employer, and together they rushed to the chamber occupied by the guest. The latter, wild-eyed and disheveled, stared at his host and moaned. Then wildly, he shouted—

"It was you who planted a spook in this chamber! You have tried to frighten me into your insane belief, but you've missed your guess! You'll pay for this—you'll——"

"There now, William," soothed Villard—"calm yourself, my boy. Your digestion is off—you've had a bad dream! Don't give way to such unworthy thoughts. Don't you see that everything is all right?"

"A put up job—that's what I see! Neither you nor any one else in this world can make a fool out of me! It's you that is crazy—not I. It's you that pretends to talk with dead people! In fact, it was you who put up this scheme to scare me. You wanted to win me over into a looney state of mind like yourself, but it didn't work! Now, sir, I'm done with you!"

Parkins' eyes blazed with a mad light in each and his breath smelled of drugs. In his rage he had thwarted his own plans and now comprehended to the full extent the mess he had made of them. He demanded privacy from the servants that he might clothe himself and be ready to take his leave by first conveyance. He also demanded that Villard remain with him for a conference, which was granted. Once the door was shut against all witnesses, Parkins sat upon the edge of the bed and cried like a child.

"There is nothing I can say to remove the prejudice I must have aroused within you, Drury. Of course you will acquit me of bad intentions. It must have been a nightmare," he whimpered.

The bravado had entirely gone out of the Parkins' voice. Several moments elapsed as Villard eyed him carefully.

"Just what did you see, William? Tell me exactly what caused your fright."

Villard's words were measured. They lacked warmth, a fact that Parkins could not have failed to take into account.

"Some one stood by my bedside—a woman's form—not in the flesh——"

"Yes—go on!"

"It stood there, motionless, and the room became as cold as ice. I tried to shout but my voice refused to respond. All I could do was to gasp for breath!"

"How long did the apparition remain in view?" demanded Villard, his eyes gleaming his disgust toward Parkins.

"A half minute or a minute—seemed like an hour!" he replied, his teeth chattering from sheer fright.

"Did the Spirit talk—say anything at all?"

"Not a word—just held up a hand as if warning me of something——"

"Ah! there I have it," broke in Villard. "You were warned that your plans were known to me. And that is true. You have lost your soul, William, and were you to die without repentance, it would roam through the ages, lost to all chance of redemption."

"But I don't owe repentance to any dam'd spook! I——"

"Enough of that, sir!" snapped Villard wrathfully. "I'll have no nonsense of that sort! Another insult and your baggage will await you at the carriage entrance."

"But, Drury——"

"Hereafter you will address me as Mister Villard. Our intimacy is at an end!" warned the Master of Dreamy Hollow.

His eyes blazed as he glared at the man on whom he had showered his trust and esteem.

"To-morrow morning you will return to New York. By the time you reach there I shall have made up my mind as to your future usefulness to the company."

Having delivered this ultimatum Villard on second thought punched the button for Jerry, a colored servant, long in his employ. He responded at once.

"Send Santzi to me," said he,—"and return with him. I have duties for both of you. Also arouse the housekeeper and tell her to provide tea and toast immediately for a departing guest."

When Santzi, the Japanese body-servant to Drury Villard, presented himself a few moments later he was told to order out the limousine and prepare to accompany Mr. Parkins to New York.

"It is urgent that the trip be made as quickly as possible—but safely," said Villard, and as Santzi started to obey, the master walked along beside him until both were out of hearing of the Parkins suite.

"I want you to sit inside facing this man. He is not well, and should get back into a milder temperature. If he tries to get out of the car just see that he doesn't. His mind is rather upset, because of his illness. Jerry knows where he lives and will drive him straight to his door by early morning."

"I'll attend, sir," replied Santzi.

"Then come back home, and get some sleep—but don't shut your eyes while Mr. Parkins is in your care!"

"I not sleep, 'ntil start back. Must I use jiu-jitsu?"

"If necessary—but be safe. Do him no real harm. See that he harms neither you nor himself—that's all."

As Parkins, in sulky mood, came out of his comfortable quarters into the great hall leading to the porte cochère, Villard walked along beside him, his hand upon his shoulder. Following came several servants, Santzi in advance, Jerry, Jacques, and Mrs. Bond, the housekeeper, who carried a hamper filled with food. Parkins had refused to partake of anything to eat before leaving and as he stepped inside the car the top light illumined his ashen face. He took the handshake offered by his host who smiled reassuringly and wished him safe journey.

"You'll be down again, soon, I hope," said Villard, his voice kindly. "These cold nights get on one's nerves until one becomes used to them. Call me up soon, I'll be glad to know that you have recovered. Don't try to report at the office to-morrow. I will phone up that you are not well, but will be in a few days—meanwhile I'll look in on you at your home. I'll let you know when. Keep your mind clear, and don't worry."

Parkins' last peep into Drury Villard's eyes brought each mind into full understanding. Parkins knew that he must not go near the general offices of the Villard Corporation without invitation from Villard himself. Looking the situation squarely in the teeth he cursed the drugs that had crazed him, and at once resolved to carry out orders. His future depended upon his acceptance of the suggestions offered, which, in fact, were orders. So tense were his nerves at the moment he could have cried out against his absurd folly, but the placid face of Santzi appeared as a full moon with eyes ever alert. The best thing to do was to draw the robe about him and snuggle down to sleep.

The next he knew the big limousine had halted before the entrance of the huge apartment building in Park Avenue. There he maintained a suite of rooms richly furnished and thoroughly equipped for the kind of life he led. Having slept all of the way home he had fairly recovered from his delirium of the night, and after gulping down a full portion of "whiskey sour," he aroused his man-servant and ordered his breakfast.

Then, methodically, he began to repack his suit case, a very large affair with double hand-grips, capable of holding enough clothing for a trip to London. But such a journey was farthest from his thoughts. Patchogue was his destination, and the object of his haste was "the prettiest little country girl on Long Island!" He had promised her a trip to the great city, and her father was to accompany her—"and that makes everything all right," he exclaimed aloud, holding up a kodak picture of a beautiful young woman, plain of dress but graceful of form, and a face of idyllic charm.

"Poor little motherless child," said he, softly—"and what a devilish cur I am growing into!" he growled warningly at his weakness.

Shaking his head soberly as if steadying himself against a great folly, his eye again caught sight of the big black bottle on the sideboard and he rushed toward it and grasped it with trembling hands. This time he took several great swallows, then rushed to the kitchenette for water which he gulped down his throat until its parched surface had been appeased.

"Poor little country maid," he mumbled after recovering from a spell of hiccoughs which suddenly seized him. "I'll send her old man on a bus ride while I show her a good time along the great white way—and then to Zim's place! Poor little motherless girl—never has been to the big town in all her life—and lives only fifty miles away! The old man can drift for himself, after his bus ride. Ye Gods! Long Island holds thousands of them who never have seen lil' ol' n'york—hic! Poor lil' country baby—I love her—no use to marry, she hasn't any money. Love gets cold when you run out o' gold—sounds like a song-hic!"

Parkins now stripped himself for a bath and was soon out of the tub and under the shower. All this had a sobering effect upon him, and by the time he had shaved and dressed he looked the part of a well groomed gentleman. His eyes caught glimpses of the big black bottle now and then, but he stood firm, and turned his back upon it. Once he waved his hand toward it and hoarsely whispered—"never again!"

Then suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed immoderately.

"Never again—hell!" said he, "I'll drink when I want to! Whiskey hasn't anything on me! I can take it or leave it alone," saying which, he stepped over to where the bottle stood and took several swallows just to prove his assertion. Then, calling to his servant, he ordered two full quarts placed in his suit case, and to phone McGonigle's garage for his four seated roadster.

A half hour later he was steering his car amid the traffic of the Williamsburg bridge on his way to a little house in the heart of Patchogue, the home of Alexander Barbour, and his daughter—Winifred.

CHAPTER V. THE HAWK SEEKS ITS PREY

As far back as he could remember, Alexander Barbour had fished for the New York Market in the waters of Great South Bay—likewise his father and grandfather before him. A vast area of fishing ground stood just off Patchogue, then a tiny village, near which flounders were seined in enormous quantities. They were nearest in flavor and delicacy to the famous sole of English waters, and the great restaurants and hotels of the day vied with each other in devising new ways to serve them.

Alexander Barbour, with all of the vim and courage of youth, took the business when his father died and forthwith married the girl of his choice, whose personality and charm made of him a fond and loving husband. His greatest hope was that she might bear him a male child, that the line of succession in the Barbour family should go on through another generation. Unhappily for him the first born was a girl, and before a week had rolled around the mother died—and Barbour, the fisherman, drooped into a physical and mental decline.

Only a winsome baby girl was left to cheer his lonely heart. He strove hard to conceal his disappointment but the habit of brooding increased, for he had prayed for a son, but alas, his prayers had been denied.

Before her death Mrs. Barbour gave to her babe the name of Winifred, and, as the end drew near, a village parson performed a christening service in the presence of weeping neighbors who pledged loyalty to the mother's memory, and to the welfare of her little one, thus comforting the dying woman as she passed on to another world. From the shock of it all Alexander Barbour shrank into a pitiful state, having failed in his attempts at reinstating his prestige. Finally competitors controlling great storage warehouses and banking facilities drove him practically out of the field. The interest on his savings did not suffice to live upon the liberal basis of past years, and as Patchogue grew in population the name of Barbour receded from public concern.

As a babe in arms little Winifred cooed her way, laughed as a child, and as a school girl finally sang herself into her father's good graces. At ten years of age she had mastered the art of housekeeping, and with a wisdom far beyond her years, encouraged her father, as best she could, to keep up his spirits and not give way to despair.

"I know where you can gather some wild cherries," she volunteered to him one day; "they are just thick along the inlet, and everybody is out picking them for the market. They bring a good price in Patchogue."

By the time Winifred reached her fifteenth birthday she had graduated from high school, and in addition to that had "kept the home fires burning" with a knowledge that surprised her friends. But all through those years under the home roof she had maintained the practice of conversing with her dead mother. This she began in her eighth year, as a child would talk with its doll and answer back as its mother. The habit had continued through girlhood into young womanhood, minus the doll, but at the age of eighteen she made the startling claim to her father that she could converse with her dead mother at will. While humoring her belief, he nevertheless was skeptical, and shook his head indicating his doubt.

"But there are certain hours of the night, when the great stillness comes on, that I can hear her voice just as plainly as I can hear yours now," said she, quite convincingly. "Why, I talked with mamma last night!" she declared with girlish vehemence.

"What did she say, Winifred?"

Mr. Barbour allowed himself to appear somewhat convinced by her statement. It would do her no real harm, and she would outgrow the vagary of such dreams as she grew older, according to his belief. Then, too, thoughts about her mother were for the good of the girl—an influence that should be encouraged.

"She told me to study hard and become a teacher—and——"

"Yes, dear—and, what?"

"Well, I've been thinking how to tell you—the last message was about you," said she, smiling up into her father's eyes.

"Are you at liberty to tell me?" he asked, bracing himself against the choking grief which suddenly seized him.

"Yes, indeed—but you mustn't mind her solicitude for your future. She thinks you are aging too rapidly and that you must find a way out of your sorrow. She asked me to give you more companionship, and to lead you into a firm belief of the hereafter. Your lack of sincere belief leaves a gap in the way of your communicating directly with her."

All this was said in a voice of sweet modulation and assuredness, a smile lighting up her face as she spoke. There was no question of her absolute convictions.

"What would you suggest, Winifred?" replied her father, his voice broken, and his eyes filmed with tears.

"I don't know, but mother thinks the waters of South Bay hold the solution. What could she mean by that?"

"I hardly know what to think. Did she suggest any particular reason for that answer?"

"Oh, yes—she said that they would bring you back to the land in time. I am glad I didn't forget that," said Winifred, jubilantly. "Let us think it out some way. Perhaps she meant that you should keep on fishing and sell your catch to the market men. Afterwards buy a farm with your earnings."

In the conversation that followed Winifred took no small part in calculating a plausible solution to her dead mother's advice. The waters of Great South Bay at once suggested fish, oysters—wild ducks in the fall of the year, and in the early spring. These would sell to local buyers for ready cash. But what of the land? They had none! In her own heart she knew that her mother had meant to arouse her father into physical activity.

"Couldn't we rent some ground?" suggested Winifred—"and send our produce to market by boat from Patchogue? Other people do."

"Indeed we could, my dear child," exclaimed Alexander Barbour, straightening his shoulders. "We will do that very thing, with the city of New York to back us in our enterprise. We can sell all we raise, surely, for there is no vegetable trust to squeeze us out of business, as there is in fish and oysters."

"And when I begin teaching school we will put my earnings away, too," echoed Winifred—"and, oh, won't mother be glad when I tell her of our plans?"

With that enthusiastic speech she jumped from her chair and wound her arms about her father's neck. The kisses she showered upon him electrified him, and from that moment his resolve to succeed never waned.

And all went well with the Barbours, father and daughter clinging to each other, avoiding all tendencies toward extravagance, so that within the space of a few months they found themselves in more comfortable circumstances. Throughout the next two years "messages from mother" inspired them and cheered their way, and all of a sudden the village of Patchogue began to grow by leaps and bounds. Substantial hotels sprang up, subdivisions were platted, cottages and villas builded up on every side. Taking advantage of "the boom" the Barbours bought lots and sold them at a profit, and Barbour himself built a refreshment booth on the motor parkway near the beach, and Winifred helped in its management. No longer could she devote her time to household duties, for sales at the booth dropped off when she was away, whereupon a housekeeper was selected and put in charge of the home. Winifred's bright face and unfailing humor had worked wonders financially. People came back to the stand from time to time, mostly automobilists, who always seemed to know where the best could be had, and—never mind the price! One of Winifred's most persistent and profitable customers, Mr. William Parkins of New York, had expressed the same thought in another way.

"We want what we want and we get it," said he, with a jolly laugh, at the young girl in charge. "Better look out, little sister, or some one will come along and steal you!"—and that was the first effrontery Winifred had ever experienced.

Abashed she turned her attention to other customers, but the heightened color in her cheeks showed her indignation. Nevertheless Parkins stood around, picking out this box of candy, and that bag of salted almonds, to say nothing of homemade pies and cakes, each to be wrapped separately, thus to gain her attention as many times as possible.

"I need these out at my fishing hut over on the ocean side," said he smiling into her eyes, but they were cold. "Don't be angry," he pleaded. "I had no intention of being rude—I apologize most sincerely."

Parkins' voice was so kindly and his smile so winning that Winifred's face relaxed into its natural sweetness of expression. But she said nothing and found things to do which kept her busy. Parkins, gay New Yorker, with money galore, was not of the kind who accepted defeat. Here was a dainty little maid and he wanted to know her.

"I'll stay here until you tell me I'm forgiven," he persisted. "Why, little woman, I am the last man on earth to suspect of willful rudeness. I'd rather jump in the bay, and say to myself 'here goes nothing,' than to offend you. Honor bright! Now do please say it's all settled, so I won't go away feeling ashamed of myself."

Unused to familiarity from strangers Winifred remained silent for a time in order to think out the best plan to pursue. She wished her father had been there, then the incident would not have occurred. But he was absent—therefore the necessity of taking care of herself.

"No further apology is necessary, sir," she found herself saying. "I presume you live in New York, and your ways are different from our ways. Our men folk are always respectful to women, and we very naturally cling to the amenities even though we are country folk."

"Of course you do!" exclaimed Parkins, "and that is the right course, always—but this is the holiday end of a busy week of hard grind, and my outing has been so delightful I just feel friendly to everybody. Do you live here?"

"I was born here, and have always lived here. For three generations my people have been settled in this locality," she concluded, as customers were crowding her stand; but when the rush was over she found, to her surprise, that the man she had upbraided still remained.

"I have been coming to Patchogue for several years but I never saw you until to-day. I thought you might be one of the new crowd. The place is having a sort of boom period, lots of new home builders, and all that. Hard work, standing up all day, isn't it?" he suggested, with a little touch of sympathy in his voice.

"Not very, sir—my father relieves me several times during each day, and if there is anything going on at night, he attends to the stand."

"Good money in this business while the season is on, I imagine," persisted Parkins, by way of keeping the conversation going. "Strange I have never seen you until to-day," he reiterated.

"We are new in this business. Heretofore our family has been in the fishing industry. And latterly, truck farming also. We still ship some vegetables to New York by boat, and sometimes by express. But we are practically out of that business now."

"I suppose you run over to New York once in a while," he smiled.

"No, the farthest trip we've made was to Riverhead, and it's beautiful! Such a pretty park—and a tremendous court house! But we've never been off of the Island, none of us—except mother, who was born in Connecticut."

Parkins, a man of quick discernment, caught a sad expression in the eyes of the girl behind the counter of "The Goody Shop," so named on a neat little sign hinged to the eaves of the sheltering overhang.

"I suppose your mother stays at home and takes care of the family?" he suggested, enquiringly.

"Mother is dead," replied the girl, calmly, a far-away expression in her eyes, as she glanced at the sky. "She died when I was a baby."

Now was Parkins' chance to impress the girl with his "sympathetic" nature. He sighed deeply, and for several moments looked at the ground and said nothing. When, finally, he did speak there was pathos in his voice.

"My mother died when I was a child in arms. I have no memory of her whatever, but her photograph seems to speak to me at times," said he, dreamily.

"I talk to my mother every night," replied Winifred, happily. "She sends messages through me to my father, and tells me what to do for him. He isn't very strong, but that comes from grief over her death. Now he is much better. It was such a long time before she could reach us," she confided, artlessly.

And so began the acquaintance of a man of the world and a country lass, the man halting between two emotions. In determining the course of his further acquaintance with the sweet little maid the best bargain he could make with himself was—"I'll think it over." So, with perfect decorum, and bowing and scraping he bade the young woman good-by, adding the hope that all was square between them—since his apology. He reached out his hand as a final test of his theory that he "had won out with her," and was delighted when she accepted his overture politely. He bowed most courteously as he sprang into his wonderful new roadster and plunged forward along the asphalt road. For miles Winifred could hear the roar of its exploding cylinders, as, with mufflers "cut out," the car raced along to his fishing hut on the ocean side of the bay.

"I'll be back to-morrow," he had said on leaving, but she only smiled in reply, for "to-morrow" would be Sunday, and her duties were elsewhere—at church and Sunday school—where she taught a class—and then home to a noon dinner with her father.

As time went on Parkins' week-end excursions increased, and various were the cars he used. A big black mahogany limousine and a two-seated roadster, with rakish hood and brass trimmings that glistened like gold, were his favorites.

He never failed to call at "The Goody Shop," and after an acquaintance of several weeks with Winifred she accepted an invitation for a spin along the outer drive which she had never seen. Henry Barbour, now well acquainted with the wealthy New Yorker, esteemed him a gentleman, and consented to her going. When she returned with face aglow, and with enthusiastic praise for the skill of the owner of the car, her father patted her cheeks and smiled. He was glad of her happiness and his trust in Parkins became absolute.

As the season advanced and profits had been large, Henry Barbour expressed his opinion to the effect that to buy direct from New York wholesalers would save him much in the way of extra earnings upon his capital. Buying from salesmen gave him no chance to bargain. They sold from printed lists, but by going to New York he could make selections and find right places to trade.

"I'll take you over any time you want to go," said Parkins, affably—"and Miss Winifred, too, if she so desires."

"Oh, I do so want to go, Father!—say that I may, won't you dear?" she pleaded, putting her arms about his neck.

"But who will take care of the stand?" he queried. "We can't close it up for two days. Our friends will think we have quit, and we'll lose trade!"

"Oh, I can manage that beautifully," pleaded Winifred. "One of the girls in my Sunday school class, Julie Hayes—you know her, father—she can be taught in an hour just what to do."

"By all means allow her to come along," seconded Parkins, and his appeal seemed to settle the matter.

Winifred was to wear her new blue silk coat suit, and a retrimmed hat that had been retired, despite the fact that Parkinson suggested—"we never put on our best when we ride in a touring car."

But to Winifred the trip was more than an outing, for her father had some business to attend to, and happily, there would be plenty of time to see the "greatest little town in the world," as Parkins called his New York.

And so the date was set, and as fate often decides, it fell upon the second day following Parkins' ride from Dreamy Hollow, under the watchful eye of Santzi—Japanese body-servant to Drury Villard. Had his plans gone through, Villard, by now, would have been an inmate of a certain Long Island asylum, whose proprietor Parkins well knew, but in his jaded condition, he decided to run his car straight out to his hut and thereby thoroughly refresh himself for the excursion to New York—planned for the following day.

His inner consciousness troubled him more than he could account for, man of the world that he was, whose morals had long since hardened against the scruples of his younger days.

CHAPTER VI. SECRET SERVICE

Under fire Drury Villard always appeared to great advantage. He knew nothing of defeat. His life work had been a succession of victories, and among his acquaintances there were those who credited his achievements to luck. As a young man he came very near having imposed upon him the sobriquet "Lucky" Villard—but he frowned upon it until his intimates felt the unwisdom of that sort of familiarity. Parkins alone of the directory continued the practice long after the business had grown into vast importance and the Villard name had become known all over the world. While credited with being the brains and motive power of the huge concern Drury Villard had never allowed any one to say it to his face without protest on his own part. Said he—

"If I've done anything particularly well it is to have surrounded myself with clever men of brains and honesty. With that foundation the rock of Gibraltar had nothing on us, except age and advertisement. The latter we supplied in a measure suitable to our needs—but youth must be served. We must now revitalize or inevitably fall before the young college trained men now running the country."

Always modest, never oversanguine, self-reliant and honest to the core, were attributes upon which to build a happy old age free from care and strife. One of Villard's beliefs was that God never intended everything to run smoothly—"all of the time." Reactions were necessary. Foundations, no matter how solid in the beginning, must be looked after, and kept solid. Nothing should be left to chance.

And so it was on going back to bed, after Parkins' departure, that his mind reverted to the affairs of his company. On these his thoughts concentrated. He wondered if he had exhibited the right policy in turning its management over to his co-partners. Not if the Parkins' case was an example of further consequences. That was his thought. He wondered if others in the organization were susceptible to non-loyal utterances concerning himself and his paramount interests. The best way to get at the facts was to "look in on the boys every little while"—and that was about the last worry he indulged in preparatory to going to sleep. Then suddenly he felt the nearness of his loved one, and breathing softly he awaited her sweet voice. At last it came, in the form of a whisper, seemingly very close to his ear, but strangely difficult to locate.

"Drury—again I warn you. The man you sent away must never enter your life again. Dishonesty is fastened upon him. Attend at once. There is folly in waiting."

Villard, though startled, lay quite still. Then, after a long pause, he answered—

"Yes, Winifred—but for you I should have been taken unaware. Your warning gave me time to formulate a plan of action."

"Drury, my darling—you shall not live alone. You must marry a kindred spirit, a woman upon whom you may lavish the love that was mine. It is your nature to revere womankind."

"But what of my love for you, my Winifred—I——"

"And it is myself, incarnate, that you would marry," interrupted the invisible Spirit.

"How shall I know?" he faltered, overwhelmed at the suggestion.

"You will meet her—soon."

"Yes, yes—go on!"—he whispered hoarsely, but he waited in vain. The spirit of his dead love had gone back to its resting place among the stars.

Drury Villard accepted the theory that when a man is forty he is in the prime of life, and after that his physical powers wane. Nevertheless there were those who, by obedience to nature's laws, remained young at sixty. He knew that every five years a normal brain and a normal body become attuned to the next five-year period, and upon this theory Villard, now emerging into his forty-seventh year, had planned his activities. By virtue of his early training he had worked hard in working hours, and played hard during the daylight overlapping. Thus was served his grand physique and his growing brain, each getting its share of natural restoration.

During his first years in business his effort had been prodigious. Just out of college he had plunged into a new enterprise, the child of his own brain. Unique, and head and shoulders above those whom he drew about him—from a mental and physical standpoint—his leadership never was questioned. Each new acquisition to his organization was picked by virtue of his seemingly unerring knowledge of men. As he brought in a new recruit, that person had only to make good in order to become a "special partner." Under the contract with each man his continuance with the company hinged upon the will of Villard, and by common consent his fiat was law.

Of all the men chosen, Parkins, the brightest of the lot, had been the one man to flunk. Now, secretly, Villard was on his way to New York for the one purpose of bringing him back to the fold. Driving directly to the apartment in Park Avenue, where Parkins maintained his living quarters, he was informed that the gentleman had gone away. The superintendent was not quite sure that he had a right to give out information concerning his tenants. When asked as to when Mr. Parkins would probably return he declined to give an opinion.

"But where did he go?" demanded Villard.

"I do not know. He left no address," was the reply.

"Then tell me what you do know. When did he leave? Did he move his effects?"

"He left soon after he returned here in the early morning. His furnishings are all here—and he left a check for next month's rent. That's all I know."

"Are you in full charge here?" inquired Villard, peering wistfully in the eyes of the man before him.

"Yes," replied the agent, shortly.

"Tell me then, in what condition was he when he arrived—and when he went away."

"Very angry on his arrival—very much upset on going away. I thought he might have taken something for his nerves."

"Did he speak to you on leaving?"

"Yes, I came in as he was leaving. He gave his check for rent to the exchange girl—to be handed to me. I got it all right. And that's all I know."

"And your name, please?—'Bender?'—thank you, Mr. Bender. I may wish to speak with you again. My name is Villard, a very close friend of Mr. Parkins, and I have business matters requiring his presence at my office. If he shows up, kindly ring my phone—Private, one hundred. It will be to his advantage, I assure you."

Villard was soon within his own office and nervously pacing the floor. With his hands behind him he twiddled his thumbs and gave way to deep thought.

"Parkins must be saved!" he said to himself, and quickening his stride, he rushed out of his private office into the counting room.

"Ring my chauffeur," said he, seeing and speaking to no one in particular, then returned to his office. Shortly afterward his car was announced and he was soon headed for the Wall Street district.

At the Updyke Detective Agency, twentieth floor of the Universal Exchange, he asked for Updyke personally and was ushered in. The two shook hands cordially and at once got down to business.

"Do you know William Parkins—one of my special partners?" questioned Villard.

"I'd say I do—what's up?"

"I can't find him."

"Where have you looked?"

"Called at his apartment—he'd gone from there, leaving a check for a month's rent!" replied Villard.

"When?"

"Early this morning—left no word—but paid the month's rent in advance—which was unusual."

"Um—any reason to be anxious about him?"

"I'll give you the whole story."

Then, careful as to details, Drury Villard recited the facts briefly and wound up by declaring that he was "bent on saving Parkins from any untoward act that might lead to his downfall—financially, morally or physically."

"That's a big order to take down," replied Updyke, laconically.

"Why?"

"Do you assume to know Bill Parkins from hat to shoes? Do you know that he is speculating upward on a downward market? Do you know that he is a drunkard, that he takes dope, patronizes low places, and is a disgrace to your high class concern?"

Villard, aghast, stood up and walked to and fro, across the room. Finally he turned and said—

"He must be saved!"

"Saved! Saved Hell! Why, man alive, he is beyond redemption!" yelled Updyke, whose forcefulness caused Villard to eye him critically. Evidently there were matters concerning his Vice President of which he was unaware.

"How long has he been beyond redemption?" questioned Villard in an even tone of voice striving to conceal the alarm within him as best he could.

"I'll look up his record," replied Updyke, ringing a bell and ordering out a certain page from a loose-leaf book of records. As he placed it in Villard's hands, he glanced at it to make sure it was the right document.

"Here we have his travelogue for five years back," said Updyke, airily. "It began with a gay party in which he was accused of short changing a fifty dollar bill that he was asked to break. There was a resort to blows, in which Parkins got licked and owned up to his dishonesty. Read his whole record—here it is—take it."

Villard did take it, and as he read along his eyes filmed until tears ran down his cheeks and fell upon the page containing the record. Then suddenly he threw it upon Updyke's table in disgust.

"Why didn't you inform me?" demanded Villard in tremulous voice. "I'm your client—am I not?"

"You are, Mr. Villard, but—I thought I could save him without prejudicing his outlook with you. I got soft hearted—same as you are at this minute; and I got a worse dose, and more of it for my trouble. I tried my utmost to show him that you were the best man in shoe leather, and would forgive anybody, anything, any time. But there is a breaking point that will not stand repair, and Parkins had gone through the crevice. Don't try to save that man, Mr. Villard. He is not worth the tarnish that he will spread upon your good name. Send me his 'walking papers' and I'll see that he gets them. Make it brief—no accusations, giving him a chance to sue you for damages in large amount. He's tricky, and crazy. Get rid of him! Stay rid of him! He is a bad actor!"

Updyke was telling the truth, as Villard, having read the report, was now convinced.

"What shall I say? What can I say? The report from your files leaves me helpless in defense of my most efficient partner. Surely the report cannot be wrong? I've never had one from you that was the least bit out of line with the facts. What shall I say to him if I conclude to communicate with him?"

"Better write me a note, stating that Mr. Parkins has not been about the office with regularity, and that you fear he lacks interest in the affairs of the company. Send me the cash for all you owe him, and a receipt for him to sign, made out in full legal wording to the effect that it is a final settlement—and that his services are no longer needed. If he owns any stock in your concern, and he does, unless he has hocked it, send me a check to cover its full market value, and I will buy it back, and turn it over to you."

Villard sighed deeply as he agreed to the plan.

"I did so want to save this man, but I've been warned before, from a sacred source, to have done with him forever," said he wearily.

"What do you mean by 'sacred source'?"

"Oh, I must not go into that!" replied Villard sharply.

"I get you—some of that 'Over the River Jordan' stuff. I get you," laughed Updyke.

"Just what are you hinting at, Mr. Updyke?"

Villard's voice trembled as he spoke.

"Now, Drury Villard! Don't you know by this time that an up-to-date agency like this has a page on every business man worth while, as well as the worthless? Let me show you your sheet. Wait, I'll get a leaf out of a different book—here it is and you may read it yourself. Skip the biographical—that shows you to be first class, but you've recently given cause for alarm. Read Article Seven. Read it aloud, and comment as you will. We're friends, and you might need me as a witness some day."

Glancing quizzically at Updyke, Villard began to read the report—

"Article 7—Drury Villard has recently developed an obsession of mind regarding the future estate. He has long grieved over the death of a sweetheart who passed away some years ago and at this writing he suffers under the delusion of hearing her voice. On retiring from active duty in connection with the Villard Corporation, he was very generous in his treatment of his special partners. He allowed them to buy stock at a very low price, and later on, is to let them have more, if they succeed with the business. Villard still owns a three-fourths holding but all partners were treated alike and are well satisfied with the deal. William Parkins is also Vice-President, but the office of President has been abolished, Drury Villard becoming Chairman of the Board. He now lives in a retired way in Long Island on his private estate which he has named 'Dreamy Hollow.' His fiancé, now dead, given name, 'Winifred'—surname unknown. His nearest neighbor (Sawyer), a retired doctor, lives on adjoining estate, said to be very wealthy."

"Now what miserable cur could have written all of that rot!" exclaimed Villard.

"Point out all that is in error and I'll change the report. We must keep up our records," said Updyke, sharply, with a wave of his hand. "There isn't a chance in the world that this record will be observed by any one not connected with our office. I give nothing out on death notices, or biographies."

"Then for what purpose?" demanded Villard.

"Oh, if you became a crook, or went crazy, we would be queried by certain interests. We ask no favors. This business is mine. I made it what it is, and it's worth a million as it stands. If I was crooked I could say it's worth a hundred million."

"God—what a power you hold! In case of your death, what a cruel use could be made of those leaves from your records! What a chance for certain slimy little blackmailing publications!"

"My body will be cremated, and with it my books of record. That's part of my will. Now I'm going to ease your mind—you have the page containing the facts about you. It is the only copy on earth. The notes from which it was made up have been destroyed. If you desire I will destroy the page in your presence, right now," proffered Updyke.

Villard was astonished at the proposal.

"I wouldn't care one way or the other, if it wasn't for——"

"Yes, I know," responded Updyke, "you're thinking of the dead. You don't want her name bandied about."

"That's it—I am thinking of her—to memory dear. It's good of you, Updyke. Downright generous! But why do you propose it without my asking?"

Villard began to pace the floor.

"Sit down, please," said Updyke gently, as he twisted his watch chain, and cleared his throat of a great lump of hesitancy. "I once had a sweetheart, Mr. Villard, and she went away, too—somewhere up in the skies, just like your Winifred. And like you I have never married. I cannot spare the memory of her—I'll die single!"

Every doubt of Updyke's genuine friendliness was now discarded by Drury Villard, as his eyes lighted with reciprocal understanding.

"Wonderful, old fellow! Let us find joy in the fact that we have both loved, and both of us have been loved. Now we will burn this record. That shall be the seal of our lasting friendship."

Villard's eyes spoke for his heart.

"Here, take it—burn it yourself, Drury. I shall call you by your first name hereafter."

Turning upon his heel, Henry Updyke walked to a window and looked down twenty stories upon the great metropolis, its streets agog with people and traffic. When he heard the click of the latch on the door, he turned about. Villard had gone. It was no longer necessary for Updyke to hide his emotion.

But there were things to be done immediately. Parkins must be found and delivered to Villard. Updyke pressed a button and immediately one of his operatives entered and approached his desk.

"Here's a name on this card—I want this man brought to me as soon as possible—by all means before night. Do you know him?"

"Very well by sight. I've looked him up before—don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes—the Peabody case. While drunk Parkins hit him over the head with a champagne bottle—yep—you brought Parkins in. It is a shame we didn't send him over at that time but he begged me to straighten him out and see that he reported for business next morning. I did it—and did it more than once since then. But this will probably be the last time we'll need hunt for him. His boss has something on him that will bring him to time—I hope. Parkins is a bad egg, so watch out for him, especially if he is in his cups. Now go to it—bring him to me if you have to give him a teaser."

For four hours Updyke sat in his chair, or paced the floor, awaiting word from his operative. He smoked incessantly while reading the evening papers and at six thirty o'clock ordered ham and eggs, and coffee. These had been set before him when the night telephone gong gave three loud clangs. That meant Updyke himself—in a hurry. He sprang to the receiver and in a quiet unruffled voice answered, "Shoot."

"Number twelve speaking—your party dashed through Patchogue about eleven this morning and was last seen going east at high speed. Lost trace until just a few minutes ago. Find that he has a fishing hut across South Bay on the ocean side. He's bound to come back this way—the question is, when?"

"Where are you now?"

"Patchogue."

"What do you advise?"

"Well, I have my motorcycle, and I feel certain he will come back this way. If I went over on the ocean side I might have sand trouble. He has four wheels and a ninety horse roadster. I think I'd better stay here," concluded "Number Twelve."

"I believe you are right," replied Updyke. "How about the Sayville road? He might, for a change, cut across and run in by way of the sound. I think I'll put two other men out on this, you to carry out your plan, one to watch the Merrick road, the other on the detour along the sound."

"That might be wise although it seems certain he will come back this way. What shall I do when I locate him?"

"Serve a 'John Doe' on him and bring him to my office, otherwise trail him to the jumping-off place—in other words, get him!"

"By the way, there is a fine looking girl at Patchogue who runs a stand. I wonder how it would do to feel her out about him," queried the operative.

"You bet your boots—that's a Parkins lead as sure as you live, even if it does turn out bad."

"Then I'd better run back there before she closes up for the day. She's a humdinger to look at," said "Number Twelve" with enthusiasm.

"Well, see that she doesn't get your goat. Keep your head on your shoulders and don't be led into any girl trap. Get me at my hotel after seven, through my private wire—'Updyke'—Will be here until six-thirty—So long."

CHAPTER VII. THE NEW WINIFRED

When "Number 12" reached Patchogue "The Goody Shop" was on the point of being closed. The girl in charge, and a man she called "father," were instructing a young woman how to run the stand for the next two days. They had all but put up the night shutters as the operative climbed off of his machine.

"Any sandwiches left?" he enquired, racing to the stand.

"Oh, yes—a few nice ones, and some very fine blueberry pie," replied the older girl as smilingly she displayed several huge wedges of assorted pies. "And here's a lovely slice of lemon meringue, the last one left," she urged, and at a nod from her customer, handed it to him on a pasteboard plate, together with a dainty paper napkin.

As the operative put his plate upon the sill of the stand and began to eat, the two girls and "father" continued their conversation about a grand ride over to New York next day. Listening in on the conversation he learned which girl was going on the trip—her friend called her Winifred—and when she spoke to the man she addressed him as Mr. Barbour.

"I wish you were going along, Julie," said the girl Winifred, very much delighted. Then she said—"Mr. Parkins is taking us in his big four-passenger roadster—how many horse powers has it, father? It must be a lot—something like several hundred I would think from the noise it makes sometimes."

"No, it's a ninety," corrected her father who seemed proud of his better knowledge.

"What time do you leave for New York?" enquired the girl, Julie.

"Mr. Parkins is to pick us up at the house at ten to-morrow morning. And then, away we go!—just whizzing along Merrick Road so we can see all of the beautiful homes along the Bay—and the Sound coming back! My, but he drives fearfully fast! I expect to be frozen with fright by the time we arrive in the city."

Having fallen into all of the information he could have wished for, "Number 12" suddenly quit on his second wedge of pie and asked which was the best hotel nearby. "Roadside Inn" was pointed out just across the street, and rolling his motorcycle beside him he walked over and went inside.

Once in his room "Number 12" got busy. Looking at his watch he concluded that Updyke would be at his hotel, but that was up to Central. "Updyke" was all he needed to say and in less than a minute he had his man.

"All right, shoot," came the regular answer by which "the big boss" announced himself—"Number 12?" he queried.

"Yep—got the whole works. Am at Patchogue, Roadside Inn, phone Patchogue—twenty. The father rather old and solemn, neither ever saw New York before, and never off of the island. Has a pie stand on the parkway—darn good pies too."

"Soft enough, I'd say," replied Updyke. "Shall I run a man out to you to-night?"

"Why not come out yourself—if it's an important case?"

"No—if he gets away from you I'll nab him here. He's up to his regular tricks—the scoundrel!—now don't you fail to nail that fellow!" warned Updyke, to whom the whole situation was as plain as daylight from darkness. "Trail him and keep me posted on the route he has taken. No doubt he'll cross on the Queensborough bridge."

Running true to form the Parkins roadster roared its way into Patchogue next morning, and the operative quietly registered on his tab—"one brandy and soda at Roadside Inn." Immediately afterward Parkins jumped into his car and ran slowly two streets west and turned north one block. The Updyke man did not have to leave his chair on the porch of the hotel in order to witness the movements of the big car. There was a hasty carrying out of two suitcases, and a hamper probably containing luncheon. Then the big car turned back to the south on the Merrick Road and proceeded west at a lively clip.

Shortly thereafter, "Number 12" trailed in at a safe distance behind, and it was with much skill that he kept the roadster in view, but never in a way to attract Parkins' notice. The girl sat in front, and by the way she turned her head and indicated pretty homes to her father it was evident that her mind was carefree.

Not knowing the inside history of the case, the operative rode stolidly along behind. Coming to a roadhouse in one of the villages he stopped and phoned Updyke, all done in less than three minutes—then he crowded on the gas until he came in sight of the party. Almost at once he lost them again by reason of sharp turns in the road, but all was well, and he had no fear of losing them, for miles ahead there was no other road to turn into.

Three minutes later he came upon a sight that made his blood run cold. There, around the curve, in a hollow just ahead, were two cars overturned and smashed beyond repair!

Strange are the ways of Providence.

There are times when coincidence and circumstances blend into episodes for which there is no accounting—an act of God—in terms of legal phrasing. As Parkins' car took a curve in the road at high speed going west, Drury Villard and his neighbor, Dr. Sawyer—out for a leisurely spin with Santzi at the wheel—were on the same road heading east.

The day was especially fine, and with top down the Villard car sped along the concrete road without a jolt or a jar. Sawyer, in a most excellent mood, was inclined to speak jokingly of the Parkins episode at Dreamy Hollow two days previously. But to all of his sallies Villard failed to answer in kind. Certain "messages" were on his mind, and along with them a mixture of joy and sorrow combined. Could another Winifred answer the call of his yearning? Could his heart go out to any other than the Winifred of old? He doubted it, but he owed it to his dead love to await certain events, since she had urged the duty upon him.

So absorbed was he in contemplating the situation that he was quite unprepared for the sudden application of the emergency brakes. His car was rounding a curve at a healthy speed when suddenly Santzi pulled up short, just in time to avoid the wreckage of two monster machines overturned in collision. Each had been smashed into a veritable mass, and the silence of the scene served to accentuate the gruesome aspect of the otherwise beautiful surroundings. Suddenly a tall man with hair of iron gray staggered to his feet and shouted—"Winifred!"

"Winifred!" echoed Villard, jumping from his car. In a second more Sawyer, hastening to alight, called upon Santzi to rush along for a doctor, and to notify the motor police.

Villard, who stood spellbound on hearing the name he adored, soon forced himself into action. Instantly the words that were whispered to him in the early morning hours came to mind. "It is myself, incarnate, that you will marry—You will meet her soon—There will be an accident—You will give assistance."

He saw a man, hatless and bleeding, rushing madly about calling the name Winifred. Villard again took up the cry.

"Winifred!—Winifred!" he shouted, running from point to point amid the wreckage.

His search was soon successful.

Of several persons strewn about the roadside he knew instinctively, when he had stooped over the form of the one he sought. He dropped to his knees and seized her hands, chafing them vigorously to renew suspended animation. He placed his hand upon her brow, and raised an eyelid—then bent over and put his ear to her heart.

"Winifred," he whispered softly. "Wake up, dear child!"

Then jumping to his feet he shouted to her father:

"Here she is, sir—and she's coming back to life! Water, Sawyer—find a thermos bottle! There must be one somewhere in the wreckage."

To Villard all else in the world was naught but this beautiful child woman whose head and body rested against his breast. As if paralyzed her father looked on, mute and despairing.

"Splash some on her cheeks," he commanded of Sawyer, who hastened forward with the bottle from one of the upturned cars.

"More—more—ah—that's the stuff—water! See? She is breathing again, and I doubt that she is very much injured. We'll soon know," he said to himself as he began, ever so gently, to raise her arms, and nether limbs one by one. Then he laid her, full length, upon the grass, and pillowed her head with his motor coat.

"She doesn't cry out—no bones broken—thank God!—just bruised, and shocked by the impact after fall," he explained to the dazed father with quiet gentleness. "Get some cushions out of the wreck and we'll make her comfortable under the shade of a tree."

Almost immediately a man on a motorcycle dashed upon the scene and with difficulty stopped in time. Throwing his machine to one side he ran quickly to the big roadster—"Number 12" had literally run his man to earth. There lay the inanimate form of William Parkins with the pallor of death upon his face, and a bleeding wound well back of his left ear near the occipital bone. His body was pinned beneath his heavy roadster.

"The man is alive—give me a hand!" shouted "Number 12" to Barbour, who, still dazed, had fallen to his knees in prayer for his daughter's life. But, he made no answer, thereupon Sawyer responded as best he could for a man of his age. It was more than a one-man job to raise the tonneau of the big machine in order to allow Sawyer to drag the limp body from beneath the wreck.

A retired doctor himself he knew how to manage the situation better than the man who still called for his girl.

"I know this fellow," said Sawyer, breathing hard from his effort in helping to release the unconscious man under the roadster.

"Who is he?" demanded the motorcycle man, incredulous.

"His name is Parkins, unless I am greatly mistaken," replied Sawyer, still puzzled, but practically sure.

"You're right," agreed the man who had been trailing the victim for nearly an hour. "He is a bad actor, and it was my intention to arrest him on the New York side of Williamsburg bridge. I'd hate to have him croak before my boss sees him," he concluded, and then fell to his knees and began the work of bringing Parkins back to life.

"What is he wanted for?" asked Sawyer, after several moments of hesitation.

"I'll have to refer you to my boss as to that. I was told to get him, and it's up to me to find a way to deliver him. You can bet that he is going to have a long dry spell after the old man gets through with him," sneered the operative as he looked upon the limp figure now stretched out upon the grassy roadside.

"Whom do you mean by 'old man'?" enquired Sawyer.

"My boss—and what he doesn't know about people! Well, what's the use to speculate? I had a hard time keeping Parkins in sight. Forty to sixty miles was his gait. Pretty fast for a narrow concrete roadbed."

Parkins now began to breathe heavily, and moan. Anxious that Villard should be apprised concerning him, Sawyer walked hastily over to where he sat, still holding the girl's wrist and counting the pulsations.

"The man we took from under the big car is William Parkins," said he, laconically. "He will live—probably."

Drury Villard looked up in amazement.

"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed.

"Yes—it's Parkins—still Vice President of your company!"

Sawyer looked steadily into Villard's upturned eyes, and shook his head ominously. "Bad news to get into the papers, Drury. What do you suggest?"

Receiving no answer Sawyer stood thoughtfully stroking his chin until his mind had settled the matter.

"I will take Parkins into my home until we can think out a plan of action," he said, finally. "You take the girl and her father into your home for the present. Then there will be no chance for news to leak. Mrs. Bond will look out for her."

"How about the doctor?" replied Villard, thoughtfully. "He might——"

"Doctors are like lawyers; they serve well those who pay well—especially when the public interest is better served thereby."

"First-class reasoning, friend Sawyer. Our plan is made. When Santzi returns we'll take both patients and the girl's father into my car and race for home. What about the other machine—any one hurt?"

"No, just a colored chauffeur returning with an empty car from the city. He jumped in time to save himself and is now waiting for some one to take the wreck to the nearest garage. It is pretty well smashed, but the boy is unscathed."

With plans all mapped out they were quickly put into execution. Upon the return of Santzi with Doctor Benton, who followed in his runabout, the medical man at once put his ear to the girl's heart—then, to make sure, used his stethoscope.

"We'll get her over to Dreamy Hollow at once," said he, glancing at Villard, who nodded affirmatively. "Her heart is beating strong enough, but she must not see this wreck when she comes out of her present state. Put her into your car at once, while I take a look at the man lying on the grass. Who is the old fellow over there praying?" he inquired sharply.

"The girl's father," replied Sawyer, shaking his head sadly. His sympathy was genuine.

"I'll take him in with me," volunteered Doctor Benton, but Villard objected as he wanted to talk with the father of the girl.

Under orders Santzi drove back to Dreamy Hollow without a bump against his tires. During the short time occupied by the trip the father of the girl gave his name as Alexander Barbour, of Patchogue, and also stated that his daughter Winifred was his only child. Her mother, long since dead, left her, a tiny new-born babe, to remind him of her own dear self. Without the child, he might easily have gone crazy from grief and loneliness, but little Winifred had steadied him every step of his way by her sweetness of disposition and her loving consideration.

"I dread the time when the right man comes for her," he sighed. "Now, she is mine, but some day her mate will call and she will go to him."

Alexander Barbour was deeply moved by the thought of the sad fate in store for himself.

"But that should not worry you," said Villard. "Make a bargain with the man she marries that you are privileged to live near by and may visit your daughter as often as you desire. No decent husband would deny that right," he concluded, smiling into the father's eyes.

"I'll be glad if it turns out that way—usually it doesn't. But in any event I should miss her sadly. She hears from her mother every little while."

"What!"

Drury Villard could hardly realize that this unconscious little child-woman possessed such powers.

"Yes, her mother tells her what to do, and gives her messages from others to be delivered to earthly friends. She got word through her mother last night from some one by the name of Winifred. She is reticent on the subject, but I know that she regards the advice as sacred."

Running his fingers through his hair nervously, Barbour admitted that her power was, to him, a great mystery, but as to the revelations he remained silent, as if in awe concerning them.

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Bond, the housekeeper at Dreamy Hollow, stood speechless at the porte-cochère as she beheld her master alighting from his car with a woman in his arms. Amazed, the good lady reached out as if to take the fair burden from him, but Villard demurred. He had held her in his arms during the ride and he would risk no accidental stumble on the stairway. Turning to Santzi he ordered him in a low voice to drive Dr. Sawyer to his home, and to help him with Parkins until the doctor arrived.

"He's coming on behind us and will be here any moment. He will go to Dr. Sawyer's as soon as he gets through here," added Villard.

So saying, the master of Dreamy Hollow, with careful step mounted the grand stairway leading to the second floor. Mrs. Bond had rushed on ahead to the "hospital" suite, so-called, because of its equipment for emergencies and its wonderful outlook over South Bay, with its miles of magnificent gardens. Ever so gently he laid his fair burden upon the bed prepared for her and after gazing into her beautiful face, turned and left the room. As he approached the head of the stairway he met Doctor Benton coming up, and with him, Mr. Barbour, whose face still showed the agony of his mind. To him Villard said—

"Don't go in—she is being put to bed by Mrs. Bond. We'll wait in the room next door, until the doctor gets through. This room you will occupy until all is well with your daughter," he concluded as he smiled into the troubled face of the anxious father.

Doctor Benton, after a brief examination, arose from his chair beside the patient, a broad smile lighting up his face.

"No medicine, plenty of fresh air, water if she asks for it. I'll be back in an hour. I must get to that man Parkins. He is bad off, and may not get through," said he, hastening away.

At once Mrs. Bond went to the room occupied by the father of the girl and beckoned Villard into the hall. As he appeared she motioned him to follow her into the room where Winifred had been tenderly placed on a downy bed, and a coverlet thrown about her.

"She's all tucked in and looks like an angel," she whispered, tip-toeing up to the bedside, with Villard closely following. "Isn't she the sweetest thing you ever saw?—the doctor left no medicine—says she's all right!"

Villard stood silent for more than a minute before replying, but it was evident that he yearned for the speedy recovery of the charming creature.

"I wish she would open her eyes—I've never seen them yet, although I held her in my arms for ten minutes," he replied, whimsically—and strange to say Winifred's eyes did open—bright as diamonds they were, but with no sense of recollection until she had gazed upon the face of Drury Villard.

At once a vague expression of happiness came over her fair features, but faintly smiling and with eyes closed, she went back to sleep.

Villard, now buoyant, grasped Mrs. Bond's arm and led her out of the room. When they were safely out of hearing he stopped abruptly and looked into her face.

"Did you observe that she recognized me?" he asked eagerly.

"I did," replied Mrs. Bond. "It gave me a start, for I felt that neither of you had seen each other before to-day."

"That's true—we have not met before. But how may we account for the fact, that after she looked into each of our faces, mine was the one she thought she knew?"

"I give it up, unless she was directed by that Divinity which shapes our destinies," replied the housekeeper, with much feeling.

Hastening to Barbour's room he opened the door without formality and found his guest upon his knees in silent prayer. Touched at the sight he went forward and knelt beside him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. Then he whispered into his ear—

"She is safe—the doctor says so—your prayer has been answered even as you made your wishes known. You should look upon her sweet face—come with me," appealed Villard as he helped the grief-stricken father to his feet and escorted him to the bedside where his child, with a smile on her lips, still slept. But the fact that she lived was enough joy for Alexander Barbour.

CHAPTER VIII. HENRY UPDYKE DROPS IN

Wondering what might be going on at Sawyer's home, Villard went into his study and gave him a ring over the phone. Sawyer personally answered the call. Evidently the episode of the morning had been trying, for his voice was gruff—much deeper than usual.

"Who calls?" he demanded in a rasping tone.

"Villard speaking—I have been wondering how matters stood over your way. All serene over here. The girl has opened her eyes, but immediately went back to sleep."

"I'm glad to hear that—over here the situation is terrible! This man Parkins is a ruffian—at death's door his oaths are blasphemous, and to those who are trying to save his worthless life he shouts defiance and demands his revolver that he may 'kill the whole bunch'—to use his words, expurgated. His language toward Doctor Benton was vile!"

"Well, well—that must be stopped! Wouldn't it be safe to move him to a sanitarium—or something?"

"Yes—an asylum for insane drunkards—that's what you meant to say—wasn't it?"

"Approximately that—why not drop over for a while and we will have a chat? You can count on me—you know that. I'm awfully sorry that you're mixed up in this, but when you come to know the girl you'll forgive everything."

"I'll do that now, and I will be right over," said Sawyer, slamming the receiver back in its place in pure spite against the upheavals of the day.

It was well along toward evening before Dr. Sawyer took leave of Villard's happy hospitality. He had even been invited to take a peep at the beautiful Winifred Barbour, who still slept, but would soon be normal—according to the doctor whose second call had brought complete assurance to the household. But the ever recurring subject between them was William Parkins. What should be done with him? More than once Villard showed signs of irresolution regarding him. Perhaps if he were sent to one of the far-off branches—Cape Town, for instance—but Sawyer threw up his hands and shouted "Pish—tush!"

"Why man alive—he would kill the business of all your foreign connections. Asylum!—put him in a place where he may reflect at his leisure—and, say!—here's an idea—send for Henry Updyke!" exclaimed Sawyer, banging the arm of his chair.

Without a word Villard stepped into the booth and rang up his man—promptly making connection.

"I wish you'd run down here, Henry," said he, "I have a problem to solve."

"You bet you have—same old problem—Parkins!"

"Of course you would know all about our trouble," laughed Villard. "You surely have a nose for news."

"Yep—Parkins is at Sawyer's pretty well smashed, but still keeping his eyes open. We are watching the place—night and day shift from now on—but we've got nothing on him. You can't jail a man for a smash-up unless it was by premeditated defiance of the speed laws. And you'd have to prove it. How is the girl?"

"Resting easily—Benton says she'll come through all right."

"Wonderful girl—eh? I've seen her off and on since she was a little child. I've known the father quite well—a dull sort, but easy to extract information from—if he has any. If he ever had any he didn't know it—just gave it up by way of general conversation. I guess I'll run down after a while, probably be at your house about eight—that gives you time for your dinner."

"Bless you, yes—come down at once and break bread with me—I'll wait."

"No—can't leave now—see you to-night at eight—have Sawyer there if you can."

"He's here now—I'll have him dine with us. He's pretty well broken up over the day—but—my boy!—it has been a great day for me!—can't talk now—good-bye!"

Turning to his friend Sawyer, Villard again appealed to him to stay for dinner, but his neighbor felt that that day had worn him out. Bed was the place for him, as early as possible, after his dinner. He urged that Updyke be coaxed to stay over night, and take a look at Parkins. Dreading the presence of the man in his home he stood in need of courage, and Villard agreed to hold Updyke if such a thing were possible.

Promptly at eight the big fellow rode into the driveway at Dreamy Hollow, accompanied by two men, a chauffeur and an operative. Having been expected, Villard himself met Updyke at the porte-cochère along with the servant. Santzi hovered near, but was not obsequious. When the guest had alighted, he jumped upon the running board and showed his man the way to the garage. It had been a glorious day for Santzi as he had served his employer well, which made him very happy. When the car was garaged he led the way to his small kitchenette and served the two men a Japanese dinner.

Meanwhile the big mansion showed no lights, Villard and Updyke having gone into consultation in Villard's office. Big men that they were, each eyed the other solemnly, and then, simultaneously they broke out with a hearty laugh—and that relieved the tension.

"Life is a great experience," said Villard, his big open face radiating his good humor—"one little thing right after another."

"And the more we laugh the more we live," replied Updyke, lighting his usual black cigar.

"A big day for me, Henry!" exclaimed the host; "a great day indeed!"

"Yep—little Winifred—your luck is phenomenal, old fellow. I congratulate you with all my heart."

"But suppose she wakes up and asks for Parkins?" queried Villard, anxiously.

"I had thought of that, and my hope is that something else will occur. But that very thing might happen. Better be prepared for it," said Updyke, his face denoting his serious thought on that subject.

"Please particularize, Henry. What precedent have you to offer?"

Villard's interest was from the depths of his heart and the uncertainty of the girl's attitude on awakening was already forming a dread in his mind.

"I gauge my thoughts on what has gone before in numerous cases. Consider yourself in my car seated in front beside me. I'm loaded with booze but it is inside of me, so I do not catch the odor of it myself. But you, who have never touched liquor, catch a whiff of it, and instantly your suspicion is aroused to the fact that I'm a drinking man."

"But there are——"

"Yes, I know there are moderate drinkers, but girls brought up carefully, as Winifred has been, have nevertheless come to know the terrorism of old John Barleycorn. She lives near a great artery of automobile traffic. Most of it perfectly respectable, but some of it vile and besotted. She reads the Riverhead paper probably, and a magazine of some sort, appealing to her feminine viewpoint. In other words, now that she is a business woman, her vision has enlarged, and not a day goes by that she does not witness something that reminds her that she is opposed to drunkards. But she is sorry for them, nevertheless. Given her choice, she surely would not associate with a man who drinks."

"Undoubtedly Parkins had been drinking. Dr. Benton admitted as much to me," volunteered Villard. "The odor was still on his breath."

"Yes, but Winifred may not have sensed it, for Parkins uses the old fashioned eau de cologne on his lips, eyebrows, handkerchief, and his hair always smells of pomade and tonic. A country girl might easily believe that perfume used by a fascinating fellow like Parkins was quite the thing, but no girl would sit beside a man who drove into a curve at a fifty or sixty mile gait without sensing danger—would she?"

"I dare say no sophisticated girl would—probably no girl, sophisticated or otherwise, would fail of being apprehensive," agreed Villard.

"Very well—now comes the point you originated. You asked me to guess what she will say when she comes to her senses. She will not say what you think she will. The last thing she thought about just as the cars collided will be the thoughts she will wake up with."

"Sounds logical," agreed Villard.

"Statistics prove it in hundreds of cases. As her senses left her she felt a shock akin to death," said Updyke, soberly. "And as she went into what looked to be certain death she must have wondered if Parkins was insane. It was all so sudden, her thoughts may not have been entirely formulated, but even in the zone of coma the brain functions in a weird sort of way, incomprehensible to the victim, but remembered afterward—if the victim survives."

"Doctor Benton thinks a little soft music from the organ might be helpful in bringing her out of her present state. Under your theory it might not help," said Villard. "Would you experiment?"

"Surely I would," exclaimed Updyke, "but I'd soft pedal at the start. As I understand the situation she hasn't opened her eyes since the accident, therefore I would go slow in startling her sensibilities for the present."

"I'm going to make a confession, Henry, but don't say anything to the doctor about it when he comes in shortly. My housekeeper and I stood by her bedside and she was so beautiful I said to Mrs. Bond, 'I wish she would open her eyes'—I hadn't seen them, you know, although I had held her in my arms for awhile just after the accident—and all the way home. Well, believe it or not, I'll be switched if the little creature didn't do it—and by jinks—she seemed to recognize me!"

Updyke was plainly at a loss to account for the recognition.

"Very strange, indeed," he conceded as he gave Villard a sharp look. "Sure you didn't have a little brain trouble when you saw those bright eyes?" laughed Updyke. "I can't account for her recognition of a person whom she had never seen or heard of before."

"Nevertheless, what I say is bona fide, as Mrs. Bond will attest. She saw the girl's eyes open, and the look of recognition—and more, the girl smiled at me, and went back to sleep. Now, old sleuth, 'what do you make of that'?—as Sherlock used to say."

"Well, let's see if we can figure it out," replied Updyke soberly. "Why, it's perfectly plain—the message from your dead sweetheart, and the father running around calling his girl by name. My operative phoned me the circumstances. He saw and heard everything."

"You are right—as usual. I'll have to buy a medal for you, but for the present I am going to ask you to look at her. Sometimes a man of your experience may have intuitions that doctors may not have. Benton was here on his second visit just before you came, and is coming back again to-night. Parkins is in very bad shape, so he is giving a larger share of attention to him. He feels sure of Winifred's recovery and is not uneasy about her. Now you come with me and tell me what you think after you've studied her face."

"Lead the way," said Updyke as they ascended the stairway.

The night nurse had arrived, and she came to the door, as the two men looked into the sick room. She glanced up inquiringly.

"I am Mr. Villard and this is Mr. Updyke—a specialist in his way. I want him to look at the patient."

"Come in please," invited the nurse. "She is still asleep and I've kept the night lights on in order that she shall not wake up in too much darkness."

"Has she opened her eyes since you came on duty?" asked Updyke.

"No—only once has she opened them I'm told, and then only to close them again," was the reply. "That happened earlier in the day. Her father was in several times, and it was pitiful the way he prayed for her life. I just couldn't help crying."

Updyke went over to the bedside and bent over the white face, scrutinizing it carefully. For nearly a minute he peered steadily at the eyelids until finally his patience was rewarded—they twitched! Noting the fact, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered as softly as his voice would carry—"Winifred," he breathed—and the eyelids fluttered.

"Wonderful!" whispered the nurse, but Updyke raised his hand indicating his desire for complete silence.

"It's time to wake up little girl—your father wants his breakfast and the booth must be opened—it's going to be a busy day."

Updyke's voice, gentle at first, was almost natural in tone at the finish. A perceptible movement of the hand and lips indicated that her condition was not so serious as Villard had feared, and his solemn face became radiant—but immediately afterward, glum, when Updyke said:

"That's all for the present—she'll wake up naturally bye and bye. It's dangerous to force the issue."

A servant bearing a message suddenly took both men out of the sick room—"Mr. Updyke is wanted on the phone."

An operative had some important news for him.

"Have put Parkins' valet through a sweat bath—got everything he knew. 'Number Nine' was with me and took down the whole story. Shall I shoot it?"

"Shoot" replied Updyke, winking at Villard. Then to the latter he said: "He is going to give me the confession of Parkins' valet—and the valet is one of my men."—"Go, ahead—I am listening," said he, as he removed his hand from the mouthpiece.

"Here goes," said the operative—"Parkins, drinking heavily as he got himself ready for a run over to Long Island licked up two-thirds of a quart of straight whisky while he shaved, bathed, and dressed. Had been brought home in Villard's limousine guarded by a Jap. Though jaded he didn't try to sleep, but began to change his clothes, and talked to himself in a maudlin way. The valet said he continually referred to a poor little motherless girl—who evidently lived on Long Island. He was to bring the girl and her father to New York—neither had ever been to the city—although lifelong residents of Long Island. Parkins talked of sending 'the old man,' meaning the father, on a bus ride to the end of the line and back, probably for the purpose of losing him. The girl was to stay with Parkins and be shown the town, the big stores—tall buildings and so on, with a probable wind up at dinner at some shady joint. While Parkins had not actually unfolded his intentions toward her, the inference was that he would see that she took something that would put her out for a time. Nothing indicated as to the father after the ride on the bus—sequence would naturally suggest that he would be allowed to drift. What do you make of it?"

"The plan seems plausible up to the word 'sequence,'" replied Updyke. "Parkins was known to the girl's father, who trusted him. He could not afford to let the old man drift for he knew Parkins by name, and would naturally make inquiries. Parkins could not have risked that. More likely he would take the girl to a sporty restaurant, and order a private dining room. If possible he would slip something into the coffee, or whatever he got her to drink. Parkins is a damnable villain, and, thank God! we got him before he had a chance to succeed!"

Updyke, whose wrath took on new vigor, fairly snorted as he sensed the real story.

"I've got a 'John Doe' on the valet," replied the operative. "Fifteen is in charge of him, here in the office. What shall I do with him?" asked Number Twelve.

"Just hold him over night in one of the rooms—it might be risky to jail him. Make him feel at home, and that he is doing us a great favor, for which he won't lose anything—see? Better put a man in the entrance hall, next to his room."

"I got you—good night," said the operative.

"Good night, Twelve. You've done a big stunt. See you to-morrow afternoon or evening," replied the chief, turning to Villard with a broad grin on his face.

Not wishing to further upset Villard's mind, he said that the information was second-hand, therefore he would reserve it for the present. Parkins being in such a serious condition the case might be settled through his death. Meanwhile, bad off as he was, he should be "watched like a hawk," and any attempt at escape should be balked at all hazards. The evidence of the valet was conclusive, but always there loomed the chance of newspaper notoriety. Therefore, the necessity of great care.

"Now we'll make a call on Parkins," suggested Updyke, to which Villard agreed, although the doctor was overdue. A last call for the night on Winifred had been agreed upon, but evidently the case over at Sawyer's home was too critical—perhaps an operation had been necessary.

On reaching the Sawyer home Updyke and Villard were informed that the host had retired, but that Doctor Benton and a surgeon from New York had experimented upon Parkins, and were awaiting results which might call for a more dangerous operation in the region of the brain. One of the two nurses had volunteered the information. The situation was grave.

"I'd rather he died than come out of it a cripple for life," said Villard, as they strolled back to Dreamy Hollow in a roundabout way.

"Don't worry as to that—he will pull through, and the more crippled he is the more dangerous he will become," said Updyke. "He will steal the girl one of these days if you are not everlastingly on the alert."

From that thought Villard, who saw the truth in the prophecy, became silent, as a new fear seized his heart. By every means in his power he would frustrate such an eventuality, and with his last drop of blood he would stand between the girl and the evil genius whose touch would defile, and whose snares would destroy. Updyke, "mind reader" that he was, had just grounds for planting the seed of everlasting vigilance in Villard's brain.

"There is an old saying that 'it takes a rogue to catch a rogue,' Drury, and I've spent years in acquiring a rogue's viewpoint. Just make up your mind that Parkins can never assume the rôle of a saint, except as a subterfuge, and that every hour that he isn't asleep, he is dangerous."

"I place the whole matter in your hands, Henry. I have not the wits for the job, and would probably lose in any fight against any man with the mind of a crook," replied Villard.

The worries of the day had been great and rest was important in view of the duties of to-morrow. A peep into Winifred's suite found the nurse in good cheer. The sleep of the patient was more normal, and signs of a desire to awaken had been noted. All was well, as the two men took their separate ways to comfortable beds and a well-earned rest.

CHAPTER IX. FORCES BEYOND THE SKIES

Gloomy days followed along the path of Drury Villard during the week succeeding his last interview with Updyke. The invalid upstairs was in bed, devoid of memory. She laughed, talked, sat up in bed, or in a perambulating chair was taken out among the flowers and trees each day. She recognized no one by name, not even her father, whose health was giving away under the strain. Her talk was of flowers and birds by day—and the stars by night.

"I'm going to be with them soon," said she, gaily—referring to the stars. "My mother is up there."

"And where is your father?" asked Villard, trying to aid her memory.

"I don't know—I'm expecting him any time," she answered eagerly, and Mr. Barbour, standing near and in plain sight, turned about sadly and walked away. His child no longer knew him.

Upon this situation, he brooded in silence. He felt himself an interloper upon the hospitality of a man he did not know. But Villard, farseeing and well disposed, invited him to stay on and gave him courage to do so.

"My home is your home," said he. "Some day she will come into complete recollection—and then, if my hopes are fulfilled, we shall become man and wife."

"God speed the day!" exclaimed Alexander Barbour fervently. "Everything is being done for her. You have placed us under great obligations."

But Villard would not have it that way.

"The good fortune is all mine," said he, emphatically—"and I have reason to believe that she will become my wife, even if I am some years her senior. There are forces beyond the skies that are working out my salvation, and that of your daughter. I won't go into the matter further than to say that I am sure the fates are on our side. When all is settled, you, who are creeping on in age, may call my home your own. You may come and go at will—no one will oppose your coming or your going. You will be a unit unto yourself."

Villard was never cheerful when showered with thanks. When the older man tried to express his gratitude the master of Dreamy Hollow simply smiled and waved his hand. A few minutes later he stood on the sands of his private beach and watched the waves as they swirled and pounded on the shore line. His thoughts, however, were far away, but the very faith he put behind them turned them into messages to his dead. But he anticipated no word in reply. His own reasoning counseled him that the new Winifred had released the old from further strenuous effort in his behalf.

"It is myself incarnate, you will marry"—she had told him. Then—"You will meet her soon."

And it had all come about just as she said, and now she could rest forevermore in peace—the darling of his early love! Her effort at self-effacement, were it possible to erase herself from his memory, had been sublime, but to her reincarnated soul he would hinge his destiny through the instrumentality of Winifred Barbour. She had now become the Winifred of his earlier devotion, and he would lavish his love as a true man should—but there would be no relaxation of his loyalty to the memory of the dear one gone before.

"I shall always revere your memory," he had whispered hoarsely. "The new Winifred will never attempt to obscure your likeness from my heart. Together you will entwine my soul and become as one great love. Farewell beloved. Go to thy rest!"

As Villard spoke he bared his head and stood quite still. Then, as he walked his way back he quickened his pace, but halted abruptly as Alexander Barbour came running toward him.

"She's all right again—her mind has been suddenly restored!" he shouted.

"The Lord be praised!" shouted Villard with a glad light in his eyes. Resuming his rapid gait, he left Barbour puffing along, behind.

"And she has asked for 'Drury'—and insists upon seeing him," panted Barbour. "How could she know of you? I tell you, sir, it's very strange! She has always lived in one place. She knows nothing of your helpfulness in rescuing her from the wreck. All she realizes is that there was a collision and that she has waked up in a palace. She seems not to know that her memory has been lost since the accident."

"When did this change take place—and where?" demanded Villard, soberly.

"She was in the hammock on the west veranda—and had dozed off after playing like a little child among the flowers."

Villard stood quite still for a few moments and looked up into the skies. Then turning toward Barbour he said:

"A miracle has taken place before our very eyes. It would be sacrilege to even try to fathom such mystery. But we will never cease to thank that Wonderful Spirit which has helped your daughter into a normal condition. Come let us hurry along!" he commanded of the mystified father, after the fashion of those born to rule.

A moment more and Drury Villard stood looking down into the eyes of the lovely creature whom God had sent to him—"to have and to hold, until death do us part."

"Do you know me, little woman?" he asked tenderly.

"Yes, you're Mr. Drury!"

"Right—but when you awoke from your lapse of memory you asked for 'Drury'—and that is my given name," said he, his eyes twinkling.

"Now isn't that strange, sir? I had never heard that name until just a few moments ago. Of course, I must have dreamed it. What has happened to me, and my father? I remember I was in a dreadful accident—did you know that? It occurred this morning—where am I now? It seems like Heaven!" said she, smiling up into Villard's face.

Their eyes met, but after a searching glance, the new Winifred withdrew her beautiful gray-blue orbs from the contest and gazed out upon the gardens where gay flowers bloomed and flitting birds winged their way from tree to tree.

"And you are sure that you have quite recovered?" he asked, solicitously, wondering whether or not he should tell her of the real lapse of the time since in his arms he had borne her to his home.

"Oh, entirely so, and I feel so grateful, and so fortunate. I am sorry indeed to be wearing borrowed clothing. The dress I wore this morning was perfectly new—the first time I had worn it. We were going to the big city and I was so happy. I have never visited New York, but I'm satisfied with this dreamland—only it will be hard to come back to earth, all in one short day."

Drury Villard smiled at the thought, and releasing her hand he drew up a great lounging settee which afforded him a seat beside her.

"Perhaps I should tell you something about the accident," said he, looking into her eyes for consent.

"Oh, do—please! I've been wondering—I seem to be in another world," said she, dreamily.

"To begin with, you have been here several days, much to our delight," he replied, watching the effect of his words.

"Indeed!" she exclaimed, blushing with embarrassment; "think of all the trouble I've caused!"

"But we haven't been troubled in the least, and we have grown to think of you as our own," said Villard. "I have asked your father to live with us—we are so lonesome in this big house. I love the place, but at times it is so dreary that I lose myself in grief."

The eyes of the new Winifred opened wide in sympathy.

"You must have had a deep sorrow," said she, in a low voice.

"Indeed that is true, but I think I know a road to happiness," he replied, tenderly. "When you grow stronger I will tell you what I mean. But there is something I want to know at once—how did you guess my name?"

"Oh—now I remember! I have heard your name—my mother sent me word. She talks to me quite often."

"Your mother is dead, is she not?" queried Villard.

"Yes, on earth, but now she lives in Heaven!" replied the girl, simply. "Winifred told her to tell me that there would be an accident and that Drury would aid—and—and——"

"Oh, please go on, dear girl, and what? Tell me about this second message."

Villard's great strength of character proved his mastery over the young woman, who, awed by his commanding voice, had no power to refuse his request.

"But it's all so sacred!" she protested. "Yet, if you insist, I feel that I must. Don't think it unwomanly, will you?" she pleaded.

"Never—I promise you that, on my sacred honor!" replied Villard, fervently.

Then came the story that he had awaited so eagerly—a story not for those who would doubt, or laugh to scorn, but for those who believe in a life to come—the life everlasting. Tears gathered in Winifred's eyes as she began to speak.

"My mother came to me Monday night," said she, tremulously. "I was ready to retire at an early hour because of my great happiness concerning my first trip to the big city. I had knelt to say my prayers, when suddenly I heard my mother's voice. Although I have had frequent visits from her I never actually see her. Her voice, which I so dearly love, came into the room and called to me by name, but I could not locate the direction from whence it came. So I bowed my head again, and waited. Shortly she spoke, saying—'There will be an accident, my child, but no real harm will come to you—be not afraid. Tell Drury that his Winifred wants him to marry the person whom he saves from death.' That was all, and of course you are the Mr. Drury, and if you were instrumental in saving a woman from death, your Winifred wants you to marry her."

Villard struggled with his emotions after Winifred Barbour had bared the great secret he so longed to unravel, while she, in sympathy, buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Villard's mood was so like her own that he dared not try to comfort her. He had no words with which to soothe, nor power to check the sorrow and joy that mingled within his own bosom. He simply stood by, resolutely restraining his emotion, until he had mastered it—then walked away until the new Winifred had composed herself.

On his return he lifted her into his arms and kissed her cheeks and lips, and beautiful dark brown hair.

"You are my Winifred, now," he whispered, hoarsely. "God has willed it so—and your dear mother in Heaven has sanctioned it. My dead Winifred is yourself, incarnate. I shall keep and guard you during all of my remaining days on earth. You will become mistress of Dreamy Hollow, and we will share all blessings as long as we each shall live."

Taken by storm, Winifred's eyes opened wide in astonishment, but she made no answer. If in her secret heart she had ever thought of a marriage proposal, it was not of the kind that had just been spoken. But Villard was a law unto himself and he took Winifred's hand into his own, and together they strolled along the wooded path leading toward the ever wonderful beach. This path was seldom used because of its density of foliage and the low hung branches of the trees and bushes. At last they came upon the sands where the waters pounded and the roar of the sea beyond the bar spoke messages from far away lands.

And there they halted, each mind in deep contemplation of the other, while gazing far out where the blue sky and the waters of the deep merged with the shadows of a waning day. As yet the answer had not been spoken, but the love of the man was fast winning the heart of the girl. The verdict seemed not far away.

CHAPTER X. THE NURSE TAKES A CHANCE

Parkins' escape from death owed itself to a surgeon's skill, the operation upon his head having been successful. Now he sat up in bed, after seven days at the Sawyer home. He talked very little, but the furtive roving of his eyes during his wakeful hours denoted his mental activity. Aside from the injuries to his head, all harmful results had disappeared. The wound on his scalp was rapidly closing up, and according to the surgeon, would never be noticed, owing to the dense growth of his hair. Roached back and parted nearer the middle, the wound would be obscured. According to both doctors, another week would find him strong enough to walk about the grounds, but Parkins secretly knew that he had plenty strength with which to escape. He had no way of knowing Villard's views concerning him, but he was aware that Updyke only visited places where something unusual was going on. He could feel without seeing the Villard satellites—minions of the law!—they were unremitting. So far as they could prevent there would be no chance for his escape.

One thing Parkins had done well. He had made a fast friend of his day nurse. By degrees he had won her confidence, until finally he asked her if she would not prefer a good salary as his housekeeper rather than slave on as a nurse.

"I'd go mad with such work on my hands," said he. "Only the faithfulness of kind-hearted women toward those who suffer makes life worth living. How much do you average per week?" he inquired abruptly.

"Oh, it's hard to tell, all owing to circumstances. In order to get anything like steady work I have to take what the doctors offer. Some weeks I scarcely make anything—other weeks twenty-five dollars, and sometimes fifty. Last year my weekly average was a little over twenty dollars. I could hardly make ends meet," she concluded.

"Well, I should think as much!" exclaimed Parkins, with a frown at the ways of humanity. "How would you like to become housekeeper for me at fifty dollars a week, with all you can eat, and a Christmas present for good measure?"

"Are you married?" she asked as if doubtful upon that point.

"No, not yet, but I'm soon to be married—and to the sweetest little lady in the land. We would have been married now but for the accident. We were on our way to New York, eloping, as a matter of fact, although her father was along. We were going to surprise him by suddenly going to The Little Church Around the Corner, and with him as a witness, have the ceremony performed. He would have been delighted," said Parkins, with enthusiasm.

"Surely he would—and a lovely surprise, indeed!" replied the nurse, gaily. "Was she hurt very badly?"

"No, just shocked, I gather from listening to the doctors. She's out and around, and the place she is stopping is beautiful—just look out of that west window into those grounds. See the big white mansion through the opening? Well, the man that owns that home is many times a millionaire, and I am Vice President of the company in which he made all his money."

"You don't say!" exclaimed the nurse.

"Yes, he is the one who picked us up after the wreck—he and Mr. Sawyer were out for a drive. Villard took the girl to his home and I was brought here. The doctor said it would be best not to have two invalided people in the same house."

"Well, that's a fact, especially when they are so close to one another," replied the nurse thoughtfully. "But it won't be long before you will be ready to go your way. Of course you will take the little sweetheart along."

"Your last cent can go on that," replied Parkins. "But we're going to fool them, just the same, as soon as I can get out of this—and I'm almost ready now. We are going to elope, and this time her father will be none the wiser until it's all over. He is pretty much broken up over the accident, but the home he is in is a dream, so he'll be happy there until we come back for him—See? He knows I'm rich, and that I have a big standing in the business world."

"How will you manage so grave a matter as an elopement?" inquired the nurse, soberly.

"I'll think it out—oh, now that you are going to be our housekeeper, and all that, you can help us easily, and no one will ever know it," concluded the patient, his face lighting up as if inspired.

Parkins knew how to smile, and to appear the soul of honor. The nurse, Mrs. Duke by name, as given to him by Dr. Benton when he introduced her, at once approved him.

"I might be helpful, and would be willing to aid, but I wouldn't want to be left here to be blamed for it," said she soberly.

"Why, that's easy to avoid," said Parkins. "During your daily exercise, manage to meet her, and get acquainted. But don't tell her of our plans, because she is a nervous little soul and might see difficulties in the way. Naturally she'd want her father along, but that would spoil the elopement," said the patient, with a sly wink.

"I see that clearly, but what about me? I——"

"I was just going to tell you what to do. First, get acquainted with her, and on a certain day I'll have a car waiting at a certain place near by. As you walk along with her you could suggest a pretty place you'd like to have her see. When she arrives there the car will be waiting, and you and my sweetheart will jump in, and away you'll go. Meanwhile, as the car passes this place I will be where I can jump in and become manager of the affair."

"I'm so afraid of anything like that!" exclaimed Mrs. Duke. "We might be arrested."

"Oh, pshaw! Nothing of the kind. She's of age—she loves me—and we are going to be married! The only thing I'm afraid of is that the old bachelor who owns the place where she is now might want to marry her, and she is so sweet and obliging, her father might coax her into marriage with this man Villard," explained Parkins.

"Villard! Is that his place?" asked the nurse, sharply as she again looked out upon the beautiful home.

"Yes, it's worth a couple of millions, including the land and beach property," replied the patient.

"Why, he was the man over here last night, was he not?"

"That was Drury Villard. You saw how friendly he was with me, and how concerned he was about my condition, and everything."

"Yes, indeed, a fine looking man—but too old for that sweet little girl," said the nurse, shaking her head in deprecation of even the thought of such a match. "He may be a nice man, and all that, and seems kindly, but an old man's love is no love at all, so I'm going to help the girl to escape such a fate," she concluded, shaking her head as she meant it.

"And if you do, I'll give you one thousand dollars in cash!" whispered Parkins, as the nurse looked into his eyes.

They held true, disclosing not the least appearance of deceit. Whereupon Mrs. Duke nodded her head affirmatively.

"I'll do it," she said, "and if you don't mind, I am going out for a little fresh air"—all of which was accompanied by a knowing smile—the smile of a skillful accomplice.

To Mrs. Duke a millionaire was a living crime. Want, perpetually barking at her heels, gave her no charity of feeling toward the rich man—his kith or his kin. She likened such men to a huge net stretched across the river of life to which human souls were drawn unerringly by man-made currents, until caught in the meshes and held in despair. Naught but death could come to their rescue.

To her, the knowledge that a man of William Parkins' goodness of heart could be accounted a chattel of the great Villard was unthinkable. As she walked along among rare trees and flowered bushes her heart turned cold and her eyes dilated indignation at the inequality of human destinies. Had she but known the man, his kindly nature, his open purse, and great benefactions, her hatred of Drury Villard would have been turned into admiration. Good woman that she was, her intuition had failed her in her estimate of Parkins' veracity. She had yet to learn the depravity of the man, who, by the mere use of five magic words—"one thousand dollars in cash"—had won her hatred toward the best friend he ever had.

So far as Mrs. Duke was concerned it was easy to meet up with Winifred Barbour. The girl loved to look upon the waters of the bay, and during her convalescing days she sat for hours on the sands of the beach and breathed the ozone borne in upon the breezes from the great Atlantic. She had wondered about Parkins, still bedfast, but no inkling had come to her ears of his perfidious intentions toward herself. No gentleman of Villard's high ideals would have failed to shield the innocent young woman from a knowledge of the perfidy of the man—but the nurse had not been taken into account.

Mrs. Duke instinctively knew Winifred at first glance. There she was seated upon the sands, gracefully poised and tossing pebbles into the waves.

"Why, bless me!—aren't you Winifred Barbour of Patchogue?" inquired Mrs. Duke, smiling down upon the girl.

"Yes, that is my name, and Patchogue is my home. Won't you sit down and listen to the roaring tide coming in? I adore the splashing of the waves! I do not remember meeting you before," she added, as if in apology.

"Indeed, I will sit down—it is such a charming spot. You would hardly remember me, for I left Patchogue years ago, when you were a very sweet little girl. I begin to recall your features. I am Mrs. Duke."

"Do you live in this vicinity, Mrs. Duke?" asked Winifred, politely.

"No, indeed, sorry as I am to say it. I'm too poor for that—I am at Mr. Sawyer's at present," said she, as if it didn't matter particularly where she was.

"Oh, indeed! Some one ill there?"

"Yes, but improving very fast. It's a man, thank goodness—a brave man, too. I seem to prefer to nurse a man, for they are so much more patient than women. Not so delicate, you know, and they have more fortitude. But I must confess I've nursed women, too, who were remarkable!" exclaimed Mrs. Duke. "Do you live hereabouts?" she asked in a naïve sort of way.

"No, I still live in Patchogue," replied Winifred, dreamily. "It is so beautiful here, almost like heaven. I wonder if one could always be happy with every craving of the heart entirely satisfied?"

"Positively not, unless the right man is at hand. The man I'm nursing now is such a gentleman! Oh, dear—a week or so, and away he goes to his home of plenty, while I go back to my poor little tenement. Rents are so awful, aren't they?"

"We have never rented—father and mother always owned a little home, and since she died, we've continued to live there. I love the little place!" said Winifred, looking far out beyond the bay.

"Of course you do, my dear child," purred Mrs. Duke, arising to go back to her charge. "I hope I'll meet you here to-morrow, Miss Barbour, when I come out for my airing. It's desperately trying to have no one to talk to."

"Thank you, Mrs. Duke, I'll try to be on hand," was Winifred's reply, as the nurse sighed and arose to go.

"That's a dear—you can't imagine the dreariness of a life like mine," sighed the nurse, turning to go.

On hearing Mrs. Duke's story, Parkins' mind fairly sizzled with plans. It was a case of now or never so far as Winifred was concerned. He figured that no matter how much she might be frightened at the plans he had in mind, that she would calm down, once she saw how much he really cared for her—and the risk he took to save her from the fate of becoming the bride of a man so many years her senior.

"Youth for the young—age cannot hold out against it," he soliloquized. "Now for a plan of action," said he, in lowered voice, to Mrs. Duke.

"Take these memorandums, please," he whispered, reaching under the top mattress. "Read them carefully, and by all means live up to them. Go to your room and lock yourself in while you memorize each item of the plan. Now is the time—quick!" he whispered, his eyes afire with suppressed excitement.

Mrs. Duke was amazed at the skill of her patient. She read the pages thrice over, each time in a whispered monotone, her lips moving rapidly. The instructions read:

1. During your afternoon walk, go to telephone booth in Murray's Wayside Lunch Room—half a mile east, on the opposite side of the Motor Parkway.

2. Call up Daniel McGonigal—Murray Hill 10011—be sure that you talk to Dan—no one else—tell him who you are, and whom you represent. Also tell him about the accident.

3. Read him the note addressed to him.

4. If he seems uncertain tell him its $500 if successful; $250 if we lose.

5. He is to have a high-power limousine at the beach end of the private road on the east hedge line of the Sawyer home—to-morrow morning at eleven sharp—with instructions to take on two women—if not there to wait one hour—then go home. You will be the other woman.

6. The driver to be accompanied by a uniformed assistant who will sit beside him unless you need him inside—if there is a struggle.

7. You will meet the girl at the beach on your morning walk, same as to-day. If she doesn't show up within an hour—come back.

8. If she comes, suggest a walk, east along the beach—for fine view of wonderful gardens—not to be seen in any other way.

9. My room faces right for full observation—I will be in readiness to escape, and will be at the Parkway corner by the time the car arrives. If I fail, go on without me to Herman's—the chauffeur will know.

10. Reassure the girl—soothe her—tell her of my great love—and don't forget the $1000 you will receive—if successful!

Thus was disclosed to Mrs. Duke the processes of the Parkins' mind, and—"Wonderful!"—that was her thought as she tucked the instructions in the bosom of her dress. She gloried in the part she was to take in defeating the purpose of the rich Villard—and later on—when taking her fresh air ramble she walked into the booth at Murray's and telephoned McGonigal.

At first he refused the job, but finally relented upon the grounds of old friendship. The price was too low for the job, even if it turned out to be a mere elopement. He very much doubted that version, for he knew Parkins too well. But Mrs. Duke succeeded in every way and arrived back in the sick room with triumphant eyes and a thumping heart.

"You have served me well!" said Parkins, patting the hand she laid on his forehead in search of fever.

There was none, whereat her eyes beamed with delight.

"To-morrow," he continued, "is a fateful day for both of us. It means joy or sorrow. I'm putting all of the 'eggs in one basket'—we must win or die! Villard is not asleep! Neither is Updyke! They think I'm too ill to try anything—so we will show them a thing or two."

"I'll help you against that money shark to my dying breath," replied the nurse, her eyes envenomed with hatred for such as he. "The girl is yours—you saw her first, and no doubt she loves you. I'll see that you get her, too!" whispered the nurse with emphasis.

And so it came about that on the following day, around the hour of eleven, Parkins looked out upon Great South Bay from a window in a servant's chamber of Dr. Sawyer's home and what he saw thrilled him to the marrow of his bones. There they were, two women, easily recognizable, strolling leisurely along the shore line, stopping now and then to admire the beauty of the landscape. A closed car stood off a hundred yards or so at the foot of the east line road. One last sweep of his eyes and Parkins ran to his room and tore off the bath robe and pajamas, thus displaying the fact that he was all dressed and ready for action.

One hour later the Sawyer telephone rang and Villard's excited voice shouted for the master, who came forward forthwith.

"This is Villard, Dr. Sawyer. Have you seen Winifred?"

The voice, while familiar, hardly matched that of the owner of Dreamy Hollow.

"Not since yesterday—what is the matter? Anything wrong?"

"She's missing—can't be found on the premises—searched everywhere—all hands joining. We are simply groping in a blind alley. She walked over toward the beach about ten o'clock, according to Jerry, but that is the last thing known of her. He thinks the Parkins' nurse went over that way a few minutes afterward. Go up in his room, please, and see if the nurse has returned."

Villard's voice was husky and impatient, but when Sawyer returned and reported that neither Parkins nor nurse was to be found, and that a bath robe lay on the floor—also sleeping garments—his voice roared with anger.

"Where is Updyke's man?" he shouted, stifling the ominous forebodings that were boring in upon his brain.

"I'll see—hold the wire—and keep steady. Calm yourself, I'll be back in a minute," said Sawyer.

It was a long drawn-out minute, but the situation was clear. Updyke's operative had looked in on Parkins at ten minutes of eleven. The nurse was out for a walk. He came back and sat down on the west corner of the front veranda, and at ten minutes after eleven returned and found that the room was empty. The operative's first act was to inform the New York office from an outside phone, at Murray's, not a minute from the Sawyer home—by motorcycle. He was now carrying out Updyke's personal orders, which were—"Stick around until I phone you!"

One thing that had a bearing on the case was Dr. Benton's talk with Parkins, earlier in the morning. The Updyke man was in the sick room at the time the doctor made his call and heard everything that was said. Parkins pleaded to be allowed to take a walk in the garden. The doctor opposed the idea, and stated that the patient could not walk a hundred feet without falling in a heap. Also, that another week in bed was necessary before making an attempt. It was now quite evident that Parkins had been "playing 'possum," and had succeeded in fooling the doctor by his apparent weakness of voice, as he plead for out-of-door exercise.

"That's him all over!" panted Villard, as the particulars of the escape came to an end. "I'll talk with Updyke—that's all I can do. I'll see you later and let you know what I find out. Your help has been bully, as usual. Always grateful—see you later," said he, banging the receiver into place.

For a moment Villard stood mutely, with hands locked and eyes shut. Then, with the rage of a lion he sprang into action. Updyke's office was phoned, and "The Big Fellow" was on deck.

"I thought I'd be hearing from you pretty soon," said he, in reply to Villard's ring. "Don't worry—Sawyer's butler is one of my men—he got fooled the same as the rest of you. It shows that Parkins has more brains than one certain operative. I know one who is going to get shanghaied. The doctor's pessimism as to Parkins condition in the presence of my man simply threw him off his balance."

"Never mind the story, old boy. You did your best, but my Winifred is gone! She is in the hands of a villain!" shouted Villard.

"Well, keep your shirt on, old chap. Raving doesn't get you anywhere. My man got the news to me before you knew anything had happened—or Sawyer either. What more do you expect in an instant?"

The growl in Updyke's voice was becoming noticeable, as Villard started in to apologize.

"I'm just about crazy—don't mind what I say. What else"—but Updyke ignored the interruption.

"I'm making no promises, but I'm expecting quick results," he continued. "Parkins is still on the Island, and the big limousine from McGonigle's garage isn't a racing machine. It can't take to the woods like a small car unless there is an accomplice who knows the way. I have twelve motorcycle men out on the job, and three high-speed roadsters. Every ranger that can be reached by the Chief Forester will assist, and many secret service men are already alert. I expect to hear news any moment."

"Where do you think he will head for?" inquired Villard.

"I don't think—I know where he is going—but I don't know when he will get there? I'm not going to tell you now, anyhow. You'd go up in the air like a balloon," said Updyke with emphasis.

"Then tell me how you know he is going to a certain place. That will help some. You can see that I am almost crazy!"

"Well, then, brace up and listen. I called up McGonigle and asked him where Parkins was going in his big limousine and he fell for it. He stuttered, and hemmed and hawed, until I shouted a real message into his ear. I said, 'Talk quick or you will be in a hurry-up wagon on your way to police headquarters!' That's what did the business."

"What did he say to that?"

"My God! On what grounds can I be treated in such a manner, he came back to me, but his voice was broken. I had him all right, and he knew I had him. So I answered back—'Because you're an accomplice, and by turning in evidence that will help convict Parkins you will soften the charge against yourself.' Then I said I'd help him, most probably, but he must first tell me the story from beginning to end, or shift for himself."

"Terrible!" sighed Villard. "And he had sold himself to a counterfeit gentleman! I always thought well of McGonigle. I've known him for years."

"Well, to make a long story short, he told me everything—how Parkins' nurse had called him up, and told him of the plan, which was spoken of as an elopement, offering five hundred for a successful venture, and two-fifty in any event. Regarding Parkins as a rich man, and sporty, he took the offer. Now here is the real joker in the pack, and it shows that luck is still with me," laughed Updyke.

"Let's hear it," said Villard, in a voice less restrained.

"I had another matter on my slate having to do with McGonigle's garage, so I had sent one of my men over to apply for a job. He entered the place and found Mac all worked up because a man he had depended on to go out on a swell limousine job hadn't shown up. The upshot of it was that he took on my man and gave him a uniform to put on—one of the regular chauffeur turnouts. That's why I know that we're going to get Parkins, and get him soon."

"Henry, you are a wonder!—what is the next step?" demanded Villard, chuckling in spite of his fears.

"The next step is for you to go and sit down with your morning papers," shouted Updyke. "I've got other phones waiting on me."

"Just one thing more—tell me where he's taking her," begged Villard.

"What's the use? He won't get her there?"

"Tell me anyhow—I'm stronger when I know the worst," pleaded Villard.

Updyke hesitated. He loathed the thought of letting his friend know the truth. But finally, in a rasping voice, almost choking with the rage that he had been trying to conceal, Updyke replied:

"Well, if you must know, the car started for Herman's Road House—otherwise known as 'The Mad House.'"

With that Updyke threw his receiver on the hook, and asked his switch-board operator for the call next in line—but he was more than furious with himself for having yielded to Villard's entreaty.

CHAPTER XI. MARY JOHNSON

"No news" reports coming in from operatives, and new instructions going out from "the old man" himself, was the routine of Updyke's office for the next hour. Mary Johnson, his secretary, of only a few months' experience, came timidly over to his desk and asked if he had looked over the Parkins record during the past month or so.

"I think there were some notations made by Miss Carew just before she left," said she.

"Bring it," snapped Updyke, abstractedly. Then as the girl turned to go he called her back.

"I'm sorry to have been cross with you, little woman, but you'll forgive me I know. This is a bad case, and every moment is precious. Hurry back with the report," said he, smiling into her alert blue eyes.

On her return he seized the record eagerly, and the girl bent over his shoulder and pointed out three memorandums, which he carefully read.

The addendum was in the handwriting of Miss Carew, and read as follows:

6-12-1919—has built shack on the ocean side of South Bay, opposite Smith Point. Two rooms, stove, kitchenette—goes there during summer months—at week-ends—place is made comfortable for duck shooting in late fall. Double bed—5-15-1920—Joined the Indian Head Social Club, near Jamesport, East of Riverhead. Membership composed almost entirely of divorcees, both men and women. Single men and pretty women, eligible. Golf club—card games—liquor lockers—thirty suites—baths—swimming pool—indoor athletics—free and easy—no questions asked—no interference. Open all year—once known as The Mad House, then Herman's Road House. Herman still owns it, but has modernized the place and bids for better clients under the guise of a social country club.

"Get Riverhead, and ask for George Carver, head clerk at the White House," said Updyke to the girl beside him. "Glad to note that some one is on the job around here," he added gruffly.

In less than three minutes the connection was made, but even to the man at the helm, minutes seemed hours—such was his mental strain.

"Hello, George—this is Updyke—Yes—fine, thank you—do you know William Parkins?—only by sight—eh?—he belongs to Indian Head Social Club—find out if he is over there—call me back quickly—thanks—hurry boy!"

The next five minutes dragged along at a snail's pace, so overwrought was Updyke—and no less the efficient Mary Johnson. But the right tingle came along in due course of time.

"This you, Henry—all right—he telephoned from Yaphank for a parlor and bath suite—expected very soon—can I help you in any way?"

"You are still a deputy sheriff?" queried Updyke.

"Yes—they wouldn't take my resignation."

"Listen carefully, George—this is a serious matter. This man Parkins has kidnapped a beautiful, chaste girl, and is taking her to Indian Head, if I am not in error. You have a motorcycle?"

"Oh, yes—can't get along without one over here," replied Carver.

"Then hop it instantly, and ride for your life to that club. If Parkins hasn't arrived—thank God!—you stop him before he gets there, and save a great scandal that would ruin the girl. She is as pure as snow, and is betrothed to the best friend I have on earth. Help me out, boy! Get that man Parkins—serve a 'John Doe' warrant on him and take him to the home of Drury Villard at Dreamy Hollow. It's a big black limousine, two men in front, and Parkins, with a woman accomplice, inside. The chauffeur is McGonigle's man, but the other fellow is my man. He may need help—he might be killed—but you save the day from scandal."

"I'll do my best, old-timer. What you have told me makes me see red. I may shoot the skunk," said he in a rasping voice. "If it was a Riverhead case, we'd tar and feather him."

"Go like the wind, George—and don't fail," replied Updyke, a husky tone in his deep voice.

When George Carver swung into the Jamesport road a cloud of dust trailed behind him until he stopped in front of the clubhouse. Parkins had not arrived, so everything was safe thus far. Turning back along the road he traveled leisurely and muffled the "cut-out."

Updyke had figured matters out almost to a nicety. Two miles west of Jamesport a limousine hove in view.

The car was coming fast, head-on for passage against all-comers. But Carver was an old hand at stopping speeders.

He jumped from his machine and laid it crosswise of the narrow road. Then with his feet on the wheel and his revolver pointed straight at the oncoming chauffeur, he shouted:

"Halt! or I'll kill you!"—and at once the emergency was applied to the brakes of the big machine, causing thereby a most gruesome noise.

"HALT! OR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Hands up, chauffeur! Step off of your car—lie down on the roadside—belly to the ground!"

To the Updyke man he said—"If he makes a move kill him!"

Parkins, not yet discovered by either officer, had dropped to the floor and pulled a dust robe over his body. Carver tried to open the door, but it was locked from inside. The door on the other side was also bolted from within.

"All right, Parkins, you are going to have the merriest little test put up to you that a rascal of your stamp could conceive of in a life time!" shouted Carver. "At this moment you and your accomplice are shielding yourselves at the expense of a frail girl. She need have no fear—you infernal coward! But unless you and that woman come out instantly, I'll break in the doors and hang both of you up by the thumbs. I am counting ten—one—two—three—four—five—get ready, 'Updyke man'—six——"

The door opened, and Mrs. Duke screamed as she saw Carver's badge.

Parkins came out first, with palms turned outward and was made to lay face-down, his arms stretched above his head. Then came the woman, to find, at the point of a revolver, that she had forfeited the chivalry of honest men.

"Now you, Updyke man, slip a pair of bracelets on both the man and the woman, while I do the same with the driver. Now, little lady," he added, addressing Winifred, "could you ride behind me on my motorcycle to Riverhead?"

Carver stood with hat in hand, smiling into her pallid face.

"Oh, I am sure I could," she whispered, frightened to the point of nervous breakdown.

"Then walk back along the road a little way while I prepare these kidnappers for a safe journey," said he, sneering down upon the prisoners. "I wouldn't want you to see what I may have to do to them."

At the suggestion of the Updyke man each prisoner was handcuffed with arms behind, instead of in front, as was the usual practice in extreme cases.

"That's the safest way," said the operative, "and now we'll tie their feet to the foot rest—Parkins in front, by himself, and the woman and the chauffeur on the rear seat. I'll drive the car back to New York. Updyke will be waiting for them, all right enough!"

When the job was completed, the curtains were drawn and the doors locked from outside. Then the Updyke operative mounted the chauffeur's seat and headed the car toward the west.

Carver now helped the girl to mount his wheel, and then jumped into the saddle in front of her.

"Hold on to me tight—we're going to speed some!" said he, gaily, then he shot in the gas, and they were off for Riverhead, the limousine trailing in the dust close behind.

For a time the male prisoners eyed each other in sheepish fashion, but Mrs. Duke cried bitterly as the car skipped along. With her arms behind her she had no means of wiping the tear-drops that plowed ridges through the dust on her face.

"I don't see how I ever got into this dreadful affair!" she moaned.

"Shut up!" shouted Parkins sharply. "They can't do anything with us. That would ruin the girl's reputation."

"But that man Updyke!—how did you ever conceive the idea that you could frustrate that brute's plans?"

"What do you know about him?" snapped Parkins.

"I've seen him, and that's enough! Oh, such a face!—such strength of purpose!—such——"

"Cut it out I tell you—or you will lose your chance, as a woman, to say that you had no thought of breaking the law. The girl and I were eloping and you were along as a friend. Do you get that?"

"You are so wonderful, Mr. Parkins—indeed you are," sighed Mrs. Duke, as her tears slackened. "I knew it the moment I saw you, all bruised and torn. Certainly she was eloping with you, and now I remember how sweetly she talked about you as we walked along the beach. You had always been so kind to her father, and all that."

"See that you don't forget it," replied Parkins, already planning his way to freedom. "And also remember this—that when she was seized by these men, and we were arrested like kidnappers, I was taking her to one of the swellest country clubs in the land. We were to be married there, and you were to be the witness—see?"

Parkins' eyes flashed, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he thought of the revenge he would take upon Villard and the girl, if called to the witness stand. How the reporters would enjoy it! And how Villard's face would burn with shame as lawyers for the defense drove home his crazy notions about spiritual communications!

The thought almost made him happy.

At Riverhead telephoning was in order. The car containing the prisoners was, by Updyke's order, to be driven through to New York and the culprits brought to his office. The girl, Winifred, would await the arrival of Villard's car at Yaphank, Carver gladly agreeing to convey her that far, changing to his runabout at Riverhead—thus adding to her comfort until she would meet up with her friends.

Sawyer was so overcome with joy at "the news from the front," as he called it, that he insisted on being taken along with Villard. So, with Santzi as a mascot, and Jacques at the wheel, they were soon on their way. But aside from the joy in each breast, there was a grim thought in each mind—and small charity for Parkins and the nurse he had used as a foil.

Then, too, the shock of Winifred's strange disappearance had so upset the nerves of Alexander Barbour that he now hovered near "The Great Crossing." But the ever kindly Mrs. Bond had his case in hand, and the doctor had been called, although he had not arrived when Villard's party left for Yaphank.

"If Winifred will agree, we will be married to-night," said Villard, in an undertone, to Sawyer.

The latter did not reply, although he remained in deep thought for almost a mile, as shown by the speedometer.

"No, my friend," said he, finally, and with an effort to tell the truth without offending—"her youthful dreams must not be wiped out in any such rough-shod manner. I know the big heartedness of your intentions, but Winifred is a girl and she must have the say. There are her old-time friends at Patchogue. Those she cares for should by all means be invited. She must have a fling of some pretensions or she will brood in silence at your lack of sympathy."

"Alas, you are right—as usual," sighed Villard. "However, my pessimism is newly born from the fruits of this evil day."

"There you go again—evil day! Why, it's the greatest day of your life! The girl over there among the stars has again reached out in your behalf, and this time the proof is positive of her watchfulness over you."

"Forgive me, Sawyer," said Villard simply, patting his friend on the knee. "My little girl shall take her own time and have a wedding after her own heart. Then Dreamy Hollow will wake up and amount to something!"

It was a wide-eyed and dusty little heroine that George Carver handed over at Yaphank. Santzi jumped out of the roadster and fairly lifted her into the place between the two men on the back seat, who stood up to greet her.

At once she snuggled closely to Villard, and shivered, until finally he put his big arm about her and soothed her with gentle words of sympathy. Sawyer looked away from it all, his eyes moist at the girl's sweet simplicity, but Villard motioned Carver to his side of the car and leaned over and whispered—then put a card in his hand.

"Well, I may call in on you at your home some day, but I seldom go to New York. I've seen a little of Dreamy Hollow while riding by at times. The young lady sitting beside you has a strong heart and she knows how to keep up her nerve," said he, laughing up at her pale smiling face. "Most women would have had a sure enough fit, if placed in the same situation."

Then, doffing his cap, he said—

"Good-by, all," and offered his hand to the girl.

Kissing the tips of her dainty fingers Winifred held them out to him, and said—

"Good-by, sir. I shall never forget your kindness, and your bravery—nor will any of us," she added, glancing from Carver to Villard, and back to Carver again.

And then, with a little sigh, she fell back between Villard and Sawyer and closed her eyes. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep. The adventure had taxed her beyond her strength.

That night Villard shivered in his sleep, but not from cold. There was a certain dread of misfortune—he knew not what—that filled his mind. Publicity, from a gossip standpoint, was his pet aversion. The thought of its blight upon his name, and the haunting fear of being pointed out as the man whose sweetheart had been kidnapped by one of his partners, simply brought out a cold sweat over his body. At midnight he could stand it no longer, whereupon he turned on his reading lamp and reached for the bedside telephone—then called up the hotel where Updyke lived, and was connected with his room.

The big fellow was just retiring when he answered the call.

"I expected to hear from you earlier in the evening," said he by way of greeting. "Hot old day, eh?"

"A great day, as it turned out to be—and how I am ever going to get even with you I don't know!" said Villard with much feeling.

"Come off of that, or I'll send you a bill for services the first of the month," shouted Updyke.

"Well, you'd better, or I'll send you something you won't like—an insult of some sort about people who have big hearts and no wits for making money to 'feed the old gray mare' with."

"Don't worry—you're not out of the woods yet—but I won't check in on that until I get through with 'so and so' and a few of his crooked friends. I'm going out to see you to-morrow night and talk things over. I'll say that it's going to be some trick to keep this thing out of the papers," said Updyke, his voice carrying conviction. "It's a thousand dollar scoop if 'so and so' wants the money bad enough. I think he is 'all in' so far as ready cash is concerned. He didn't pull this trick just for the—you know what I mean."

"Yes—go on!"

"No, we will talk it out, with less danger. I'll run down later. I had one terrible time in third-degree stuff and have put him away for the night. Me for the mattress and a pillow, for awhile. Get some sleep, yourself!"

"All right—and God bless you!" replied Drury Villard, as he shut off the light and settled down in bed. But there is no such thing as sleep for a wide-awake man.

A very small incident of the day kept creeping into his thoughts—young Carver! Had not his Winifred kissed her dainty hand as she held it out to him? Was it just a girlish impulse?—or was it the blood of youth responding to the call? Once planted, this tiny seed of uncertainty began to grow. The clock struck one—brooding time, for middle-aged men who roll and toss, and think dark things in the black hours of the night.

"It's only natural that youth responds to youth," said he to himself—"but I too am young in years, although my crowded life has made me old and out of tune with youth itself. I wonder if I have been fair to this child?" he mumbled impatiently. "I wonder, I——"

Then, suddenly, his mind relaxed, and over he went—"to the land of nod and dream."

On the following day Winifred spent the entire morning in her father's room. He was ill at heart and in body. The events of the day before, coupled with those of the ten days preceding had worn him down to a frazzle of his old self. He longed for the peace and quiet of his own home. He missed his old acquaintances with whom he exchanged salutations each day from the standpoint of the weather—"fine day,"—"looks like some sorter change"—"it's about time for the rains to set it," and the like.

The good man was lonesome in the big Villard home, and added to that, a deep cold had settled on his chest and continuous coughing had exhausted his powers of combativeness. But at last he was asleep, coaxed by the soft hands of his daughter who gently smoothed his forehead and face, and combed his hair and scalp, all of which induced new circulation—and finally, a most welcome drowsiness, which terminated in peaceful slumber.

Tired almost to the point of exhaustion, Winifred sought the quiet of her cosy portico, on the second floor, overlooking the west garden, and there in a huge lounging chair sat Drury Villard, his eyes shut tight, and fast asleep.

She gazed upon his kindly face, and then, with the joy of youthful spirits, she put her hands over his eyes. Then in a voice deep as she could command she whispered into his ear.

"Who dares to break the stillness of my solitude when I am sleeping over a dull magazine article about the future prospects of rubber"—and that was as far as she got.

The big man reached out and closed his giant hand over her soft, dainty wrists, and drew her to a place beside him—tired little girl that she was. And there she sat and closed her eyes while he stroked her hair and whispered endearing words into a small pink ear—and told her a tale about "The Old Man of the Sea," who—"whistled up the winds, and called for Davy Crockett, and together watched the fury of the waves."

Indeed, Drury Villard was a gentleman of the old school, and there are many, many verses to that rollicking old song, just right for a tired little "mother girl" who had attended her sick father for many long hours. It was no wonder that her eyelids closed and her body relaxed, when dreamland hove in sight.

And for more than an hour Villard held her thus, while his brain teemed with plans for her happiness. And when she awoke they walked out among the flowered bushes and watched the sun go down.

"Now I must go to my father—I've neglected him too long, and he is so lonely!" said she; "and I am all he has left to comfort him."

Feeling that the end was near for Alexander Barbour, Villard shook his head, as sadly he reckoned upon the grief of the daughter. A matter of days, or a month at most, and his Winifred would become an orphaned child. Once more the thought came into his mind that the sick man would be less distraught if he knew that his daughter had the protection of a husband. He would settle the matter after advising with Updyke, who held opposite views to his own. With that in mind he went to his study and shut himself in.

Just as Villard was about to sit down he heard a gentle knock upon the panel of the door, an unusual occurrence, for the rule laid down by the master was that no one should be announced at this particular room except by phone. Disturbed he jumped to his feet and stalked forward.

"Who's there!" he demanded, his hand gripping the knob.

"Alexander Barbour, sir," came the answer in a weak tone of voice.

"Oh—come right in, Mr. Barbour," said Villard, affably, as he threw the door wide open. "I very seldom hear a knock when I am in this room. All of the folks around the house know that I'm 'out' when I'm in here. But you are welcome."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," replied Winifred's father, who coughed as gently as he could, but his face turned red from the effort. "I didn't know," he said by way of apology.

"Sit down, dear man, and tell me what you have on your mind," encouraged Villard. "You may be sure of my interest."

"Sir, I—I want to go home—to die. My wife might not know where I was if I passed out here! She wouldn't likely think of finding me in this big mansion. I am dying sir—I must go home! It's only——"

"Yes, dear man, it's only a little while before we all must take the same road. It is our fate—we can't dodge the issue. But what of Winifred?... You...."

Villard's voice broke off suddenly when he considered what he was on the point of saying.

"She will want to be near me during the crossover," said Barbour, nodding his head, indicating his certainty of his daughter's devotion.

Villard was upon the verge of humoring Barbour at any cost of time or trouble, when suddenly he thought of Parkins. What if he were to regain his freedom before the death of Barbour! Although now under restraint, the scapegrace had not been legally tried and convicted. The court might easily decide that the case was tantamount to an elopement, and Parkins, if arrested, allowed to give bail.

"I'll tell you what I think is best for the present, Mr. Barbour," said he, smiling into the eyes of the stricken man. "Mr. Updyke is coming out to-night, and of the three of us, he is most capable of judging the proper thing to do. I am sure he will find a way to safely bring about what you have suggested. But neither you nor I know just how. Now, isn't that a better plan?"

Alexander Barbour smiled feebly, but evidently approved of the idea. He had seen Updyke and knew he must be a power in his line of business, whatever that might be.

"You ought to know what is best, sir," replied the sick man. "I am not up in such matters—but I trust you with all my heart. My daughter is one of the sweetest young women in the world, and she must be protected wherever she is," he replied. "Maybe she'd be safer in a little town like Patchogue than among these grand homes on the Parkway."

"But she was more than just stolen when the accident occurred, friend Barbour. You can hardly realize the trap you both were headed for. But, of the two, your daughter would have fared the worst. Even if you had been killed by the man you trusted, you would have been better off than your innocent daughter," concluded Villard.

"Don't say another word, please," begged the father, who could not bear to have the subject referred to. "It isn't that I don't trust you, sir, it's because my child is my life, and I can't spare her—yet. Only a little while will I need her. You can see that for yourself. I am on my way to her mother—I'll soon be with her. Then you may come for Winifred, and she will go with you. She loves you from the depths of her heart!"

Wearied by his effort, Alexander Barbour gave himself over to another spell of coughing, and failing to stop it, retired from the room. He had said his say about Winifred and there was nothing left for Villard to do but accede to his point of view. After all he had awaited so long the advent of the girl of his dreams, that he could afford, for the sake of all concerned, to accede to the father's wishes. But his Winifred should be safeguarded by day and night!

CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD DEGREE

Drury Villard waited impatiently and well into the dark of the night for the arrival of Henry Updyke at Dreamy Hollow. And when he did arrive, he was worn and weary to the point of brain fag. Parkins had been given the "third degree" and was now "a master crook"—according to the man who for two hours had raked him fore and aft with scathing contempt and pitiless ridicule. Hour after hour Updyke had battered at the portal of his victim's brain, until, at last, it creaked—then, opened wide to the flood of light that revealed the manner of man he was. The big fellow was glad, indeed, that Villard had not been present. Soft-hearted men had no place in such proceedings.

Updyke was not the only one to ply the questions. The Updyke "system" was there in force—certain lawyers—trained for the work, who came to browbeat and cajole, to threaten and scorn. To none of these had the case of Winifred Barbour been confided—that was a job which the master mind reserved for itself. Old matters long since condoned were exhumed whereby to wear the culprit down to a full confession of his most recent exploit. When that moment arrived the man was limp, dazed and completely shorn of combativeness.

Then came Updyke himself, and along with him five additional operatives, fierce of eye, solemn, and noiseless, as they arranged their chairs in semicircle formation, the better to confront the would-be kidnapper. Two shorthand men took seats, one on either side of the witness—then the steel door, to the great concrete "sweat room," was closed with a bang—and locked against further admissions. All this had been done within three minutes, and with studied intent, that the witness should not have the advantage of an unnecessary moment of respite.

The Barbour matter was Updyke's own case and he went about it "hammer and tongs." To the stenographers he said—

"Every word must be taken down verbatim—see that your notes compare, rigidly alike, at the close of the confession." Then to Parkins he bawled—

"Sit up like a man and tell the truth! Don't try to lie, for we know every side of the case and you will only serve yourself a bad turn if you try any smart-aleck subterfuge. The more you tell of your deviltry the fewer the witnesses that will be brought in to testify against you. It's up to you, whether or not you gain credence with those who confront you—all sworn officers of the law—who have no prejudices to start with, but will give you all that is coming to you should you lie in an attempt to save yourself. For once in your life it will pay you to be honest! Talk out loud so every one present can hear you plainly, or you will get a bucket of ice water in your face! No foolishness—we will now begin—sit up straight and don't look annoyed. You are the star actor in this drama."

To Martin Leroy, one of the stenographers, a public notary, he winked. Then said—"Swear this man to tell the truth!"—and turning toward the much-perturbed Parkins he shouted—"Stand up and raise your right hand!"

The notary knew full well that such an oath had no legal force—but it was part of the sweating process.

Weak from mental anxiety, Parkins struggled to his feet. When he had repeated the last words of the oath—"so help me God"—he fell back into his chair exhausted. All bravado had left him.

"Sit up straight, and answer the questions that are put to you," commanded Updyke, whose deep voice and ominous frown bore down upon the wilting degenerate until he squirmed in his chair.

"Stop that fidgeting, and make up your mind that the truth will serve, but the lie will condemn!" he shouted.

"Now sir"—began the man whose iron blood coursed through veins of corresponding vigor—"state your full name, your age, place of birth, residence, and avocation."

"I was born in New York City—and, er——"

"Speak up!" shouted the inquisitor. "A brave kidnapper would never cringe like a starving puppy."

"I am thirty-five years old, and I was born——"

"Here in New York—we managed to get that. Go on with the rest," said Updyke, gruffly, well knowing the advantage of getting in a quick first blow.

Then came the answers to the other questions in sequence from the beginning.

"Now tell us the story of your life—the good—and the bad—the indifferent," commanded Updyke. "We know it, pretty well now, but we want it from your own lips, so, by comparison with our records, we will know whether or not you are lying."

Parkins' face turned purple at the thought of his predicament. To be stigmatized as a liar in the presence of men was as a blow in the face.

"It's—it's a long story—not all bad," said he, reminiscently. "There was a time when none could say anything against me. I am a victim of drink and narcotics. If I could go somewhere—find a place in which I could be cured, I would begin over again. Often the feeling comes to me to run away from it all—but where could I go? The stuff is found everywhere! Most men drink, to some extent, but are moderate. To one of my temperament, one drink means a drunk, for I cannot quit until I become a sodden rotter."

"That is a sad state of affairs, Parkins, but interesting—go on with your story," snapped Updyke, his eyes fixed cruelly upon the man in the witness chair.

"There are many things and many angles, to a life such as mine," began Parkins, nervously. "I was orphaned when a small boy, and grew up on the streets of the city. I sold papers, slept in delivery wagons, tended furnaces, did odd jobs—anything to keep going—but they were happy days. After a time I became a messenger boy, in uniform, and to find myself in decent clothing gave me an uplift. But that job was my ruination. It took me into vile places as well as the best of homes, clubs and hotels. A messenger boy goes where he is sent—into a saloon, a house of shady repute, or a home on the avenue."

Here Parkins paused and wiped his face with a silken kerchief. At a glance he could see that his story, thus far, had been listened to attentively.

"But it was not at any of those places that I took my first drink," he continued. "A stag dinner of young college fellows at one of the leading hotels required some one to attend the door. A ring for a messenger took me out on the job. They had expected a man, and here was I, with my brass buttons, red stripes, and cap to match the blue coat and trousers. The party was well under way when I arrived, and when I opened the door and announced who I was, and what I was wanted for, a big howl of laughter took place. 'The Doorman!' shouted one fine big fellow, as he grabbed me and stood me in the center of a very large dining table. At once they proposed a toast to 'The Doorman,' and I was 'it' from then on. They served me a tiny cocktail, which I drank without trouble, although it was my first. One man protested, and was brushed aside. But another fellow handed me a glass half filled with champagne. That appealed to me, and I asked for more, whereupon several guests shook their fists at the man who gave it to me. To stop the fight I shouted in regular newsboy language—'What's de matter wid you'se fella's. I drink dis stuff wid me breakfas' ev'ry day of me life!'—then I began to feel dizzy."

"Very interesting," observed one of the operatives to another in a whisper.

"Then what happened?" grunted Updyke, less gruffly.

"The next thing I knew I woke up in a wonderful room. It was part of a suite in one of the swell hotels of those days—the old Fifth Avenue—and a kindly faced woman arose and came over to me. I was all right—and I told her so. I wondered why she had on nurse's clothing, but later on learned that all hotels had a head nurse. A few hours later a very bright faced, well dressed young man, not over twenty-one, came rushing in. His eyes twinkled, and he patted me on my cheeks—'Never again for you—young fellow!' he said—then—'I nearly got my jaw broke last night at the fraternity smoker. I'm only a freshman, and unfortunately the man who was serving you wine was a senior. Don't you ever let another drink go down your throat as long as you live!' he urged—and I promised."

"Who was that man? Did you learn his name?" asked Updyke.

"Yes—Drury Villard," sighed the witness. "He did not drink, and had his senses about him. If I had stuck to his advice, this situation would never have come about."

A blank expression came over the face of Updyke when the name of Villard was spoken. In a brown study he paced the concrete floor for several moments, then suddenly he turned toward his operatives and dismissed them from the room.

"The inquiry will be private between this man and myself—except the stenographers, who will make of this case a separate verbatim report. They will be kept on file for further reference," growled Updyke, scowling at Parkins.

When the door was shut upon the operatives, Parkins, relieved, again took up the history of his life.

"The upshot of my meeting with Drury——"

"Mister Villard!" corrected Updyke. "You have forfeited, many times over, his respect for you. He is no longer an intimate friend of yours—now proceed."

"Mr. Villard got me a place in an office downtown—an investment company, now merged with another concern. There is where I learned to figure in a financial way. I——"

"Yes—and you stole a ten-dollar bill, and was caught at it!" bellowed Updyke, breaking in on the testimony. "Don't miss anything—I know your record, and it won't hurt you to refresh your memory of your rascality."

Parkins winced, but he had no courage with which to combat his interrogator.

"That one overt act made an honest man of me for several years. When Drury—I mean Mr. Villard—came out of college as a graduate, he returned to New York, bent on going into a business that was entirely new. We met on Broadway one day, and he was very cordial. He asked all about myself and I told him I was still at the old place."

"Didn't tell him about the ten spot, though—did you?" leered Updyke, intentionally. He would leave no loophole for sentimental nonsense by which Parkins might try to crawl back into his good graces.

"No," said the witness, dully. "I had learned a lesson that I thought unforgettable. I had become an honest man, and I would be yet—only for drink," he added, sadly.

"Yes—and for drugs, and bad companions, and the natural-born tendencies of a crook," snarled Updyke.

"Perhaps so," responded Parkins wearily. "As I was going to say, I met Mr. Villard, and after a most friendly conversation he seemed to think I was the right man to help steer the new organization he had in contemplation. His mind was that of a dreamer of great projects, while my own was full of the figures with which to carry out big financial undertakings. I had practical experience against his theoretical college training. We were well met, at the time. He had personality and tremendous energy, to say nothing of wealthy acquaintances—fathers of his college chums. So he——"

"Yes—I follow," said Updyke. "He took you in as an expert in financial figures, and made you treasurer, also gave you his whole hearted support in every way, and finally gave up active work in the business, thus practically turning it over to you to run," sneered Updyke. "But that is all off now. You are done for—where you will land is not yet decided upon. But you may be well assured that you will miss the golden opportunity that was yours only a short while back. You are a failure—a dishonest, worthless drunkard!" concluded the big fellow who now advanced to a position where he could look into Parkins' eyes and fill them with fear.

The witness, already faint from Updyke's relentless tongue lashing, wavered in his chair, though making great effort to steady himself. He craved a stimulant—wine, beer, whisky—anything to quench the parching thirst within him. At this point Updyke handed him a drink of cool water, and he swallowed it down at a gulp. The effect was carefully noted, the demeanor of Parkins almost immediately changing back to normal. He asked for another and that was given to him. Then he sat up, quite refreshed, and indicated that he was ready to proceed.

"Did you ever consider the fact that water is one of nature's greatest stimulants?" queried Updyke.

"I never thought of it as a stimulant, but rather as a necessity," was Parkins' reply.

"Now then, I'll ask you a question that might help you if you ever test its meaning. You have just drank two glasses of cool, fresh water—would you care to take a drink of liquor on top of them? Would your appetite call for whisky, now, if you saw it before you?"

Parkins carefully considered the matter, remaining in deep thought for several moments, as he analyzed his desire for strong drink.

"No, I wouldn't care for any sort of liquor, at the moment," he replied. "I seem to have appeased my thirst for the present."

"Then why not drink your fill of water the next time your stomach craves an intoxicant," suggested Updyke. "Of course your dissipation has undermined your powers of resistance and you might have some trouble at first—but it's worth a try-out. Anyhow you will be afforded the opportunity," suggested the big fellow.

At this point of the inquisition Updyke found himself approaching the main issue—the affair concerning Winifred Barbour. All else had been more or less the paving of the way to that subject, and taking the combativeness out of the witness. Now the time had come when Updyke felt compelled to take the chance. Parkins' testimony was necessary to his plans, and if successfully brought out the case against the man himself was "nailed down and copper riveted," a time-worn expression, that Updyke often used. Before starting on the subject he drew a table between himself and the witness, and placed upon it an automatic revolver. This action very naturally caused Parkins to look up in alarm, and also the stenographers.

"No one need be afraid of that little thirty-eight. It's harmless," said Updyke. "I've carried it for years and have never shot any one with it—yet. But I am always prepared to use it instantly, as I carry it in a hidden holster just under the left side of my coat. Now I am going to leave it there, in plain view on the table, at present, for I am about to question the witness concerning his intentions toward a certain young woman, on a certain day, not long since. The name of the girl is not to be spoken. Parkins will speak of her as 'the girl,' and the stenographers will write it that way. If Parkins, either by accident or design, speaks her name I'll shoot him the moment he utters it! What I am now saying is a personal matter, and must not go into the record. When I hold up my hands the recorders will proceed."

Immediately Updyke raised his hand.

"Now then, Parkins, I want nothing but the truth out of you. Lying will be your undoing, if you expect clemency. You remember the day of the accident?"

"Yes, sir—I do," replied the witness.

"A few days before that you invited the girl, and her father, to take a trip to New York with you in your automobile, did you not?"

"I did, sir. They had never been to New York, and being friends of long standing I invited them to go in my car—and the date was set."

"Why do you sit there and lie in answer to my first question!" yelled Updyke, his face denoting extreme anger.

Parkins grew pale at the sudden fury of his inquisitor.

"I meant to tell you the truth," he replied meekly.

"Parkins, your habit of lying is constitutional. Maybe you don't know how to speak the truth—even under oath. You said the girl and her father were old friends of yours, didn't you?"

"That was a mistake—unintentional," said Parkins, now thoroughly alarmed.

"You had known them for about six weeks," snapped Updyke. "No more lying, or there will be some one hung up by the thumbs so he will remember to tell the truth thereafter. Now then—I'll ask you to tell me how and when you got acquainted with her?"

"I bought some cakes, and pies, at her stand on the motor parkway at Patchogue," said the witness.

"Started in by kidding her, didn't you?"

"Perhaps—I don't quite recall," replied Parkins, mystified as to Updyke's source of information.

"Yes you do recall—and you also remember apologizing to her for calling her 'little sister'—now don't you? Speak up—say yes or no," growled the big fellow, as he stared the witness out of countenance.

"Yes"—replied the witness, his face now almost purple.

"You have a so-called hut on the ocean side—did you ever drive her out that way?"

"Yes—once."

"Showed her all the conveniences, too—didn't you?—the kitchenette and everything?"

"I presume I did—that would have been the natural thing," replied Parkins.

"You really think so—eh? Don't you know that you are lying again? Well, now, you quit that stuff! I wasn't born yesterday," snarled Updyke as his eyes sought those of the man on the witness stand.

"Now I'm going to ask you a question," he continued, "that is going to stagger you!—what were your intentions toward her had you got her safely to New York? Be careful—say nothing but the truth!"

Updyke's steady eyes caused Parkins to shut his own and consider well before answering. How his persecutor could know so much was beyond his power to reckon. But he had to answer. The question was categorical.

"I meant to marry her," he blurted.

"Open your guilty eyes and tell me that again," shouted Updyke, bending over the table where lay the automatic. "It was to be a mock marriage—now wasn't it?—'poor little country maid!' Do you remember your maudlin conversation with yourself in your apartment the morning you were fired out of Dreamy Hollow? Of course you do—and only an act of God saved her from experiencing a try-out of your scheme. You had won her trust, and that of her father, who was to be allowed to 'drift'—wasn't he? Zim's Midnight Inn was a fine place to sup and drink—and tempt! you—scoundrel!—but God saved the girl by upsetting your car—her father is at death's door!"

"Oh, merciful heaven—stop this cruel torment! I am going crazy! I'm——"

But Parkins could go no further. He put his face in his hands and sobbed, while Updyke pulled forth a long black cigar and lighted it. He was "dying" for a smoke, and now was his chance. The stenographers, used as they were to "third degree" work, showed signs of pity for the wretched man on the stand. They watched Updyke, too, and saw him touch a button on the wall near the door. Then they saw him go to a speaking tube and heard him say—"Send him in...."

During the interim Parkins never lifted his head, until he heard the rasping noise of the steel door as it opened and closed. When he raised his eyes to see what was going on, there stood his valet and man of all work, talking with Updyke. They shook hands cordially and stood near the door, talking to each other for several minutes. By that time Parkins, red eyed and sullen, had assumed an air of defiance. His own man had trapped him, and a desire to kill crept into his mind. There lay the automatic—one jump would be sufficient, and it would be "all off" with Updyke! A wonderful chance, and he would take it—but his mind moved slowly. Updyke, standing at the far end of the room, knew his thoughts and laughed at him, mockingly—

"No use, Parkins—it isn't loaded. Here's it's mate," he said, flashing it quickly, "and it's all set for action."

Then, walking toward the table, he picked up the other weapon and emptied it of six cartridges, and put them in his pocket.

"It was loaded, after all," said he. "Very careless of me—eh—Parkins? Allow me to introduce you to one of our most valuable operatives—Mr. Parkins—Mr. Michael Curran. He says you have the best equipped sideboard in the city."

Parkins was dumfounded.

The trusted servant was an Updyke "plant," and his case now seemed hopeless. There was nothing to say, and his eyes sought the floor.

"Look up, and face the music," nagged the relentless Updyke. "A brave fellow like you who connives against young women and sickly fathers surely must be a courageous man! What were your real intentions toward that girl?" yelled the big fellow, pointing his finger at the wilted Parkins.

"I had no real plan," said he finally. "I was sober when I took her into my car, and I meant to keep sober. No man in his right mind would offer insult to an innocent girl."

"Is that so!—then why did you, absolutely sober, and after ten days in bed with a wounded scalp—kidnap her and start for Herman's Roadhouse?" snarled Updyke. "For the sake of counterfeiting respectability the name has been changed to fool decent people. It is called a social club—bah!"

"I—I—ah—or rather I should say—we were eloping—we were going to be married! She and I are engaged, and——"

"Stop right where you are! Now I want you to look me squarely in the eye and tell me that lie over again."

Updyke's lowering face at once took on the look of a demon. His right hand stole slowly under the left side of his coat and his eyes seemed to be turning green.

"It was a lie! Don't shoot me! I'll tell the truth, sir," screamed the witness. "You already know every move, every thought, every act—what's the use? Do what you will but don't ask more questions—I'm done for!" he ended, as he swooned and fell forward, but Updyke caught him in time to save him from injury.

The erstwhile "valet," stepped forward and helped to lift the limp body to the table in front of him, the barrier that had stood between him and his tormentor.

"The jig is up!" said Updyke, grimly, two big tears rolling down his rugged cheeks. "We have it all. His guilt cannot be questioned. And that's the only reason why the so-called third-degree inquisitions are to be tolerated. Slap cold water on his face. He'll come out of it in a minute or so."

Turning to Curran, he whispered—"Stay with him, and when he is fully aroused help him up to my suite upstairs and put a guard in with him. He can't get out, but he needs company," said he significantly. "I'm going out to Dreamy Hollow as soon as I get first copies of the testimony. Order my car around as soon as you can—no hurry—tell Miss Johnson to phone for it to be ready in an hour."

With that the big fellow left the "star chamber" with its windowless walls and concrete floor, a sigh of relief escaping from between his yawning jaws. He was tired, dead tired, and victory won, left no feeling of elation in his breast.

"Justice is hell for some and joy for others," said he to himself as he stole his way through to the private door into his office. Updyke's mind was upon the man that had collapsed under his lash and the cruelty of it had left its imprint upon his own heart.

A few hours later he was welcomed by the master of Dreamy Hollow.

"I've come to stay until the day after to-morrow. I need a day off," said Updyke, as he grasped the welcoming hand of Drury Villard. "I'm all in and I want to go to bed at once."

Villard scrutinized him carefully, and decided that his friend and guest knew what was best for himself.