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Dreamy Hollow

by Sumner Charles Britton · English · Gutenberg #47010 · 334,077 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dreamy Hollow
        a Long Island romance

Author: Sumner Charles Britton


        
Release date: September 30, 2014 [eBook #47010]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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DREAMY HOLLOW


   TO THE GIRL OF MY DREAMS

   --F. A. B.--


[Illustration: 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







[Illustration: Decoration]

New York
World Syndicate Company, Inc.

Copyright, 1921,
By World Syndicate Company, Inc.

Printed in the U. S. A.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                             PAGE
    I THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY             1

   II WILLIAM PARKINS ARRIVES         19

  III A MESSAGE FROM WINIFRED         40

   IV A SUDDEN DEPARTURE              49

    V THE HAWK SEEKS ITS PREY         61

   VI SECRET SERVICE                  77

  VII THE NEW WINIFRED                96

 VIII HENRY UPDYKE DROPS IN          115

   IX FORCES BEYOND THE SKIES        133

    X THE NURSE TAKES A CHANCE       144

   XI MARY JOHNSON                   166

  XII THE THIRD DEGREE               188

 XIII WINIFRED MEETS UPDYKE          216

  XIV GEORGE CARVER'S BRIDE          242

   XV PARKINS RUNS AMUCK             259

  XVI THE HUT ACROSS THE BAY         279

 XVII THE WOLF HOUND                 288

XVIII FLIGHT OF A SOUL               301




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.

[Illustration: "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
furn

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