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 fortuneshould 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 thischamber! 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'syouthat 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 doorwas 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 anhour!" 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 havemade 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 helives 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 geton 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 suiteof 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 caughtsight 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 eyescaught 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.
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 deadmother 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 usthink 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 willput 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 atthe 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 onthe 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 severaltimes 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 andtakes 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 sweetlittle 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 brasstrimmings 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 oftendecides, 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.
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 ofbrains 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 utterancesconcerning 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 hadplunged 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 friendof 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 andfro, 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 activeduty 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 ouroffice. 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. Butthis 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."
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 hecould 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 himhere. 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 girlsat 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 aleisurely 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 gruesomeaspect 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. Heplaced 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 impactafter 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 tomanage 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 operativeas 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 quicklyput 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-bornbabe, 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.