"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 thisunconscious 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 anymoment. 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 ofrecollection 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 ahand 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.
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 thefar-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 bypremeditated 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 tostay 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, hisbig 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 boozebut 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, forParkins 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 beenentirely 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 hissecond 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 pitifulthe 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 upnaturally 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 maudlinway. 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 acripple 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, andwould 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.
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 opposeyour 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 thenewWinifred had released theoldfrom 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 asshesaid, 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 earlierdevotion, 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 thatthere 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 wornit. 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 shelivesin 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 ifyou 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 widein 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.
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 forme 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 goingto 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 youand 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, shakingher 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 gentlemanof 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 littleplace!" 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-morrowmorning 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 therich 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 girlis 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. Thenurse 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 theparticulars 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 newsto 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 inthe 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 soldhimself 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 nextstep?" 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.