"No news" reports coming in from operatives, and new instructions going out from "the old man" himself, was the routine of Updyke's office for the next hour. Mary Johnson, his secretary, of only a few months' experience, came timidly over to his desk and asked if he had looked over the Parkins record during the past month or so.
"I think there were some notations made by Miss Carew just before she left," said she.
"Bring it," snapped Updyke, abstractedly. Then as the girl turned to go he called her back.
"I'm sorry to have been cross with you, little woman, but you'll forgive me I know. This is a bad case, and every moment is precious. Hurry back with the report," said he, smiling into her alert blue eyes.
On her return he seized the record eagerly, and the girl bent over his shoulder and pointed out three memorandums, which he carefully read.
The addendum was in the handwriting of Miss Carew, and read as follows:
6-12-1919—has built shack on the ocean side of South Bay, opposite Smith Point. Two rooms, stove, kitchenette—goes there during summer months—at week-ends—place is made comfortable for duck shooting in late fall. Double bed—5-15-1920—Joined the Indian Head Social Club, near Jamesport, East of Riverhead. Membership composed almost entirely of divorcees, both men and women. Single men and pretty women, eligible. Golf club—card games—liquor lockers—thirty suites—baths—swimming pool—indoor athletics—free and easy—no questions asked—no interference. Open all year—once known as The Mad House, then Herman's Road House. Herman still owns it, but has modernized the place and bids for better clients under the guise of a social country club.
6-12-1919—has built shack on the ocean side of South Bay, opposite Smith Point. Two rooms, stove, kitchenette—goes there during summer months—at week-ends—place is made comfortable for duck shooting in late fall. Double bed—5-15-1920—Joined the Indian Head Social Club, near Jamesport, East of Riverhead. Membership composed almost entirely of divorcees, both men and women. Single men and pretty women, eligible. Golf club—card games—liquor lockers—thirty suites—baths—swimming pool—indoor athletics—free and easy—no questions asked—no interference. Open all year—once known as The Mad House, then Herman's Road House. Herman still owns it, but has modernized the place and bids for better clients under the guise of a social country club.
"Get Riverhead, and ask for George Carver, head clerk at the White House," said Updyke to the girl beside him. "Glad to note that some one is on the job around here," he added gruffly.
In less than three minutes the connection was made, but even to the man at the helm, minutes seemed hours—such was his mental strain.
"Hello, George—this is Updyke—Yes—fine, thank you—do you know William Parkins?—only by sight—eh?—he belongs to Indian Head Social Club—find out if he is over there—call me back quickly—thanks—hurry boy!"
The next five minutes dragged along at a snail's pace, so overwrought was Updyke—and no less the efficient Mary Johnson. But the right tingle came along in due course of time.
"This you, Henry—all right—he telephoned from Yaphank for a parlor and bath suite—expected very soon—can I help you in any way?"
"You are still a deputy sheriff?" queried Updyke.
"Yes—they wouldn't take my resignation."
"Listen carefully, George—this is a serious matter. This man Parkins has kidnapped a beautiful, chaste girl, and is taking her to Indian Head, if I am not in error. You have a motorcycle?"
"Oh, yes—can't get along without one over here," replied Carver.
"Then hop it instantly, and ride for your life to that club. If Parkins hasn't arrived—thank God!—you stop him before he gets there, and save a great scandal that would ruin the girl.She is as pure as snow, and is betrothed to the best friend I have on earth. Help me out, boy! Get that man Parkins—serve a 'John Doe' warrant on him and take him to the home of Drury Villard at Dreamy Hollow. It's a big black limousine, two men in front, and Parkins, with a woman accomplice, inside. The chauffeur is McGonigle's man, but the other fellow is my man. He may need help—he might be killed—but you save the day from scandal."
"I'll do my best, old-timer. What you have told me makes me see red. I may shoot the skunk," said he in a rasping voice. "If it was a Riverhead case, we'd tar and feather him."
"Go like the wind, George—and don't fail," replied Updyke, a husky tone in his deep voice.
When George Carver swung into the Jamesport road a cloud of dust trailed behind him until he stopped in front of the clubhouse. Parkins had not arrived, so everything was safe thus far. Turning back along the road he traveled leisurely and muffled the "cut-out."
Updyke had figured matters out almost to a nicety. Two miles west of Jamesport a limousine hove in view.
The car was coming fast, head-on for passage against all-comers. But Carver was an old hand at stopping speeders.
He jumped from his machine and laid it crosswise of the narrow road. Then with his feet on the wheel and his revolver pointed straight at the oncoming chauffeur, he shouted:
"Halt! or I'll kill you!"—and at once the emergency was applied to the brakes of the big machine, causing thereby a most gruesome noise.
HALT OR I'LL KILL YOU
"HALT! OR I'LL KILL YOU!"
"Hands up, chauffeur! Step off of your car—lie down on the roadside—belly to the ground!"
To the Updyke man he said—"If he makes a move kill him!"
Parkins, not yet discovered by either officer, had dropped to the floor and pulled a dust robe over his body. Carver tried to open the door, but it was locked from inside. The door on the other side was also bolted from within.
"All right, Parkins, you are going to have the merriest little test put up to you that a rascal of your stamp could conceive of in a life time!" shouted Carver. "At this moment you and your accomplice are shielding yourselves at the expense of a frail girl. She need have no fear—you infernal coward! But unless you and that woman come out instantly, I'll break in the doors and hang both of you up by the thumbs. I am counting ten—one—two—three—four—five—get ready, 'Updyke man'—six——"
The door opened, and Mrs. Duke screamed as she saw Carver's badge.
Parkins came out first, with palms turned outward and was made to lay face-down, his arms stretched above his head. Then came the woman, to find, at the point of a revolver, that she had forfeited the chivalry of honest men.
"Now you, Updyke man, slip a pair of bracelets on both the man and the woman, while I do the same with the driver. Now, little lady," he added, addressing Winifred, "could you ride behind me on my motorcycle to Riverhead?"
Carver stood with hat in hand, smiling into her pallid face.
"Oh, I am sure I could," she whispered, frightened to the point of nervous breakdown.
"Then walk back along the road a little way while I prepare these kidnappers for a safe journey," said he, sneering down upon the prisoners."I wouldn't want you to see what I may have to do to them."
At the suggestion of the Updyke man each prisoner was handcuffed with arms behind, instead of in front, as was the usual practice in extreme cases.
"That's the safest way," said the operative, "and now we'll tie their feet to the foot rest—Parkins in front, by himself, and the woman and the chauffeur on the rear seat. I'll drive the car back to New York. Updyke will be waiting for them, all right enough!"
When the job was completed, the curtains were drawn and the doors locked from outside. Then the Updyke operative mounted the chauffeur's seat and headed the car toward the west.
Carver now helped the girl to mount his wheel, and then jumped into the saddle in front of her.
"Hold on to me tight—we're going to speed some!" said he, gaily, then he shot in the gas, and they were off for Riverhead, the limousine trailing in the dust close behind.
For a time the male prisoners eyed each other in sheepish fashion, but Mrs. Duke cried bitterly as the car skipped along. With her arms behindher she had no means of wiping the tear-drops that plowed ridges through the dust on her face.
"I don't see how I ever got into this dreadful affair!" she moaned.
"Shut up!" shouted Parkins sharply. "They can't do anything with us. That would ruin the girl's reputation."
"But that man Updyke!—how did you ever conceive the idea that you could frustrate that brute's plans?"
"What do you know about him?" snapped Parkins.
"I've seen him, and that's enough! Oh, such a face!—such strength of purpose!—such——"
"Cut it out I tell you—or you will lose your chance, as a woman, to say that you had no thought of breaking the law. The girl and I were eloping and you were along as a friend. Do you get that?"
"You are so wonderful, Mr. Parkins—indeed you are," sighed Mrs. Duke, as her tears slackened. "I knew it the moment I saw you, all bruised and torn. Certainly she was eloping with you, and now I remember how sweetly she talked about you as we walked along the beach.You had always been so kind to her father, and all that."
"See that you don't forget it," replied Parkins, already planning his way to freedom. "And also remember this—that when she was seized by these men, and we were arrested like kidnappers, I was taking her to one of the swellest country clubs in the land. We were to be married there, and you were to be the witness—see?"
Parkins' eyes flashed, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he thought of the revenge he would take upon Villard and the girl, if called to the witness stand. How the reporters would enjoy it! And how Villard's face would burn with shame as lawyers for the defense drove home his crazy notions about spiritual communications!
The thought almost made him happy.
At Riverhead telephoning was in order. The car containing the prisoners was, by Updyke's order, to be driven through to New York and the culprits brought to his office. The girl, Winifred, would await the arrival of Villard's car at Yaphank, Carver gladly agreeing to convey her that far, changing to his runabout at Riverhead—thus adding to her comfort until she would meet up with her friends.
Sawyer was so overcome with joy at "the news from the front," as he called it, that he insisted on being taken along with Villard. So, with Santzi as a mascot, and Jacques at the wheel, they were soon on their way. But aside from the joy in each breast, there was a grim thought in each mind—and small charity for Parkins and the nurse he had used as a foil.
Then, too, the shock of Winifred's strange disappearance had so upset the nerves of Alexander Barbour that he now hovered near "The Great Crossing." But the ever kindly Mrs. Bond had his case in hand, and the doctor had been called, although he had not arrived when Villard's party left for Yaphank.
"If Winifred will agree, we will be married to-night," said Villard, in an undertone, to Sawyer.
The latter did not reply, although he remained in deep thought for almost a mile, as shown by the speedometer.
"No, my friend," said he, finally, and with an effort to tell the truth without offending—"heryouthful dreams must not be wiped out in any such rough-shod manner. I know the big heartedness of your intentions, but Winifred is a girl and she must have the say. There are her old-time friends at Patchogue. Those she cares for should by all means be invited. She must have a fling of some pretensions or she will brood in silence at your lack of sympathy."
"Alas, you are right—as usual," sighed Villard. "However, my pessimism is newly born from the fruits of this evil day."
"There you go again—evil day! Why, it's the greatest day of your life! The girl over there among the stars has again reached out in your behalf, and this time the proof is positive of her watchfulness over you."
"Forgive me, Sawyer," said Villard simply, patting his friend on the knee. "My little girl shall take her own time and have a wedding after her own heart. Then Dreamy Hollow will wake up and amount to something!"
It was a wide-eyed and dusty little heroine that George Carver handed over at Yaphank. Santzi jumped out of the roadster and fairlylifted her into the place between the two men on the back seat, who stood up to greet her.
At once she snuggled closely to Villard, and shivered, until finally he put his big arm about her and soothed her with gentle words of sympathy. Sawyer looked away from it all, his eyes moist at the girl's sweet simplicity, but Villard motioned Carver to his side of the car and leaned over and whispered—then put a card in his hand.
"Well, I may call in on you at your home some day, but I seldom go to New York. I've seen a little of Dreamy Hollow while riding by at times. The young lady sitting beside you has a strong heart and she knows how to keep up her nerve," said he, laughing up at her pale smiling face. "Most women would have had a sure enough fit, if placed in the same situation."
Then, doffing his cap, he said—
"Good-by, all," and offered his hand to the girl.
Kissing the tips of her dainty fingers Winifred held them out to him, and said—
"Good-by, sir. I shall never forget your kindness, and your bravery—nor will any of us," sheadded, glancing from Carver to Villard, and back to Carver again.
And then, with a little sigh, she fell back between Villard and Sawyer and closed her eyes. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep. The adventure had taxed her beyond her strength.
That night Villard shivered in his sleep, but not from cold. There was a certain dread of misfortune—he knew not what—that filled his mind. Publicity, from a gossip standpoint, was his pet aversion. The thought of its blight upon his name, and the haunting fear of being pointed out as the man whose sweetheart had been kidnapped by one of his partners, simply brought out a cold sweat over his body. At midnight he could stand it no longer, whereupon he turned on his reading lamp and reached for the bedside telephone—then called up the hotel where Updyke lived, and was connected with his room.
The big fellow was just retiring when he answered the call.
"I expected to hear from you earlier in the evening," said he by way of greeting. "Hot old day, eh?"
"A great day, as it turned out to be—andhow I am ever going to get even with you I don't know!" said Villard with much feeling.
"Come off of that, or I'll send you a bill for services the first of the month," shouted Updyke.
"Well, you'd better, or I'll send you something you won't like—an insult of some sort about people who have big hearts and no wits for making money to 'feed the old gray mare' with."
"Don't worry—you're not out of the woods yet—but I won't check in on that until I get through with 'so and so' and a few of his crooked friends. I'm going out to see you to-morrow night and talk things over. I'll say that it's going to be some trick to keep this thing out of the papers," said Updyke, his voice carrying conviction. "It's a thousand dollar scoop if 'so and so' wants the money bad enough. I think he is 'all in' so far as ready cash is concerned. He didn't pull this trick just for the—you know what I mean."
"Yes—go on!"
"No, we will talk it out, with less danger. I'll run down later. I had one terrible time in third-degree stuff and have put him away for the night.Me for the mattress and a pillow, for awhile. Get some sleep, yourself!"
"All right—and God bless you!" replied Drury Villard, as he shut off the light and settled down in bed. But there is no such thing as sleep for a wide-awake man.
A very small incident of the day kept creeping into his thoughts—young Carver! Had not his Winifred kissed her dainty hand as she held it out to him? Was it just a girlish impulse?—or was it the blood of youth responding to the call? Once planted, this tiny seed of uncertainty began to grow. The clock struck one—brooding time, for middle-aged men who roll and toss, and think dark things in the black hours of the night.
"It's only natural that youth responds to youth," said he to himself—"but I too am young in years, although my crowded life has made me old and out of tune with youth itself. I wonder if I have been fair to this child?" he mumbled impatiently. "I wonder, I——"
Then, suddenly, his mind relaxed, and over he went—"to the land of nod and dream."
On the following day Winifred spent the entiremorning in her father's room. He was ill at heart and in body. The events of the day before, coupled with those of the ten days preceding had worn him down to a frazzle of his old self. He longed for the peace and quiet of his own home. He missed his old acquaintances with whom he exchanged salutations each day from the standpoint of the weather—"fine day,"—"looks like some sorter change"—"it's about time for the rains to set it," and the like.
The good man was lonesome in the big Villard home, and added to that, a deep cold had settled on his chest and continuous coughing had exhausted his powers of combativeness. But at last he was asleep, coaxed by the soft hands of his daughter who gently smoothed his forehead and face, and combed his hair and scalp, all of which induced new circulation—and finally, a most welcome drowsiness, which terminated in peaceful slumber.
Tired almost to the point of exhaustion, Winifred sought the quiet of her cosy portico, on the second floor, overlooking the west garden, and there in a huge lounging chair sat Drury Villard, his eyes shut tight, and fast asleep.
She gazed upon his kindly face, and then, with the joy of youthful spirits, she put her hands over his eyes. Then in a voice deep as she could command she whispered into his ear.
"Who dares to break the stillness of my solitude when I am sleeping over a dull magazine article about the future prospects of rubber"—and that was as far as she got.
The big man reached out and closed his giant hand over her soft, dainty wrists, and drew her to a place beside him—tired little girl that she was. And there she sat and closed her eyes while he stroked her hair and whispered endearing words into a small pink ear—and told her a tale about "The Old Man of the Sea," who—"whistled up the winds, and called for Davy Crockett, and together watched the fury of the waves."
Indeed, Drury Villard was a gentleman of the old school, and there are many, many verses to that rollicking old song, just right for a tired little "mother girl" who had attended her sick father for many long hours. It was no wonder that her eyelids closed and her body relaxed, when dreamland hove in sight.
And for more than an hour Villard held herthus, while his brain teemed with plans for her happiness. And when she awoke they walked out among the flowered bushes and watched the sun go down.
"Now I must go to my father—I've neglected him too long, and he is so lonely!" said she; "and I am all he has left to comfort him."
Feeling that the end was near for Alexander Barbour, Villard shook his head, as sadly he reckoned upon the grief of the daughter. A matter of days, or a month at most, and his Winifred would become an orphaned child. Once more the thought came into his mind that the sick man would be less distraught if he knew that his daughter had the protection of a husband. He would settle the matter after advising with Updyke, who held opposite views to his own. With that in mind he went to his study and shut himself in.
Just as Villard was about to sit down he heard a gentle knock upon the panel of the door, an unusual occurrence, for the rule laid down by the master was that no one should be announced at this particular room except by phone.Disturbed he jumped to his feet and stalked forward.
"Who's there!" he demanded, his hand gripping the knob.
"Alexander Barbour, sir," came the answer in a weak tone of voice.
"Oh—come right in, Mr. Barbour," said Villard, affably, as he threw the door wide open. "I very seldom hear a knock when I am in this room. All of the folks around the house know that I'm 'out' when I'm in here. But you are welcome."
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," replied Winifred's father, who coughed as gently as he could, but his face turned red from the effort. "I didn't know," he said by way of apology.
"Sit down, dear man, and tell me what you have on your mind," encouraged Villard. "You may be sure of my interest."
"Sir, I—I want to go home—to die. My wife might not know where I was if I passed out here! She wouldn't likely think of finding me in this big mansion. I am dying sir—I must go home! It's only——"
"Yes, dear man, it's only a little while beforewe all must take the same road. It is our fate—we can't dodge the issue. But what of Winifred?... You...."
Villard's voice broke off suddenly when he considered what he was on the point of saying.
"She will want to be near me during the crossover," said Barbour, nodding his head, indicating his certainty of his daughter's devotion.
Villard was upon the verge of humoring Barbour at any cost of time or trouble, when suddenly he thought of Parkins. What if he were to regain his freedom before the death of Barbour! Although now under restraint, the scapegrace had not been legally tried and convicted. The court might easily decide that the case was tantamount to an elopement, and Parkins, if arrested, allowed to give bail.
"I'll tell you what I think is best for the present, Mr. Barbour," said he, smiling into the eyes of the stricken man. "Mr. Updyke is coming out to-night, and of the three of us, he is most capable of judging the proper thing to do. I am sure he will find a way to safely bring about what you have suggested. But neither you nor I know just how. Now, isn't that a better plan?"
Alexander Barbour smiled feebly, but evidently approved of the idea. He had seen Updyke and knew he must be a power in his line of business, whatever that might be.
"You ought to know what is best, sir," replied the sick man. "I am not up in such matters—but I trust you with all my heart. My daughter is one of the sweetest young women in the world, and she must be protected wherever she is," he replied. "Maybe she'd be safer in a little town like Patchogue than among these grand homes on the Parkway."
"But she was more than just stolen when the accident occurred, friend Barbour. You can hardly realize the trap you both were headed for. But, of the two, your daughter would have fared the worst. Even if you had been killed by the man you trusted, you would have been better off than your innocent daughter," concluded Villard.
"Don't say another word, please," begged the father, who could not bear to have the subject referred to. "It isn't that I don't trust you, sir, it's because my child is my life, and I can't spare her—yet. Only a little while will I need her.You can see that for yourself. I am on my way to her mother—I'll soon be with her. Then you may come for Winifred, and she will go with you. She loves you from the depths of her heart!"
Wearied by his effort, Alexander Barbour gave himself over to another spell of coughing, and failing to stop it, retired from the room. He had said his say about Winifred and there was nothing left for Villard to do but accede to his point of view. After all he had awaited so long the advent of the girl of his dreams, that he could afford, for the sake of all concerned, to accede to the father's wishes. But his Winifred should be safeguarded by day and night!
Drury Villard waited impatiently and well into the dark of the night for the arrival of Henry Updyke at Dreamy Hollow. And when he did arrive, he was worn and weary to the point of brain fag. Parkins had been given the "third degree" and was now "a master crook"—according to the man who for two hours had raked him fore and aft with scathing contempt and pitiless ridicule. Hour after hour Updyke had battered at the portal of his victim's brain, until, at last, it creaked—then, opened wide to the flood of light that revealed the manner of man he was. The big fellow was glad, indeed, that Villard had not been present. Soft-hearted men had no place in such proceedings.
Updyke was not the only one to ply the questions. The Updyke "system" was there in force—certain lawyers—trained for the work, who came to browbeat and cajole, to threaten andscorn. To none of these had the case of Winifred Barbour been confided—that was a job which the master mind reserved for itself. Old matters long since condoned were exhumed whereby to wear the culprit down to a full confession of his most recent exploit. When that moment arrived the man was limp, dazed and completely shorn of combativeness.
Then came Updyke himself, and along with him five additional operatives, fierce of eye, solemn, and noiseless, as they arranged their chairs in semicircle formation, the better to confront the would-be kidnapper. Two shorthand men took seats, one on either side of the witness—then the steel door, to the great concrete "sweat room," was closed with a bang—and locked against further admissions. All this had been done within three minutes, and with studied intent, that the witness should not have the advantage of an unnecessary moment of respite.
The Barbour matter was Updyke's own case and he went about it "hammer and tongs." To the stenographers he said—
"Every word must be taken down verbatim—see that your notes compare, rigidly alike, at theclose of the confession." Then to Parkins he bawled—
"Sit up like a man and tell the truth! Don't try to lie, for we know every side of the case and you will only serve yourself a bad turn if you try any smart-aleck subterfuge. The more you tell of your deviltry the fewer the witnesses that will be brought in to testify against you. It's up to you, whether or not you gain credence with those who confront you—all sworn officers of the law—who have no prejudices to start with, but will give you all that is coming to you should you lie in an attempt to save yourself. For once in your life it will pay you to be honest! Talk out loud so every one present can hear you plainly, or you will get a bucket of ice water in your face! No foolishness—we will now begin—sit up straight and don't look annoyed. You are the star actor in this drama."
To Martin Leroy, one of the stenographers, a public notary, he winked. Then said—"Swear this man to tell the truth!"—and turning toward the much-perturbed Parkins he shouted—"Stand up and raise your right hand!"
The notary knew full well that such an oathhad no legal force—but it was part of the sweating process.
Weak from mental anxiety, Parkins struggled to his feet. When he had repeated the last words of the oath—"so help me God"—he fell back into his chair exhausted. All bravado had left him.
"Sit up straight, and answer the questions that are put to you," commanded Updyke, whose deep voice and ominous frown bore down upon the wilting degenerate until he squirmed in his chair.
"Stop that fidgeting, and make up your mind that the truth will serve, but the lie will condemn!" he shouted.
"Now sir"—began the man whose iron blood coursed through veins of corresponding vigor—"state your full name, your age, place of birth, residence, and avocation."
"I was born in New York City—and, er——"
"Speak up!" shouted the inquisitor. "A brave kidnapper would never cringe like a starving puppy."
"I am thirty-five years old, and I was born——"
"Here in New York—we managed to get that.Go on with the rest," said Updyke, gruffly, well knowing the advantage of getting in a quick first blow.
Then came the answers to the other questions in sequence from the beginning.
"Now tell us the story of your life—the good—and the bad—the indifferent," commanded Updyke. "We know it, pretty well now, but we want it from your own lips, so, by comparison with our records, we will know whether or not you are lying."
Parkins' face turned purple at the thought of his predicament. To be stigmatized as a liar in the presence of men was as a blow in the face.
"It's—it's a long story—not all bad," said he, reminiscently. "There was a time when none could say anything against me. I am a victim of drink and narcotics. If I could go somewhere—find a place in which I could be cured, I would begin over again. Often the feeling comes to me to run away from it all—but where could I go? The stuff is found everywhere! Most men drink, to some extent, but are moderate. To one of my temperament, one drink means a drunk, for I cannot quit until I become a sodden rotter."
"That is a sad state of affairs, Parkins, but interesting—go on with your story," snapped Updyke, his eyes fixed cruelly upon the man in the witness chair.
"There are many things and many angles, to a life such as mine," began Parkins, nervously. "I was orphaned when a small boy, and grew up on the streets of the city. I sold papers, slept in delivery wagons, tended furnaces, did odd jobs—anything to keep going—but they were happy days. After a time I became a messenger boy, in uniform, and to find myself in decent clothing gave me an uplift. But that job was my ruination. It took me into vile places as well as the best of homes, clubs and hotels. A messenger boy goes where he is sent—into a saloon, a house of shady repute, or a home on the avenue."
Here Parkins paused and wiped his face with a silken kerchief. At a glance he could see that his story, thus far, had been listened to attentively.
"But it was not at any of those places that I took my first drink," he continued. "A stag dinner of young college fellows at one of the leading hotels required some one to attend the door. Aring for a messenger took me out on the job. They had expected a man, and here was I, with my brass buttons, red stripes, and cap to match the blue coat and trousers. The party was well under way when I arrived, and when I opened the door and announced who I was, and what I was wanted for, a big howl of laughter took place. 'The Doorman!' shouted one fine big fellow, as he grabbed me and stood me in the center of a very large dining table. At once they proposed a toast to 'The Doorman,' and I was 'it' from then on. They served me a tiny cocktail, which I drank without trouble, although it was my first. One man protested, and was brushed aside. But another fellow handed me a glass half filled with champagne. That appealed to me, and I asked for more, whereupon several guests shook their fists at the man who gave it to me. To stop the fight I shouted in regular newsboy language—'What's de matter wid you'se fella's. I drink dis stuff wid me breakfas' ev'ry day of me life!'—then I began to feel dizzy."
"Very interesting," observed one of the operatives to another in a whisper.
"Then what happened?" grunted Updyke, less gruffly.
"The next thing I knew I woke up in a wonderful room. It was part of a suite in one of the swell hotels of those days—the old Fifth Avenue—and a kindly faced woman arose and came over to me. I was all right—and I told her so. I wondered why she had on nurse's clothing, but later on learned that all hotels had a head nurse. A few hours later a very bright faced, well dressed young man, not over twenty-one, came rushing in. His eyes twinkled, and he patted me on my cheeks—'Never again for you—young fellow!' he said—then—'I nearly got my jaw broke last night at the fraternity smoker. I'm only a freshman, and unfortunately the man who was serving you wine was a senior. Don't you ever let another drink go down your throat as long as you live!' he urged—and I promised."
"Who was that man? Did you learn his name?" asked Updyke.
"Yes—Drury Villard," sighed the witness. "He did not drink, and had his senses about him. If I had stuck to his advice, this situation would never have come about."
A blank expression came over the face of Updyke when the name of Villard was spoken. In a brown study he paced the concrete floor for several moments, then suddenly he turned toward his operatives and dismissed them from the room.
"The inquiry will be private between this man and myself—except the stenographers, who will make of this case a separate verbatim report. They will be kept on file for further reference," growled Updyke, scowling at Parkins.
When the door was shut upon the operatives, Parkins, relieved, again took up the history of his life.
"The upshot of my meeting with Drury——"
"Mister Villard!" corrected Updyke. "You have forfeited, many times over, his respect for you. He is no longer an intimate friend of yours—now proceed."
"Mr. Villard got me a place in an office downtown—an investment company, now merged with another concern. There is where I learned to figure in a financial way. I——"
"Yes—and you stole a ten-dollar bill, and was caught at it!" bellowed Updyke, breaking in on the testimony. "Don't miss anything—I knowyour record, and it won't hurt you to refresh your memory of your rascality."
Parkins winced, but he had no courage with which to combat his interrogator.
"That one overt act made an honest man of me for several years. When Drury—I mean Mr. Villard—came out of college as a graduate, he returned to New York, bent on going into a business that was entirely new. We met on Broadway one day, and he was very cordial. He asked all about myself and I told him I was still at the old place."
"Didn't tell him about the ten spot, though—did you?" leered Updyke, intentionally. He would leave no loophole for sentimental nonsense by which Parkins might try to crawl back into his good graces.
"No," said the witness, dully. "I had learned a lesson that I thought unforgettable. I had become an honest man, and I would be yet—only for drink," he added, sadly.
"Yes—and for drugs, and bad companions, and the natural-born tendencies of a crook," snarled Updyke.
"Perhaps so," responded Parkins wearily."As I was going to say, I met Mr. Villard, and after a most friendly conversation he seemed to think I was the right man to help steer the new organization he had in contemplation. His mind was that of a dreamer of great projects, while my own was full of the figures with which to carry out big financial undertakings. I had practical experience against his theoretical college training. We were well met, at the time. He had personality and tremendous energy, to say nothing of wealthy acquaintances—fathers of his college chums. So he——"
"Yes—I follow," said Updyke. "He took you in as an expert in financial figures, and made you treasurer, also gave you his whole hearted support in every way, and finally gave up active work in the business, thus practically turning it over to you to run," sneered Updyke. "But that is all off now. You are done for—where you will land is not yet decided upon. But you may be well assured that you will miss the golden opportunity that was yours only a short while back. You are a failure—a dishonest, worthless drunkard!" concluded the big fellow who now advanced to aposition where he could look into Parkins' eyes and fill them with fear.
The witness, already faint from Updyke's relentless tongue lashing, wavered in his chair, though making great effort to steady himself. He craved a stimulant—wine, beer, whisky—anything to quench the parching thirst within him. At this point Updyke handed him a drink of cool water, and he swallowed it down at a gulp. The effect was carefully noted, the demeanor of Parkins almost immediately changing back to normal. He asked for another and that was given to him. Then he sat up, quite refreshed, and indicated that he was ready to proceed.
"Did you ever consider the fact that water is one of nature's greatest stimulants?" queried Updyke.
"I never thought of it as a stimulant, but rather as a necessity," was Parkins' reply.
"Now then, I'll ask you a question that might help you if you ever test its meaning. You have just drank two glasses of cool, fresh water—would you care to take a drink of liquor on top of them? Would your appetite call for whisky, now, if you saw it before you?"
Parkins carefully considered the matter, remaining in deep thought for several moments, as he analyzed his desire for strong drink.
"No, I wouldn't care for any sort of liquor, at the moment," he replied. "I seem to have appeased my thirst for the present."
"Then why not drink your fill of water the next time your stomach craves an intoxicant," suggested Updyke. "Of course your dissipation has undermined your powers of resistance and you might have some trouble at first—but it's worth a try-out. Anyhow you will be afforded the opportunity," suggested the big fellow.
At this point of the inquisition Updyke found himself approaching the main issue—the affair concerning Winifred Barbour. All else had been more or less the paving of the way to that subject, and taking the combativeness out of the witness. Now the time had come when Updyke felt compelled to take the chance. Parkins' testimony was necessary to his plans, and if successfully brought out the case against the man himself was "nailed down and copper riveted," a time-worn expression, that Updyke often used. Before starting on the subject he drew a tablebetween himself and the witness, and placed upon it an automatic revolver. This action very naturally caused Parkins to look up in alarm, and also the stenographers.
"No one need be afraid of that little thirty-eight. It's harmless," said Updyke. "I've carried it for years and have never shot any one with it—yet. But I am always prepared to use it instantly, as I carry it in a hidden holster just under the left side of my coat. Now I am going to leave it there, in plain view on the table, at present, for I am about to question the witness concerning his intentions toward a certain young woman, on a certain day, not long since. The name of the girl is not to be spoken. Parkins will speak of her as 'the girl,' and the stenographers will write it that way. If Parkins, either by accident or design, speaks her name I'll shoot him the moment he utters it! What I am now saying is a personal matter, and must not go into the record. When I hold up my hands the recorders will proceed."
Immediately Updyke raised his hand.
"Now then, Parkins, I want nothing but the truth out of you. Lying will be your undoing,if you expect clemency. You remember the day of the accident?"
"Yes, sir—I do," replied the witness.
"A few days before that you invited the girl, and her father, to take a trip to New York with you in your automobile, did you not?"
"I did, sir. They had never been to New York, and being friends of long standing I invited them to go in my car—and the date was set."
"Why do you sit there and lie in answer to my first question!" yelled Updyke, his face denoting extreme anger.
Parkins grew pale at the sudden fury of his inquisitor.
"I meant to tell you the truth," he replied meekly.
"Parkins, your habit of lying is constitutional. Maybe you don't know how to speak the truth—even under oath. You said the girl and her father were old friends of yours, didn't you?"
"That was a mistake—unintentional," said Parkins, now thoroughly alarmed.
"You had known them for about six weeks," snapped Updyke. "No more lying, or there will be some one hung up by the thumbs so he willremember to tell the truth thereafter. Now then—I'll ask you to tell me how and when you got acquainted with her?"
"I bought some cakes, and pies, at her stand on the motor parkway at Patchogue," said the witness.
"Started in by kidding her, didn't you?"
"Perhaps—I don't quite recall," replied Parkins, mystified as to Updyke's source of information.
"Yes you do recall—and you also remember apologizing to her for calling her 'little sister'—now don't you? Speak up—say yes or no," growled the big fellow, as he stared the witness out of countenance.
"Yes"—replied the witness, his face now almost purple.
"You have a so-called hut on the ocean side—did you ever drive her out that way?"
"Yes—once."
"Showed her all the conveniences, too—didn't you?—the kitchenette and everything?"
"I presume I did—that would have been the natural thing," replied Parkins.
"You really think so—eh? Don't you knowthat you are lying again? Well, now, you quit that stuff! I wasn't born yesterday," snarled Updyke as his eyes sought those of the man on the witness stand.
"Now I'm going to ask you a question," he continued, "that is going to stagger you!—what were your intentions toward her had you got her safely to New York? Be careful—say nothing but the truth!"
Updyke's steady eyes caused Parkins to shut his own and consider well before answering. How his persecutor could know so much was beyond his power to reckon. But he had to answer. The question was categorical.
"I meant to marry her," he blurted.
"Open your guilty eyes and tell me that again," shouted Updyke, bending over the table where lay the automatic. "It was to be a mock marriage—now wasn't it?—'poor little country maid!' Do you remember your maudlin conversation with yourself in your apartment the morning you were fired out of Dreamy Hollow? Of course you do—and only an act of God saved her from experiencing a try-out of your scheme. You had won her trust, and that of her father, whowas to be allowed to 'drift'—wasn't he? Zim's Midnight Inn was a fine place to sup and drink—and tempt! you—scoundrel!—but God saved the girl by upsetting your car—her father is at death's door!"
"Oh, merciful heaven—stop this cruel torment! I am going crazy! I'm——"
But Parkins could go no further. He put his face in his hands and sobbed, while Updyke pulled forth a long black cigar and lighted it. He was "dying" for a smoke, and now was his chance. The stenographers, used as they were to "third degree" work, showed signs of pity for the wretched man on the stand. They watched Updyke, too, and saw him touch a button on the wall near the door. Then they saw him go to a speaking tube and heard him say—"Send him in...."
During the interim Parkins never lifted his head, until he heard the rasping noise of the steel door as it opened and closed. When he raised his eyes to see what was going on, there stood his valet and man of all work, talking with Updyke. They shook hands cordially and stood near the door, talking to each other for severalminutes. By that time Parkins, red eyed and sullen, had assumed an air of defiance. His own man had trapped him, and a desire to kill crept into his mind. There lay the automatic—one jump would be sufficient, and it would be "all off" with Updyke! A wonderful chance, and he would take it—but his mind moved slowly. Updyke, standing at the far end of the room, knew his thoughts and laughed at him, mockingly—
"No use, Parkins—it isn't loaded. Here's it's mate," he said, flashing it quickly, "and it's all set for action."
Then, walking toward the table, he picked up the other weapon and emptied it of six cartridges, and put them in his pocket.
"It was loaded, after all," said he. "Very careless of me—eh—Parkins? Allow me to introduce you to one of our most valuable operatives—Mr. Parkins—Mr. Michael Curran. He says you have the best equipped sideboard in the city."
Parkins was dumfounded.
The trusted servant was an Updyke "plant," and his case now seemed hopeless. There was nothing to say, and his eyes sought the floor.
"Look up, and face the music," nagged therelentless Updyke. "A brave fellow like you who connives against young women and sickly fathers surely must be a courageous man! What were your real intentions toward that girl?" yelled the big fellow, pointing his finger at the wilted Parkins.
"I had no real plan," said he finally. "I was sober when I took her into my car, and I meant to keep sober. No man in his right mind would offer insult to an innocent girl."
"Is that so!—then why did you, absolutely sober, and after ten days in bed with a wounded scalp—kidnap her and start for Herman's Roadhouse?" snarled Updyke. "For the sake of counterfeiting respectability the name has been changed to fool decent people. It is called a social club—bah!"
"I—I—ah—or rather I should say—we were eloping—we were going to be married! She and I are engaged, and——"
"Stop right where you are! Now I want you to look me squarely in the eye and tell me that lie over again."
Updyke's lowering face at once took on the look of a demon. His right hand stole slowly underthe left side of his coat and his eyes seemed to be turning green.
"It was a lie! Don't shoot me! I'll tell the truth, sir," screamed the witness. "You already know every move, every thought, every act—what's the use? Do what you will but don't ask more questions—I'm done for!" he ended, as he swooned and fell forward, but Updyke caught him in time to save him from injury.
The erstwhile "valet," stepped forward and helped to lift the limp body to the table in front of him, the barrier that had stood between him and his tormentor.
"The jig is up!" said Updyke, grimly, two big tears rolling down his rugged cheeks. "We have it all. His guilt cannot be questioned. And that's the only reason why the so-called third-degree inquisitions are to be tolerated. Slap cold water on his face. He'll come out of it in a minute or so."
Turning to Curran, he whispered—"Stay with him, and when he is fully aroused help him up to my suite upstairs and put a guard in with him. He can't get out, but he needs company," said he significantly. "I'm going out to DreamyHollow as soon as I get first copies of the testimony. Order my car around as soon as you can—no hurry—tell Miss Johnson to phone for it to be ready in an hour."
With that the big fellow left the "star chamber" with its windowless walls and concrete floor, a sigh of relief escaping from between his yawning jaws. He was tired, dead tired, and victory won, left no feeling of elation in his breast.
"Justice is hell for some and joy for others," said he to himself as he stole his way through to the private door into his office. Updyke's mind was upon the man that had collapsed under his lash and the cruelty of it had left its imprint upon his own heart.
A few hours later he was welcomed by the master of Dreamy Hollow.
"I've come to stay until the day after to-morrow. I need a day off," said Updyke, as he grasped the welcoming hand of Drury Villard. "I'm all in and I want to go to bed at once."
Villard scrutinized him carefully, and decided that his friend and guest knew what was best for himself.
"I'd planned for a lively evening—what is the news of the day? Did you——"
"Yes—here it is, all typewritten, and will afford you an evening of varying emotions. Show me a room—that's all I ask. To-morrow we will both be fresh, and will talk things over. No food—I snacked in my office," said the master inquisitor.
And so it was settled, and a short time thereafter Villard sat alone in his office, reading the testimony of his old-time friend, now a self-confessed pariah, and a conscienceless scoundrel. When he had finished his lips trembled, and his heart cried out against the villainy of his once trusted partner. He now loathed him as he would a viper, and there was nothing left in his bosom but abhorrence. In his present mood, good man that he was, Villard felt that he could have looked on without mercy while the low creature was strung up and tortured.
"No wonder Henry left, and went to his bed," he mumbled to himself. "Case hardened as he is to crime and malevolence, his soul has been seared with the events of this day."
Villard arose to his feet and slipped quietlyout into the night, where his heated brain could be cooled and his senses restored. He hurried on toward the beach as if bewildered, caring naught for the bats that darted in front of him, and the limbs of bushes which swung back and whipped his face. The Parkins' confession stood out as might a picture of Herod cleaving the heads of helpless babes, and watching their writhing bodies as they fell at his feet.
What Villard would have done, or where he would have gone in his madness to rid himself of his obsession was a matter of conjecture, but for a terrible coughing spell on the part of some person just ahead of him. It was Alexander Barbour, bundled from head to foot against the chill of the night, who stumbled along the same path, only a few yards in advance. His walk was painful, and his voice hollow and unreal as he cried—"I want to go home to die!"
This dismal wail brought Villard back to his senses, and he ran forward in time to catch the man in his arms. For a moment there was a struggle but Barbour was too feeble to resist.
"You shall go to-morrow," whispered Villard, "and your daughter will go with you. The timehas come when it will be safe for her to return to her native town, and I shall take you both home in the morning. I know how you feel, and I sympathize. Come, let us go back into the warmth of your room."
Some hours previously Winifred had helped her father into his bed, and stood over him, while rubbing his forehead and chafing his icy hands. She had placed a small electric heater at his feet.
"They feel like lumps of ice," he complained, but to the soft touch of Winifred's hands upon his forehead he succumbed to nature's balm—sleep without pain.
For half an hour she stayed beside him, and then as his hands relaxed and his breathing became normal, she knelt and prayed for his restoration to health and happiness.
Then she went to her room, but on returning a few minutes later the bed was empty—her father had gone. She notified Santzi at once, who gave the alarm, but when all hands had taken up the search, they came upon Villard and with him was the night-clad figure of Winifred's father. There was much in the way of speculation as to the result of the sick man's adventure,but the night nurse, arriving soon afterward, said that his effort to help himself might turn out to his advantage.
All through the excitement, Updyke slept on unknowing, but Winifred and Villard sat out on the moonlit veranda and talked of the plans for the morrow. He felt that she should be told of Parkins' "detention" pending further developments, but in no way did he intimate the happenings at the Updyke inquiry.
"I think your father should go back to his old home at Patchogue for a time. This place palls upon him and he will never be happy here. You must go with him, of course, and I shall ride over every day or so to see how he is getting on. We must not allow him to die from longing for his old home, where your mother lived and died. That's his trouble—and if I were in his place I'd feel just as he does."
"I believe you have solved his problem, and I am very glad you have thought it all out for us. We are plain country folk, and fairyland is too much for us. Indeed we have grown in experience since we left our little country home. But our country eyes have been opened to the lovewe feel for our native town and its people. There is where we belong," said Winifred, dreamily, as her face broke out into smiles.
"You shall have your wish, dear child," said he, gently. "There is nothing that I would deny you."
"But you wouldn't live there," bantered Winifred, throwing back her head and laughing at the idea. "We'll wait and see how you hold to your resolution to 'ride over every day or so.' My, how my friends would get together and gossip! I just dare you to try it," she gurgled, as she held out her hand and bade her host good night.
"No—you don't get off that easy," said Villard, striving to catch her up in his arms, but she escaped through the door of her father's chamber and tiptoed in to see if he was resting comfortably.
"All is well," she whispered on her return, looking up into Villard's eyes—"so you may return to your den, Mr. Lion—it's bedtime for me!" she laughed, as she started to go.
"And kissing time for me," laughed Villard, reaching out as if to take her in his arms.
"No, sir—this is the kind of kiss you shallhave," cried Winifred, as she put her arms about his neck and her lips upon his forehead. Then she blushed, and sighed, a shyness creeping into her eyes.
"Only a kiss on my forehead!—not surely——"
"If I ever do kiss a man on the lips it will be the one to whom I am wedded—not before," said she, her face lighted with honest conviction.
"Don't forget that I am going out Patchogue way very often, in the future," he warned.
"I am sure my father and I will be ever so proud if you will come to our home as often as you can," replied Winifred, as prettily she dropped him a curtsey in a quaint, old-fashioned way.
Next morning Henry Updyke was literally up with the larks, and there were plenty of them about the premises of Dreamy Hollow.
At six o'clock he betook himself into the open for a morning stroll. Winifred was also astir, for the call of Patchogue was in her heart, and she must be ready. But it was far too early to arouse the household, so now was her opportunity to once more behold the dreamland from which she would soon be on her way. To the beach and back was her first intention, as vivid memories clustered about its sandy slope, where she had gazed far out beyond the bay to the very ocean itself, and dreamed of "Castles in Spain." And now she would look for those castles again, and the cliffs of Fort Hancock, over Sandy Hook way, easily seen from the place where she sat on the day of her startling adventure. Fearful of the dew damp of early morning she took theinside path and was soon at the waters' edge. And now she sat down, oblivious to all save the waters, which moaned as they came in great waves, and sang as they splashed in diabolic fury and broke into gems of rainbow hue. And there was no one to disturb the thoughts within her mind, for which she was glad, only to turn her face toward the west, and there stood a huge man, calmly looking down upon her.
"Don't be frightened," said the big fellow, smiling down upon her. "You surely have not forgotten your father's friend, who used to hold you on his knee and tell you stories, and bring you books from the city."
"Mr. Updyke!" gasped Winifred, looking guiltily into his smiling face, then suddenly she exclaimed—"I've seen you but recently, have I not?"
"Yes—but you can't guess when and where," he laughingly replied, at which the girl looked far out to sea and pondered.
"Of course I can, only it must have been a dream. Indeed, I saw you in a dream. You, and another man, whom I had never seen, stood before me. You said something about it beingtime for me to get up and prepare breakfast for father. And something about opening up the stand—now isn't that true?"
"Practically, those were my words. You had slept entirely too long, so I tried a little trick on you and it worked for an instant. Then you went back to sleep. It is dangerous to sleep too long. Who do you think was with me?"
"Another man. I haven't seen him since. It wasn't the doctor?"
"No, it was Mr. Villard," replied Updyke, watching the effect of his words. "I never saw a man so anxious in my life."
"Oh, isn't he the dearest soul! I just love him—he has been so kind to father and me, and he is going to run us over home this morning in his car. We are leaving to-day for good, and we may never see New York after all," she concluded, shaking her head sadly.
"You'll have a different driver next time than the one you started out with," suggested Updyke, dryly, as Winifred looked down at the sand and revolved a certain question that she had in mind. It concerned Parkins' whereabouts, but she did not ever want to speak his name again.
"Where is he now?" she asked, briefly, but without malice in the tone of her voice.
"Probably in New York somewhere," replied Updyke. "I don't think he will try any more 'elopements' for the present."
Winifred looked up in surprise.
"Is that what he calls an elopement?" she asked, blushing deeply. "I thought elopements were by mutual understandings. Are they not?"
"That's what they use to mean before Bill Parkins set the new fashion," he laughed, as she looked up and caught the twinkle in his eyes.
"I hope you see something besides humor in his actions," she replied quite soberly, after a lengthy pause.
Updyke saw at once that Winifred Barbour's old-fashioned purity of heart and mind had been in no way affected by her sad experience.
"Now I've gone and said something that I didn't mean," said he quickly. "No girl, with a mother like you had, will ever need a champion for her code. She will maintain that standard through life. What time are you leaving for home?" queried the big man.
"About nine, I believe."
"Then we had better turn back," said Updyke reaching for Winifred's hand and helping her to her feet. "I think you will never have occasion to worry about Parkins in the future. I believe that he has gone out of your life forever," he concluded, looking testily into her face.
But Winifred needed no coaching to that effect. "All the king's horses" could never put the man Parkins back into her life. But she said nothing on that score to the big man trudging along beside her. Finally she asked—
"Do you know much about this matter, Mr. Updyke?"
"Just a trifle," he replied. "I heard a rumor now and then about the case, but it's been kept so quiet that your neighbors won't have an inkling of it when you get back. They only know of the accident, so if I were you I'd say nothing about anything else. You wouldn't want your picture in the paper and a great 'howdye do' kicked up with your name in it—now would you?" asked Updyke, stopping in order to impress her mind upon certain angles of the case.
"Of course not—I should simply wilt and die if my name should be printed in the newspapers."
"Naturally so, and no matter how innocent you really are, there are those who would enlarge the matter into scandal, if we fail to adopt a certain plan," said he, gently. "Now listen carefully, little girl. Everybody in Patchogue knows that Parkins' car was ditched and that you had a close call—also your father—and that Parkins was almost killed. They know that you were taken into the Villard home, and that you are all right and will soon be home. Julie Hayes has been faithful to you and your booth is well cared for. Now—remember this—no one must know about the other episode—the abduction. If that ever raises its head you will never live it down in your life, no matter where you might go—and you are the one to tell your father the consequences of confiding with any living soul."
"I will merely speak of the accident, and I will warn father to do the same," said Winifred, looking gratefully up into the big man's eyes.
"That's the idea—all you will talk about is the accident, and, if ever anything else is hinted at, just ask what that person means, and never acknowledge a word of truth that may be uttered as hearsay. You had an accident, and it laidyou up, but you have fully recovered and the whole matter is in the past and practically forgotten."
Winifred now understood the program fully, and made up her mind to follow instructions literally. And she vowed that her father would do the same. Then, suddenly, she thought of young Mr. Carver, but hesitated to bring up his name. At last she determined that she must be instructed on that point.
"What about Mr. Carver?" she asked nervously.
"No worry in that direction—he is a sworn officer of the law and is fond of certain people who would be sorry to be involved in a story, even in a small way. He is one of the finest young men I know, and he is progressing rapidly in all ways. Some day he will be a rich man. He is brainy, and coming to the front all over Long Island. He may go far!" concluded Updyke, who knew the value of good friendship toward a man who aspired.
"I—I am ever so glad you have talked to me about all these matters, and now please tell me who you are so I'll know why you have interestedyourself in our behalf," said Winifred, her voice reflecting her real thoughts.
She had no artifice by which to speak with double meaning.
"Oh, I am a friend of Mr. Villard's, and he and I would naturally pull together. He is a fine man, but the dear fellow is lonesome. Too bad he doesn't marry some sweet natured home body that would love him, and drive away the solitude of this wonderful place," replied Updyke, waving his hand at the well kept premises.
They were now at the east entrance of the stately home and he opened the door for her to enter.
"I shall hope to see you again, sir—some time. You have been exceedingly kind and I promise to act upon your suggestions."
Then she added, "I am glad you are a good friend of Mr. Villard's. He needs companionship."
A little later on, with herself and father already seated comfortably in Villard's smart touring car, she was surprised when Mr. Updyke got in and asked to be allowed to sit beside Mr. Barbour. This change broughtVillard into the seat beside Winifred. But she thought she saw the reason for it by the way Updyke brought the sick man out of his doldrums.
"You are going to feel a lot better when you get back to your old haunts," said he, affably. "When a man spends a lifetime in one place, there is where his heart belongs. He should seldom leave it—your world is there," said Updyke, by way of getting acquainted.
And then he began to point out various interesting spots, with something historical about them which caused neighboring householders to think with pride upon their wonderful locations. In fact, the big fellow took Alexander Barbour's mind away from his troubles and made him feel how well he would be in a few days when he got back into the tang of the salt air at good old Patchogue. Winifred marveled at the manner by which this stranger could so install himself in one's good graces. These same scenes along the parkway interested herself as well, and she remarked upon the difference between a leisurely ride in comfort, as against the scarifying speeders who infested the southern drive. Such had beenthe only other experience of her lifetime. But, by way of comparison, the smooth, almost jarless driving of Jacques, with Santzi by his side, was to her the acme of delight.
And so the journey continued all the way out to Patchogue, and the little home, where the sleek and silent car came to a final stop. Into the spick and span cottage all four entered and it wasn't long before the father was put to bed, and Winifred, in gingham apron, engaged herself in preparing a dainty luncheon from her jams and preserves together with hot biscuit and coffee. A small jar of cream and big dab of butter were borrowed in neighborly fashion over the back fence, also a chunk of cold ham, representing good measure in the heart of the neighbor. Thus for two hours the little home gave a good account of itself and when saying good-bye Villard looked wistfully into the eyes of sweet Winifred and asked a serious question.