"Do you know how much I love you, dear?"
"With all your heart—I know," she answered.
"When shall I come again?" he pleaded, with eyes that smiled into her own.
"As often as you feel disposed. I shall haveno time to attend the little business place we own. But I shall keep it open with help from others. I fear the worst about father."
And when it was time to go back home Villard made no further overture of his love than to hold her hand and to squeeze it tightly. He longed to kiss her but he knew her code—only a husband could claim that right.
Two days later, Alexander Barbour passed away, and Winifred put on mourning. During her grief, the whole town became interested in her affairs, and with Julie Hayes at the business helm, she took her time, and thought out her future. Seemingly everybody called at her home; even George Carver of Riverhead made a special trip to pay his respects. There had been an episode in her life in which he had figured heroically, and she had made a vast impression upon his youthful mind. With the best of intentions, and with due consideration of her bereavement, he did not come often, nor did Villard, owing to the small talk that might arise from too frequent calls. For the sake of companionship she gained consent of Julie Hayes' parents by which the young girl became hercompanion at home, as well as her clerk at the booth on the Parkway.
With regard to Villard's calls, it had been hinted by Winifred that the Sabbath was a day when visits would be most welcome and that going to church together would be better for her, and add to his prestige—now growing in the town. He had become fond of the place and made many acquaintances. Land deals were active through his ability to furnish money for building purposes. Every citizen was charmed by his modest simplicity and if ever a man owned a townful of ardent boosters it was Drury Villard.
On one particular Sunday George Carver left the Barbour cottage just as Villard drove up, and Winifred and Julie had gone out to the gate as he took his leave. Then, for the first time Winifred noted a shadow creeping over the face of Villard, though he smiled affably, and shook hands with the younger man.
"You are just in time for a good dinner," said Carver. "Sorry I have to go, but it is necessary. My loss is your gain," said the young man gaily, but there were times when he wondered if her sweet consideration could be turned into love.
When Carver had gone both Winifred and Julie each grasped the arm of the solemn Villard, and in less than a minute his face was all smiles.
"Julie, we will have to be careful about allowing our callers to cross each other's paths," teased Winifred. "Did you notice how quickly our Mr. Carver mounted his wheel when our Mr. Drury Villard drove up? Shall we invite them to a duel?" laughed Winifred, seizing one of his big hands. "Now sir, you shall be fed by both of us until you will never want to eat again—but, do we get a ride after dinner, Sir Knight?"
"You do—all three of us on one seat, so I can hug two charming girls at one time. Where shall we go?" inquired Villard, who had no choice of routes.
"I—I'm afraid to suggest," faltered Winifred, guiltily.
"Of course I'm no mind reader, dear girl——"
"I hardly know so well about that. It seems to me that you really do know my mind?" laughed Winifred.
"For example?"
"Don't you remember? Over at Dreamy Hollow—how you anticipated everything that wouldadd to my comfort and ease of mind? If I was the least bit thirsty you rang a bell and in came the water without a hint from me. All I had to do was to think of something I'd like for dinner, and there it was, when it came time to be served. I am somewhat like the slaves of olden days who thought as did their master," teased the girl. "Now I'm going to prove all I've said. I'll write my wishes down as to where we shall go, and I'll fold it and hand it to you."
Over to her desk ran Winifred, where she rapidly set down her choice, then gave it into the keeping of Julie.
"Now sir—please state your own choice of a drive," said the girl, gaily.
"I've always wanted to visit Parkins' hut," said he, yawning after the fashion of one who desires to hide his curiosity concerning a certain particular thing.
Simultaneously the two girls broke out in laughter, as Julie passed over Winifred's scribbled line—"The Parkins Castle on the Outer Drive." She had once seen the hut and with girlish curiosity wanted to see it again.
"Now then—see how you control my verythoughts!" laughed Winifred running over to him and patting his cheek. "Now 'sposing you were a wicked king, just imagine what a living death I would lead!" she ended, her voice deeply sepulchral as her girlish voice could command.
And so the plan took immediate effect by way of starting out. As they quickly passed through the deserted business quarter, the question arose as to which turn to take for the outer drive, but an inquiry brought them the right information.
"Wouldn't it be terrible if we'd find him there," suggested Winifred snuggling more closely to Villard and clutching his arm.
"Nothing like that can happen. He is occupied elsewhere," replied Villard, his teeth set and his voice cold.
After that the ride continued in silence until the outer drive came within view. Then with delight the two girls grew interested in the great billows that came rolling in from the ocean, almost forgetting the objective hut that had held their thought. But it came to view most quickly thereafter. Unpainted and weather beaten, it stood alone without tree or shrub to lend it hospitable appearance. Just a shack—nothing else—a bedroom, plainly furnished, and in order, also a kitchenette, and a bath tub with shower. Several empty barrels outside told of the fresh water supply, hauled in, no doubt, from nearby wells, inside the bay district. Evidently the owner liked music, as a banjo-guitar stood in one corner of the room. Also there had been a dog about the premises, accounted for by a muzzle and chain, and a collar to which was attached a state license. In a crude desk there were various papers and letters, some with envelopes addressed by feminine hands. All these Villard made into a bundle, and wrapped them with an old newspaper.
"I'll turn them over to Updyke," said he to Winifred, as she looked on. "They might be valuable—some time," he mumbled as if to himself. Then suddenly he almost shouted—"Let us get away from this infamous den!" as he opened the door for the two girls to pass out. Then he slammed it behind him and walked to the car without looking back.
A month went by before anything of importance broke in upon the even tenor of Villard's daily life. The Parkins matter had waned intoa memory and Updyke held his peace as to the whereabouts of the man. Then, suddenly, as a bolt from the sky, the engagement of Winifred Barbour of Patchogue and George Carver of Riverhead was announced in the local papers of that thriving little city. From the moment Villard learned of it he settled back into the life of a recluse. He had lost his battle in the dearest cause of his life. He became old and worn over night, such had been the inexorable reaction from his mighty love for the girl of his heart. Only Updyke and Sawyer could gain access to his seclusion. Gray patches of hair made quick attack upon the dark brown, and no longer caring for his general appearance, gray whiskers and a stubby mustache were allowed to grow at random. The change was most radical, but not without distinction. After all it was Villard who wore them.
From the day he read the item concerning the engagement Villard refused the newspapers and all reading matter. Even letters, addressed personally to him at Dreamy Hollow, were allowed to lay unopened. And there was one from Winifred, in which she had bared her soul inexplanation, declaring her undying allegiance, as might a daughter and a comforter—but not as a wife. The envelope remained unbroken, as merely one of the heap that grew day by day. Nothing mattered—Villard's world stood still.
In one paragraph Winifred had written an explanation of her motives, and she prayed for an answer from the depths of her heart. It read—
Dear Friend:—These things I would have you stop and consider, not lightly, because of your love for me. I am not of your station in life—and I would not drag you down to mine. Just imagine the harm that would come of it—a blight on your life, that you could never live down. Oh, my dearest friend on earth, how would either of us regard the other once we were confronted by the mirror of public opinion? So, with eyes open wide to the consequences of wedlock with you, I am about to consecrate my life to a plain, simple man, without riches or deep learning—one of my own station in life, who will never have cause to rue the day he takes me to wed. It is all for the best, dear friend. Just allow your big, generous heart to feel that my intentions are for your good, and also my own. There have been precious moments in our lives which I shall never forget—nor shall I deny, even to the man I shall marry—that you were the first to inspire my heart with a knowledge of what a sacred emotion love should be.
Dear Friend:—These things I would have you stop and consider, not lightly, because of your love for me. I am not of your station in life—and I would not drag you down to mine. Just imagine the harm that would come of it—a blight on your life, that you could never live down. Oh, my dearest friend on earth, how would either of us regard the other once we were confronted by the mirror of public opinion? So, with eyes open wide to the consequences of wedlock with you, I am about to consecrate my life to a plain, simple man, without riches or deep learning—one of my own station in life, who will never have cause to rue the day he takes me to wed. It is all for the best, dear friend. Just allow your big, generous heart to feel that my intentions are for your good, and also my own. There have been precious moments in our lives which I shall never forget—nor shall I deny, even to the man I shall marry—that you were the first to inspire my heart with a knowledge of what a sacred emotion love should be.
And that was the letter in full, all save the signature—one word—Winifred.
Had Villard opened it upon its arrival, his greatness of heart would have asserted itself forthwith. But gaining first information from a newspaper clipping was quite another matter. It rankled in his bosom. Big, manly fellow that he was, ordinarily he would have stopped to think how innocently such things could happen. Winifred's letter had been mailed two days before the article appeared, but it had been delayed in transit. On time, it would have given Villard opportunity to support his own cause, but fate plays in all games, either of heart or of brain. To a girl of her mould wealth had no standing when measured by love.
Time flew by as the wedding day drew near. But there came no word from Villard. Henry Updyke looked in on Winifred's little home one day and found the girl crying. Few women are they who may heighten their beauty through tears, but Winifred's face was that of a grieving Madonna. She ran to him at once, as a child to its father and wound her arms about his neck.And there she remained as she sobbed out her story.
"But you love this young man, don't you?" soothed the big fellow whose face looked drawn and old, as his heart went out to the girl.
"I don't know," sobbed Winifred.
"Do you love Drury Villard?"
"Oh, fondly, sir, but he is far above me! I would ruin his life—and after all his kindness to my father and myself, I can't bear to think of it."
"Well, now, little woman, just sit down in that big rocking chair and let me talk to you like an uncle who had your interest at heart. Villard is a sick man, and he hadn't opened your letter when I called upon him two weeks ago. There were many more and all of them more or less important. Yours was among them, and to oblige him I read all his mail."
"My letter, too!" blushed the girl—"and it was sacred—I meant it so."
"Yes, and it is still sacred, but now he knows its contents—and he might never have known had I not done a little secretarial work for him that day. He had ordered his mail to be thrown in the fire, but I was consulted, arriving as I didat the right moment. In due course I read your letter, and I sincerely compliment you upon your good sense. I count you as one of my friends, for I know you have nothing against me, so we may be quite confidential, I hope."
"Indeed we may, sir," assented Winifred in a very weak little voice.
"Mr. Villard trusts me, Mr. Sawyer trusts me, and hundreds of the best-known people in New York trust me. Now I want you to understand that every word I say is truth. I make my living by telling the truth, but in many cases it does not come to light. Now then, listen carefully—Mr. Villard is one of God's noblemen!"
"Oh, I know he is, Mr. Updyke!" assented Winifred.
"He loved a girl named Winifred many years ago——"
"Yes, I know that—too. She warned me of the accident, but in my eagerness to see New York I said little about it. But I did tell Mr. Villard, after I came to know him."
"He hears from her, from time to time—or thinks he does—it's all the same," said Updyke. "She warned him of Parkins, but trustful manthat he was, he wouldn't believe. Now he knows the truth—but to get back to my point, I want to say, in justice to all parties, that you shouldnotmarry Villard. Not that he isn't worthy—far from that, there is no one more so—but his heart is with the dead! As his wife you would become to him the shrine of his dead love's soul!—and he would worship you as such. Would you be satisfied with just that, little girl?" queried the big fellow.
Updyke watched the varying emotions of the girl as she struggled to understand. It was all so deep and mysterious, even though she had beliefs of her own like the one he had explained.
"Allow me to answer the question for you," prompted Updyke, gazing deep into her eyes. "There are as many beliefs on the subject of the hereafter as there are grief-stricken people. Every person who pretends to know about the life to come is to that extent insane. In fact there is no such thing as complete sanity. The ninety and nine are divided into that same number of personal and deviating beliefs, and the one-hundredth—has no belief whatever."
Winifred's eyes had begun to open wide, as ifto testify in behalf of her own hereafter, but Updyke raised his hand for a new beginning.
"I know what you are going to tell me—your own belief—eh? But what is the use? It is but yours after all, and though it might satisfy you it might not meet my views. But I am glad you have a belief, little woman. We must all have something to lean upon or what would be the use of a temporary life, and nothing to hope for in the future? I want you to believe that which will comfort your soul and keep it good. And you must never allow any one to shake that belief—'for therein is the power and the glory forever—Amen'!"
Updyke's voice betokened a depth of feeling that Winifred had never before witnessed in his conversation. He had joked and teased, but now he talked in a way that convinced her of his superior mental equipment.
"Your words comfort me, and I shall always think of that dear good man at Dreamy Hollow with reverence for his constancy," she sighed. "Were it fair to either of us I would gladly share his love with the other Winifred, but something tells me that my youth must not be shadowed bybrooding thoughts. I must have individuality of my own," faltered Winifred, her eyes haunted by strange lights of mingled fear and compassion.
"Then marry the young man. It is simply in justice to you and George Carver that I say it. I have never known a more upright man in my life. He has the heart of a lion—you know that yourself, for you saw him in action as he carried out my instructions to the letter. And——"
"Your instructions!—I don't understand, Mr. Updyke. Please explain," demanded the astonished girl.
"It was a slip of the tongue, but there is no harm done. You are soon to be one of our family, so perhaps I'd better tell you something about George," said he, laughingly. "He belongs to the greatest law and order association in America, perhaps the world. It spreads to wherever our flag flies and is truly the backbone of the nation. As members of the association each man is carefully chosen and sworn in, but not as an officer of the law, but rather as an upholder of our government. Most of them are given official standing by being sworn in asdeputy sheriffs, clerks of courts, and so on. George is a deputy sheriff, and that is why he came to your rescue. As soon as you were kidnapped my office sent out an alarm that spread all over Long Island. It wasn't possible for Parkins to escape in my district," concluded the big fellow as he arose to go.
"Then you are a—a——"
"Sleuth?—No, never!—I just keep bad eggs from getting into the cake," laughed Updyke—and then very soberly, he reached out his huge hand to the little girl in front of him, and she grasped it eagerly. She tried to squeeze it, but it was too big and too gnarled—it couldn't be squeezed—ah, but how it might squeeze was Winifred's thought, as she followed him out to the gate.
"Would you mind if I asked one more question?" queried Winifred, her cheeks turning red from the wave of diffidence that crept into her heart.
"Bless you, no—go on," said Updyke, invitingly.
"I am haunted with fear—where is this man Parkins?"
"You will never hear of him again; rest your mind on that score. He is alive—somewhere. Nobody knows but me," he laughed, as he jumped in his car.
And then she stood at the gate and watched with awe the big man's machine as it faded in the distance, but when it turned west he raised his hand, and she answered by waving her own.
The day that Winifred Barbour was married to George Carver was as beautiful as a day might be. The ceremony was performed in her own little home and was followed by a reception that lasted on toward the evening. Every gay gown in Patchogue had its chance for an airing on that gala day, but when evening shadows began to fall, the church bell rang, and every man and woman, to say nothing of the children, betook themselves to the church. A monster wedding supper, the inspiration of the townspeople acting in one accord, had been spread, and none would be denied admission.
It was Winifred's hour of triumph over her young lord and master, who, while subject to congratulations, came in for small glory. The fact that he was soon to depart with his bride for their new home in Riverhead failed to develop any medals for him.
"Why don't you quit that dead county seat town and stay here among us 'ristocrats," demanded Old Man Carmichel, gruffly, by way of gleaming daggers—then bursting out in wild guffaws, "Jes'ta take the feller off'n his feet."
But Carver had seen many such in his bright young life, and he likened them to the usual village "Jester," who started that way and kept it going to the end of his days. Nevertheless, it was Carver's night to be affable so he grinned quite good naturedly as he awaited the arrival of Henry Updyke and his big touring car. It was the one privilege the big fellow had demanded, since he could not attend the wedding—to see the bride safely to the door of her new home. And he had his reason for that, aside from its pleasure, for the event had been attended by much advance publicity, far greater than the prominence of the happy girl would ordinarily entitle her.
The New York papers gave mention of the forthcoming wedding in their last Sunday editions, and on the following Sabbath the "write ups" would be much extended, with a picture of the bride in the magazine sections.
Mary Johnson, Updyke's assistant, had seen to all that by personally making the rounds of Newspaper Row. A camera man, as if dropped from the clouds, seemed somewhat officious to the townspeople of Patchogue, when he posed the young couple on the steps of the church. Just how a young fellow with tripod and camera could halt with his hand a great host of people, and sweep them this way and that until they posed artistically about the bride and groom, was something to ponder on. In the doing of this there was some rivalry by way of holding one's own in "the limelight," but the camera was newfangled, and it revolved either way sufficiently to take in the most prominent of those in the wake of the bride—and much to the mystification of more than one person. It was Old Man Carmichel's turn to again become facetious.
"I'll be switched if I c'n see how they take pitchers with a contraption that won't stay put," said he, his eyes showing his mystification. "It must be broke, or somethin'."
"It's a movin' pitcher kodak—ain't you ever seen 'um before?" queried the man beside him.
"Yeh—I've seen 'um twicet as big," saidCarmichel moving within range of the strange machine.
After depositing the Carvers at their new home Updyke refused the invitation to alight, but Winifred, the bride, would not have it so, and she caught up one of his big hands and called to her husband to help her.
"Just think, after all of the trouble I have caused you, now you refuse to take a little bit more, to see how George has busied himself of late," she pouted, playfully. "You've just got to or I'll jump up and kiss you before everybody passing by."
"Well, I don't want Mary's nose to get out of joint," said the big fellow, clambering down to the pavement.
"Mary!—Mary who?" she demanded, as with her husband on one side and herself on the other, they dragged him into the new cottage. There, with one poke of Carver's forefinger he touched a master button which set every light globe going from cellar to roof.
In the excitement of entering her new home for the first time, Winifred forgot the word "Mary" for quite a long time. The little placewas yet to be furnished, and that was "Winifred's job," according to Carver, and meanwhile they would "put up" at "The White House," only a few blocks away. George's plans had been splendid, far better than she could have figured out for herself.
"What shall we call it?" she cried, enthusiastically. "Think up a good name for our new home, Mr. Updyke."
"The Gambler's Paradise," he replied soberly.
"You horrid thing—how could you think of such a name!" scolded Winifred.
"Well—didn't George take a big gamble when he waylaid Parkins? He might have been shot, you know."
"Oh, my darling George, come here and let me kiss you!" she demanded. "Wasn't he brave, Mr. Updyke?"
"All gamblers are brave as long as——"
"Now you stop teasing me, sir—make him stop George!" she urged, her face wreathed in smiles. "Just give me a name for our home—and be quick about it."
"Parkins' Waterloo," replied Updyke, his eyes filled with the Old Nick.
"Now George, you come forward and make this man behave," she demanded—"or shall I pull his hair?"
Then remembering something she had forgotten Winifred exclaimed—
"Tell me about Mary—who is she?"
"My right hand man," replied Updyke soberly.
"A man named Mary?—Oh!"
"Well she is more than a man—she's a woman with a level head, who runs my business and knows more about it than I do," replied Updyke without further indication of his attitude toward her.
"Then you'd better marry her at once or some one will come along and steal her, too!" warned the bride.
"If they do they'll have to take a chance they might regret. Mary is an officer of the law and amply able to protect herself," said the big fellow, knowingly.
"George Carver—look at this man! I declare, with all my feminine intuitions, that he is in love!"
Laughter, always a tonic, brought the red toUpdyke's face when he saw that he had stumbled into the wrong kind of joking.
"He doesn't deny it, George. See that heightened color in his cheeks?" teased Winifred, her eyes sparkling.
"Well—I own up—just between the three of us, and to go no further," Updyke replied. "I haven't asked her yet."
"Then how do you know she will have you?" demanded Winifred, biting her lower lip in order to look solemn.
"The Updyke System will reach out and gather her in one of these days, when I get my courage to the boiling point," replied the big fellow, chuckling.
"Then you must start practicing at once," commanded Mrs. Carver, with the air of a matron of long time experience. "I want to go along when she shops for her trousseau. I've yet to see your little old New York," said she, dreamily, as memories came back to her mind.
"Come—jump in and I'll drive you over to 'The White House,'" ordered Updyke, noting her thoughtful attitude. "It's getting late for young married couples to be caught on the streets.There is a curfew law in Riverhead for brides and grooms. Seven thirty, and then the law swoops down!"
And when the happy pair were landed in front of the white painted hotel the big fellow whispered hoarsely—
"I'm going to bring Mary out to see you when you get settled. We'll come some Saturday, and you act as chaperon for a night. Next day we will run over to New York for a whole week while you help do her shopping. That's a go—eh—George?"
"Indeed it is," laughed Winifred, assuming command of the new ship of state. "But wouldn't it be wise to wait and see if she will have you?"
"By George, you're right; I hadn't thought of that. I'll ring her up the moment I get to my hotel," replied Updyke.
"Why not use long distance?" suggested Winifred. "Then George can stand near and coach you. I assure you he is good at it."
"Not much!" exploded Updyke, as he set the starter going. "When I tell Mary, there will be no freshly married people around."
As the long nosed roadster threaded its way along Main Street the Carvers stood watching until its red tail lights faded from view. Thus the happiest day of their lives had merged into night.
On reaching the second floor of The White House, the bride enquired about the hour.
"Just seven twenty-eight," replied Carver, consulting his watch.
"Then 'curfew shall not ring to-night,' as we have two minutes to spare," laughed the bride, closing the door softly behind them.
On reaching New York Updyke immediately rang up the home where Mary Johnson lived and "switchboard" promptly responded.
"Updyke calling," said he, gruffly.
"Miss Johnson is waiting to hear from you—something important I believe," said the girl, who always watched out for his interests.
"Put her on, Miss Daisy," said Updyke, "and don't listen in," he warned, as one who knew about her girl-like curiosity. "This you, Miss Johnson—how's everything?"
"Bad news from South Bay," said she, meaning Dreamy Hollow. "News from Patchoguecaused a severe spell of anesthesia. Doctor Benton is staying there over night—also Mr. Sawyer."
"Does he recognize them?"
"They do not know, but think it doubtful. At one time he said—'tell Parkins'—and at another, some hours later, he mumbled incoherently about 'the church' being 'too crowded.' 'I've been puzzled over the words 'tell Parkins'—what do you make of that?" queried the secretary.
"Nothing important," replied Updyke—"just vagaries of the mind. He'll get over it in a day or two. Perhaps his words 'the church' signified a hazy recollection of the wedding held there to-day. The camera man shot a lot of pictures. Better hold on to some of the proofs for the gallery," laughed Updyke.
"The Updyke gallery?—never! You may have one for your private office," said the secretary, after a pause.
"Old stingy—always keeping down expenses, eh? Proofs only cost a dollar apiece—good ones, I mean. Spoils, only a quarter. I presume I'll get one of the spoils," laughed the big fellow.
"If you talk that way, I'll keep all of them,"bantered Mary Johnson. "Where are they now?"
"What—the pictures?"
"No—the happy couple?"
"Asleep—I guess," replied Updyke, blandly.
"You are quite impossible, after your long ride all by yourself. I believe you are jealous of George."
"No, you are wrong, Mary. It's not him, much as I admire his wife."
"Who else could it be?" giggled Mary.
"Now you are asking questions! What is the name of the photographer you sent out to Patchogue?"
"Oh, a queer sort of name!—Pelletier, or something. He does all our work, and for most of the newspapers. I had him go out personally, instead of sending some horrid assistant."
"Well, he is the man who excites my jealousy," said Updyke, sharply.
"Impossible! I didn't know you were acquainted," replied Mary Johnson, in a surprised tone.
"Nevertheless it's him," replied the big fellow, in a positive tone of voice.
"What reason have you to be jealous of that little simp?" laughed the secretary.
"Well, he kept saying she wants this, and she wants that, and she wants one taken on the steps of the church, and one as they get into the automobile, and so on," replied Updyke.
"Why did that disturb you?"
"I found out who theShewas that he talked of so glibly."
"Who was she?" persisted Mary Johnson.
"Why—can't you guess, after all the hints I've made?"
"No, I'm still in the dark."
"He meantyou, of course, and he seemed so familiar. Knew precisely what you wanted, and aired himself importantly," growled the big fellow.
"But what had that to do with you, I wonder? You left the matter in my hands."
"Quite so, my dear, and that's what makes me jealous. The fellow talked so much about you I feared there must be a strong attachment, or——"
"Now that will be quite enough!" said MaryJohnson, as if offended. "I think it's time to——"
"No, Mary don't do that. I'm in real deadly earnest about—you know what I mean—now don't you?" appealed the big fellow.
"It begins to dawn on me. After this long conversation I feel that I have been unusually dense. Your moonlight ride all by yourself must have gone to your head," giggled the secretary.
"Nevertheless I mean every word I have said, Mary. I want you—I must have you, Mary," said Updyke, a note of strong appeal in his voice. "I've known it a long time but I could not make myself believe that I had a chance. You are so young and pretty, and I am so old and ugly, and——"
"Why you are not old at forty-one!" exclaimed Mary Johnson, forgetting that she was listening to an avowal. "And as for being ugly, I'd say that your rugged face denotes character, which is far more worthwhile than being good looking. But why do you tell me all this over the telephone? Weren't you brave enough to say it to my face?"
"No, coward that I am—I just couldn't,"sighed Updyke so loudly that Mary Johnson heard it over the wire.
Then came a pause, a very long one, each expecting the next word to come from the other. Finally, the softly modulated voice of Mary Johnson came into the Updyke ear.
"Why not call with your car to-morrow evening, then we can talk more freely," she suggested. "Am I never to ride in that big machine?"
"I always knew you were the brains of the business, Mary. It's no wonder that——"
"Don't say it over the wire," warned Mary. "I'd rather hear it more directly."
"Then be ready at seven, my——"
"Never mind—careful what you say—some one listening in," said she as both heard the guilty click of the switchboard. "Au revoir—I'll be ready at seven, but I will not go to the office to-morrow."
"No—and when Miss Carew returns, you will come and go as you please," said he, as she answered "Good night."
Then the big fellow hung up the receiver.
With mind filled with happy thoughts, HenryUpdyke, fatigued by eighteen hours of constant activity, turned doggedly back to the telephone and asked connection with Dreamy Hollow, Villard's strange condition gave him a queer feeling of unrest. The big fellow felt that he had experienced more kinds of ups and downs during the past few months than for any period of his life. With joy on one lobe of his brain and dread on the other, he found himself halting between going ahead or going to bed. But the long tingle of the phone bell brought him back to attention, as Mrs. Bond's voice came over the wire.
"How's Mr. Villard?" he inquired.
"About the same, sir. His mind is just as it has been since——"
"Yes, I am fearful of the consequences. Any change in his actions?"
"About the same. He lives with the stars, and has no word for any of us—just oblivious to everything about him. Two specialists from the city were here to-day with Dr. Benton. Something about lesions that interfere with the brain," answered Mrs. Bond.
"Any talk of an operation?"
"I believe so, but the doctors are not agreed. Doctor Benton declares that no operation will take place with his consent. If outvoted, he says that he will turn the case over and quit. That would be terrible, wouldn't it?"
"Yes—more than that, it would be sinful. I'll give him a ring on the phone to-morrow. Lesions practically mean incipient paresis, and sometimes lobes form that are even more dangerous. Without criticising the life he leads, which is sedentary, Mr. Villard could have saved himself from the dreadful state he is in. An active, out-of-door life for a man of his build was positively necessary. And he should never have given up his daily habit of attending to business. It is the soft life that kills," concluded Updyke vehemently.
"I know you are right. Fat people like me have to keep going and continually diet, or they fall suddenly never to rise again," replied the housekeeper.
"How about his mail? More of it coming in?"
"Yes, great heaps of letters. You never saw the like."
"I'll have them delivered to his town office,hereafter," said Updyke. "I can't spare the time to run down there to read them. I'm too busy just now."
"Very well, Mr. Updyke, good night, sir," said Mrs. Bond, and with that off his mind the big fellow turned in for the night.
Fortunately Henry Updyke was no slave to his nerves. He could fall into slumber as his head touched the pillow, and six hours later roll out for the day. Just approaching the middle-age period, sleep meant nothing to a man of his bulk. So on this night of all nights the big fellow bolstered himself and concentrated his thoughts on the girl of his heart. He was glad that she had a mind of her own, and, on the other hand, could take advice—yet needing little. Many times he had told her to attend certain matters, to find that she had anticipated his wishes. Another thing, most pleasant to reflect upon, was that no episode of the Parkins variety had entered her life, and "By the Great Horn Spoon"—which was his most violent expletive—"there never would be!"
The thought of Parkins had a tingling effect upon Updyke, as he brought to mind a certainfar-away monastery, hid away amid the timber-lands, one hundred miles northwest of Quebec. There the padrone system still flourished under the ban of a French-Canadian lumber company, and Parkins had become one of the lumber jack gang. Three years was his "sign up," after a stormy session with the big boss to whom he had been consigned by a Montreal employment bureau. To attempt an escape was to die by starvation, or wild beasts, or woodticks, it mattered not which. But the Parkins brain was not so far scrambled that he could not work himself into the good offices of the boss of the gang. He first helped the paymaster, and kept up the records. Then the paymaster took sick and Parkins became head of the accounting, for which a rude shack answered the needs of protection—at the same time, a roof for his head.
All these details of the Parkins' entourage came through on reports from Updyke's Quebec agents. Invariably, on answering, the New York office warned against too much freedom of action, for Parkins was resourceful, and might effect an escape. All this was poopoohed by the big boss at the lumber-jack camp. Just to showhis confidence in Parkins he sent him to Quebec with an order for gold coin, to relieve the priests of the region, whose needs were urgent after the winter's deep snows. The scrip of the company had fallen far below par, which caused a dull roar among the thrifty tree choppers.
Long days of hard travel brought Parkins once more to the civilization of a big city, and he reveled in it. His long suffering thirst quickly turned his feet toward the hotel barroom where, with his escort, tumbler after tumbler of Scotch and soda were consumed. But Parkins was wary. He poured out large portions for his companion, but small drinks for himself. Then later, a hotel porter helped the drunken man to bed.
With his escort out of the way, Parkins hastened to the bank with the check calling for gold. The bulk of it almost filled the satchel he carried.
And now was his chance to escape on the night boat for Montreal, there to connect with railway transportation to New York. His beard and mustache of a few weeks' growth now needed a trim, as he decided to continue wearing them. At Montreal these matters were attendedto, likewise the purchase of several suits of English cut, and a bag of the tourist variety, which held much, and could be plastered with foreign labels of his own selection. All this he had done during his one day in the city, and his tickets were purchased for gay old New York. From that time on he haunted the hotel bar and filled himself to the brim. As his train crept slowly out of the Montreal station in the late afternoon, Parkins' one fear was of the U. S. revenue officers across the border, who might search his bag and seize the six bottles hidden among its contents. But one flask was kept in his overcoat pocket and long before midnight its contents were gone.
Along in early hours of the following morning, about the usual time for the bath and shower, Updyke in New York heard a rap on his door. A telegram was slipped under it, as the big fellow tumbled out to see who was there. He picked up the message, and as he tore off the envelope, his mind reverted to the night of all nights that would follow this day. For that reason he eyed the yellow sheet with apprehension. It was fromhis Montreal Agency, and as he read its contents Updyke's eyes blazed with fury.
"Man with new growth black beard and mustache boarded New York Central train one thirty this afternoon stop arrived on night boat from Quebec stop bought new outfit clothes stop also large english bag and foreign labels stop had whiskers and mustache trimmed Van Dyck at Queens hotel stop paid all bills in Canadian gold stop changed five hundred in gold into american bank notes stop think he is your man act quick stop signed Updyke Agency."
"Man with new growth black beard and mustache boarded New York Central train one thirty this afternoon stop arrived on night boat from Quebec stop bought new outfit clothes stop also large english bag and foreign labels stop had whiskers and mustache trimmed Van Dyck at Queens hotel stop paid all bills in Canadian gold stop changed five hundred in gold into american bank notes stop think he is your man act quick stop signed Updyke Agency."
Updyke threw on a dressing gown and methodically started the ball to rolling. His night man was just on the point of turning the office over to the day manager when the voice of the boss came through. Jackson, the night manager, answered the call and was given some quick instructions.
"Is Bloss there yet?" Updyke asked, sharply.
"Yes—just getting ready to leave."
"Give him a wire so he can listen in—also a stenographer."
"All set," said Jackson.
"Parkins has escaped unless I am badly mistaken. Listen to this telegram from Montreal"—then followed the contents of the message in a voice of staccato precision.
"Now, go to it. No doubt about this fellow being Parkins, is there?"
"Not here," answered Bloss receiving a nod from Jackson.
"You're not going to fall down on this, boys. I'm confident of that. Don't tip it to the police until you hear from me. We may have to stall him for he would be a fool to walk into Grand Central—but cover it just the same. That train makes a stop at Buffalo, Syracuse, Rochester, Albany—and sometimes at Yonkers. Use long distance, on all those cities as he may stop off and change to Pullmans attached to trains from the west. Miss Johnson was to be absent to-day but I think I'll call her anyhow. Then she will know what is going on. So long—don't get rattled—keep your noodles working—and get this man! I'll be down soon," growled the big fellow, as he hung up the receiver and set the shower going.
A little later on Mary Johnson, with a smile of anticipation, answered a ring from the telephone bell. She was sure it was Updyke, andwith a laugh at his nerve for rousing her out of bed on her first day off, she finally answered the call.
"I just knew it was you," said she—"now, what about my beauty sleep!" she exclaimed, with a laugh. "I wanted to look pretty to-night."
"Everything is off for to-night," replied Updyke, manlike, not stopping to think how jarring were the words he had spoken.
Mary Johnson, unnerved, awaiting further explanation.
"Did you get that?" he asked, with equal abruptness.
"Oh, quite so!—my little dream won't come true," said she, in a queer small voice that brought Updyke back to earth in a hurry.
"Well, my dear little Mary, there is a big hustle on in our office this morning and I want you to come down. Parkins has escaped and is headed this way—due this morning. The night and day managers are both on for the day, and I needyou," said Updyke, in gentle voice.
"I'll be down in an hour, dear big man, and will stay until we get him," replied Mary with her usual workaday emphasis. "Good-bye, dear,don't worry—we will run him down before night."
And so began a careful and constant search for a man who looked like Parkins until the Updyke Agency was all out of breath. Also every soul in it worn to a frazzle. But Mary Johnson failed to show a single sign of the weariness she must have felt, as with bright eyes and alert brain she steadied the forces about her. George Carver, using every Ranger on Long Island, invaded all places that offered concealment. The hut, on the outer drive, was to be watched day and night and the old home of Winifred at Patchogue had a guard inside its door. Dreamy Hollow and the Sawyer home were also included as a zone to be protected, although the reasons given seemed far-fetched and foolish.
"You never can tell," bellowed Updyke, by phone, as he warned Mrs. Bond that eternal vigilance was the price of safety, when a demented brain roamed at large.
"But I can't get to Mr. Villard," she urged as a reason for not doing more in the way of safeguarding the premises.
"Then tell Santzi I say to watch out for Mr. Villard's safety," answered Updyke—"and use Jacques on the early watch. If necessary Jerry can drive an automobile but he would not make a good night watchman."
"Very well, Mr. Updyke, I'll do as you say," said Mrs. Bond—"but for the life of me I don't see why he would want to harm Mr. Villard."
"I'll give one reason that will suffice—he thinks Mr. Villard caused him to lose Winifred Barbour."
"Well, of all the fools!" exclaimed the housekeeper.
"He may have been pretty near right, Mrs. Bond."
"Well I never was more surprised than right now," she replied.
"Good night, and don't worry," answered the big fellow. "Just keep your eyes open and call me up even if it is but a single thought that you think might have a bearing upon the case."
From that moment Mrs. Bond became a silent watcher over every circumstance that connected itself with the master of Dreamy Hollow—but a week passed by and all was serene. It must havebeen some one other than Parkins that wore the black beard and mustache.
"Well, Mary," said Updyke one day, as evening drew near, "I'm ready to give that little us-two party. Shall we go as we are, or shall we make it to-morrow night?"
"To-morrow night, dear—I want to look pretty when you continue that proposal," she teased. "Or is that withdrawn?"
"That will never happen, little lady. You be ready when I drive up at seven-thirty sharp to-morrow evening. After we take a little spin we will drop back to the Swathmere and dine on the roof."
"Oh, that will be tremendous!" exclaimed the delighted Miss Johnson, as she withdrew her hand from the grip of her big fellow.
An hour later, as she sat in her cozy room building air castles instead of reading the book that she held in her hand, the telephone rang, and the castles all tumbled as she answered the call.
"Am leaving for Dreamy Hollow—want to go along? It is a lovely night—moon and all that—love to have you—back in three or four hours."
"No sir!—to-morrow night—I must look my best—so early to bed for me. But Henry, do be careful. What is the trouble down there?" she asked in her most professional tone of voice.
"Oh, he wants me to come! and this is the first time since—you know what I mean," he concluded.
"Take my advice, and have one of the men along," continued the girl. "I'd feel easier, Henry."
"Very well, I'll do it to please you."
And that was the last word she heard from him until the next day at noon.
When Updyke reached Dreamy Hollow everything was in turmoil. Parkins had been there and the master lay in a comatose condition, and perhaps dying.
At seven o'clock Jacques, the chauffeur, carried a tray of light food to his master who now ate alone in his private office. An hour later he would return for the tray, which had become the nightly habit. As Jacques opened the door, on his return for the tray the muzzle of a revolver was shoved in his face.
"Hands up!" whispered a man with a maskover his nose and forehead, a growth of black whiskers concealing the rest of his face.
Frightened beyond ability to shout the servant held up his hands, and was gagged in a jiffy and his hands tied behind his back. At the point of a revolver he was motioned to lie down on the deep cushioned lounge, and by the look of the man who held the weapon, he was convinced that he must obey or be killed.
Villard, abstracted, had not even looked up from the desk where his eyes searched a document. Apparently he had been oblivious to the almost noiseless hold-up within forty feet from where he sat, his back being turned toward the great empty space over which the intruder had walked to a chair by his side. The next thing he knew he was looking into the muzzle of a revolver, with silencer attachment. That was enough. He didn't care to look at the person who held it. But in a carefully modulated voice he said—
"I am a very sick man. I'm given up to die by the doctors. I am putting my affairs in order," he concluded, but without seeming interest in how his words had been taken.
"Do you know who I am?" demanded the man, his voice husky with passion.
"Yes, William, I know you," replied Villard wearily, as the boy Jacques, alarmed, listened to the conversation.
"I've come to square accounts with you, Drury Villard. I'm a desperate character and I don't care what happens," said Parkins tearing the mask from his face. "You drove me into slavery, and all because you loved my sweetheart. You coveted my woman and you tore her from me by the use of your hirelings. You bought up the law by using Updyke's crooked bunch of highwaymen. He sicked Carver onto me, who tore my Winifred away—then your soulless lieutenant put me through a hell of mental torture—and that's what I am going to do to you!"