"I'VE COME TO SQUARE ACCOUNTS WITH YOU DRURY VILLARD!"
"Very well, William—since you have assumed to judge me by the action of another. You seized Winifred in an illegal manner. I owed the girl a certain hospitality, since I rescued her, and took her into my home where she was nursed back to life," said Villard, in a very even tone of voice.
"You rescued her!—you mean, that because she struck your fancy you gathered her up and took her into your home and tried to win her love!" shouted Parkins, not caring who heard him. "Now I want to know what you've done with her—if she is on these premises, produce her!"
"I am unable to do that."
"Then you refuse?"
"She isn't here—she hasn't been here since she went back to Patchogue."
"Is she there now?"
"No."
"Where is she—speak up Villard! I am in a dangerous mood."
"I refuse to answer," replied the old time friend and employer of Parkins.
"I'll give you one minute, and if you have not answered by that time I shall give you a 'third degree' with the butt of this gun."
All during the time that Parkins held his watch in hand Villard sat motionless and without protest. A minute seems long when one counts the slow seconds, but short, indeed, when one gives no heed.
"Last call—one—two—three—that's the way your Updyke man counted the seconds for me—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—time's up—here goes," and with that Parkins, his eyes staring, jumped to his feet and struck Villard on the back of his head in the manner he had warned.
Knocked senseless, the victim would have fallen to the floor, but his persecutor was not through with him. Jacques groaned piteously, as, helpless, he heard the blow fall, and felt sure that the master was killed.
"Shut up, you vassal, over there!" shouted Parkins, now frenzied as he chafed Villard's hands and stretched out his arms. Not effecting results, he bent the limp body over the desk and pushed the chair closely up to it. Then he ran to the tray that Jacques had put on the floor, and seized the glass of water that stood on it. This he dashed into Villard's face and slowly the huge body responded. A minute went by before he opened his eyes and tried to stagger to his feet, but Parkins, remorseless, shoved him back in the chair.
"Wake up and talk—where is she?"
Only a moaning sound gave answer.
"You old cradle robber, why don't you speak up in defense of yourself. It was all right for you to love her, but for me it was a crime! I always treated her right, until you put false notions in her head. When I finally rose out of a sick bed and got her back into my care, where she belonged, your big Wall Street hireling set his dogs loose and they finally ran me down."
"I'll go to my bed," said Villard, trying to rise from his seat.
"You'll stay where you are and die in that chair if you make a move to leave it! Where is the girl you stole!" he shouted, his eyes flaming with hate.
At that moment the far door opened and the faces of Santzi and Jerry came into view. One glance, and they yelled as if stricken with nightmare, then ran out and shouted to the watchman.
By the time they returned Parkins had flown.
Villard, however, now lying full length upon the floor, was in need of quick attention. Dr. Sawyer was sent for, and Dr. Benton was phoned. Pending their arrival the master was picked up and carried to the couch where Jacques had laid helpless as he listened to Parkins' cruel words. When his master fell to the floor, he rolled off and groaned.
And it was just at this time that Updyke rolled in, without knowledge of the terrible tragedy that had been enacted. When told, he thanked his stars that Mary Johnson had not joined him in his moonlight excursion. Then he thought of the leisurely run he had made and bitterly accused himself of procrastination. Ten minutes would have saved Villard from possible death, and he had "fooled" away half an hour by slow driving.
Once in action, however, the big fellow gave quick account of himself. He threw off his coat, called for ammonia, and then began to move the victim's arms and legs, and peeped at the whites of his eyes. One whiff of the bottle caused the injured man to stir, the cold water applications resulting in the definite movement of the arms and legs. Suspended animation was quickly released.
When Dr. Benton arrived Updyke looked on for a moment, and then began to collect the facts. He knew that Parkins had been the assailant from first description and now was his chance to learn from Jacques the details of the crime, particularly of the words spoken by Parkins to Villard. Still trembling, the youngster, assisted by Updyke, promptly gave a well-connected story of the affair, and with that to go on, the big fellow cleared the private office, and warned against interruptions while he was engaged with Long Distance.
Meanwhile, by his order, no one on the premises should leave it, nor should any one talk about the case.
"I don't want a word to leak about this," said he to Mrs. Bond. "Mr. Villard was in no way to blame for it, therefore he should not be subjected to wild rumors that would involve his good name and that of a pure young woman now happily married."
"I will talk to all of the servants and appeal to their sense of justice, for they all love the master," replied Mrs. Bond. "That we will all keep mum, you may be sure."
"And it wouldn't be a bad idea to throw a scare in along with the rest. For instance, if anything leaks out about this I'll know where it comes from in a very few hours, and that will bring trouble for whoever is guilty. You make that strong, Mrs. Bond, for I mean every word of it," said Updyke, pointing a very large finger at the fat little housekeeper.
"I'll do the best I can," sighed Mrs. Bond.
"Well, I am sure of that, and you keep everybody on their toes until I arrange my plans. We'll sleep in relays to-night, but to-morrow I'll throw a human network around this place."
Hour upon hour the big fellow with his mouth to the phone, spread the web for the human spider that had crawled out into the black of night. Sawyer came in with news concerning Villard from time to time, but Updyke, grim and preoccupied, merely nodded his head and motioned him back to the sick man. At midnight he finally succeeded in arousing George Carver, who with his bride had been bridge-whisting all evening in a near-by home.
"I need you, George," appealed Updyke, "but you get about three hours' sleep before we talk about it. I don't want you to lose the much needed rest from now until three A. M., over something that I am going to ask you to do. I'll call you at sharp three, and at three thirty your flivver will be in front of your hotel—good night."
"Good night, you old sleep burglar. I'll turn in at once," replied Carver—and the web was complete.
CHAPTER XVI. THE HUT ACROSS THE BAY
It was with a grunt of relief that Updyke called Central for the last time pending the three o'clock date with Carver. This time it was a certain switchboard operator who answered him.
"Miss Johnson," said the big fellow, toning down the rasping voice that had been vibrated a thousand miles within the short space of four hours.
"I think she has retired for the night," lisped the girl in charge.
"Quit thinking and connect as directed," snapped Updyke, forgetting that his voice was in training for a certain event at the Swathmere. "You are expected to act! And say—no listening. Get that?"
The next voice he heard was that of Mary Johnson.
"It's about time you said something from somewhere," said she, knowing that the unusual had happened.
"That fellow showed up at Dreamy Hollow to-night—you know who. Much to say to-morrow morning—no holiday dinners for us yet. Get to the office early, say, eight thirty and I'll spin the yarn."
"Big Case?"
"Getting bigger all the time."
"That little dinner, by the way—next winter—some time?"
"Not on your sweet young life! The first breathing spell."
"I was joking dear—you——"
"Of course you were, we're always joking, aren't we? As long as we joke, we won't quarrel!"
"Speaking of—you know who—did you see him?"
"No—he had done his mischief and skedaddled a few moments before I arrived. First real bad luck in a long time. Bad mess down here!"
"There is satisfaction in knowing that so and so is in the web. Will he go out to his old haunt on the outer drive?"
"In time—but not now."
"Why?"
"He would expect us to look for him there—and we will—for a much longer time than he thinks."
"Had you thought of Julie Hayes—she still runs Winifred's stand. She has sharp eyes and sharp wits. She can keep mum."
"Now that is a first-class tip. I'll put George onto that. I'm phoning him at three o'clock to wake him up. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to have him at the hut very early to-morrow morning. He can see Julie and put her wise."
"I believe it is the Swathmere that I'm saving up that pretty new dress for—is it not?" teased Mary Johnson.
"Exactly so, dear girl—if we ever get around to it," mourned the big fellow. "I am more anxious about that little you-and-me dinner than any other thing in life, except one—that's you!"
"It's time you got back on your job—good night!"
"So long, dear—I'll ring you at the office soon as possible to-morrow morning."
"Take a little nap—why don't you?"
"Yeah!—take a little nap!—I hardly see myself shutting my eyes on a night like this. But I might—so you go to bed yourself and get that beauty sleep."
As the phones clicked off Updyke with stubborn tenacity, lunged back into the woof of his spider web. Everything seemed well in hand. Inquiry as to Villard showed satisfactory progress. He would live, but how he would come out of it was a question for Father Time to solve. Finally he called for Santzi and told him to sit by and wake him at prompt two-forty-five, and in two minutes more from the depths of the lounge he was competing with the fog horns of South Bay.
To George Carver three o'clock was an unearthly rising hour, as many a man would willingly bear witness. But Winifred, at two-thirty, had switched on the current under the percolator, and only awaited the presence of her liege lord and master before connecting the toaster.
It was the enticing odor of the bacon and coffee, not the alarm clock's mad music, that sent the young husband under the shower.
At two-forty-five the telephone tingled, and Winifred ran forward to answer.
"Are you up?" shouted a well-known voice, in a drowsy tone.
"Can't you smell the coffee and bacon?" replied Winifred, gaily—"and the noise of that awful man under the shower? I'll tell him you're waiting. He's making more fuss than a porpoise," she concluded as she hastily snatched a bathrobe and hung it on a hook near the shower room.
"Parkins has disclosed himself and his whereabouts," were Updyke's first words, as Winifred's husband took up the receiver.
"That sounds interesting," replied Carver, with enthusiasm.
"Glad to hear you say so, and I'll add—especially so, to you!"
"Humph! Give me the details," replied Carver, who analyzed quickly.
"Listen carefully, boy, and don't get excited about anything I tell you. By all means don't repeat any part of it to Winifred that concerns herself."
"Yep—I get you—what's up?"
"The scoundrel was here at Dreamy Hollow, just after dark. I was on my way down but he had done his mischief and gone before I arrived. The scene was in so and so's office where he appeared suddenly—bound and gagged Jacques who was taking out a tray of dishes. Then slipped over to so and so and covered him with a silencer automatic."
"You don't say!"
"Yep—he demanded the whereabouts of a certain girl—accused so and so of stealing her and gave him a third degree. So and so steadfastly refused all information, giving no inkling of her marriage or address. Julie Hayes is the only one in Patchogue who knows her real address—get me?"
"Yep—go on—what happened between so and so and——"
"So and so was beaten over the head with the butt of the revolver—knocked senseless. Santzi and Jerry looked in, wondering why Jacques had not returned with the tray of dishes. Unarmed they ran to spread alarm, but the whelp had escaped on their return."
"How—only one door to the room?"
"Just one—and only two windows—north and east corners, for light on his desk. No furniture to speak of—just his big square flat-top, council table—chair, lounge, and filing cases. The scoundrel disappeared through the east window."
"What do you suggest for me to do?"
"Light out as quickly as possible for Patchogue. See Chief Mack. I couldn't reach him by phone. Had gone somewhere—not expected back until very late. I left word for him to call me, but he hasn't so far."
"Any one else?"
"See Julie Hayes—she's safe. Have her keep sharp eye out and phone me here anything she sees or learns about the scoundrel. Then you go to his hut on the outer drive—pick up a ranger at Patchogue and have him stay there day and night. Have him supplied with provisions—Julie will help him, without exposing our hand. Tell her I'll pay all bills—have them sent to me, here."
"You must feel pretty certain that he will turn up at the hut—sooner or later?" said Carver enquiringly.
"I do—and I think he is more likely to go there by water," answered Updyke, with a ring of conviction in his voice.
"Why would he come here at all?"
"Because he has a lot of gold to conceal that he can't deposit without answering questions."
"Why?"
"It's Canadian coinage mostly, and would come under suspicion."
"Give me a reason for that," said Carver. "I'm not very well posted in such matters."
"He was sent to Quebec with the pay roll of a lumber company, up in the timber country, where I had sent him for keeps. The shyster played square and seemed so honest that they intrusted him with a check on a bank in Quebec. He kept on going, changing into American money as fast as he could without arousing suspicion. He has a lot of gold left and I think he has it cached near the hut. But he may not go near it for some time. He now wears whiskers and mustache, raven black—I'd say from description, but he is easily recognized. Jacques says Villard knew him the moment he saw him. Better write out a 'John Doe' and have it ready. I don't want his real name to come out—yet," said Updyke, yawning loud enough to be heard at Riverhead.
"All right, Henry, I'll be on my way. I'll let you know my whereabouts from time to time. Better turn in for a three hours' nap while I'm getting to destination."
"That's just what I'll do, now that you're on the job. So long, and good luck."
CHAPTER XVII. THE WOLF HOUND'S NEW MASTER
Far famed detectives have lived in all ages, but it remained for the modern operative to enlarge the perspective. Intuition still ruled as a first qualification, but the real prime requisite changed to "knowledge of men." Not only their cunning but the whites of their eyes and the shapes of their heads. The "hatchet face" one type, the "round head" another, and the month they were born in—an important clue as to temperament. On the charts prenatal influence had much space for remarks—also the color, of eyes, and the color of hair, curly or straight, the nose pug or aquiline—the mouth large or small—curved up or down.
Parkins, on the Updyke chart, registered as "low brow," meaning thick hair growing far down the forehead—no matter the color. But when considering hair, red heads warned of danger—once started, they fight. Black hair generally stood for impulsiveness and quick temper. That was the Parkins type, with hair as dark as a raven. Born in June, his stone was the agate—naturally drifting toward the "good fellow" class—the kind that need wonderful mothers to hold them in check through the days of their youth.
George Carver, now flivvering his way to Patchogue, was a brown haired "husky" with big open face that bespoke sterling character, and what is known as "horse sense." Instead of being brilliant, he was apt and quick of discernment. He could match with all types and win by his coolness. But he knew the value of getting in with the first blow. To him a run on lonesome roads meant nothing, either in daylight or darkness—he was always prepared—his intuition unerring. So when entering Patchogue he skirted the town on its farthest east line and hit the trail for the outer drive. The townspeople were just rubbing their eyes before leaving their beds when he muffled his engine and scooted across the little city. By the time he returned the stores would be open and Julie Hayes would have taken down the shutters from Winifred's booth.
When in close proximity to the Parkins hut his small car, with hood down, was turned off the trail into an arroyo. From there, with a pair of strong field glasses in the early morning light, he drew the little shack right up to his eyes. He could see every crack in the unpainted planks, and by maneuvering, belly fashion, along the grassy slope, he gained a knowledge of three sides. In the rear a huge wolfhound lay curled in a heap, and the chain in its collar reached through the boarding, evidently permitting release from inside.
It was a dangerous moment, had a breeze from the north been stirring, for one whiff of strange flesh might have brought on a death struggle. With an automatic forty-five silencer drawn along at his right side, and a pistol in holster for close quarters, Carver drew a "bead" on the dog and awaited further developments. He watched the big brute with the eyes of a hawk, and noted through his glasses that the animal slept uneasily. It might have been the cold of early morning, but a wolf hound had never been known to shiver in less than zero weather. Carver was well posted on dogs. He was that type of man at whom dogs never snapped or offered to bite. So, with silencer in readiness, he puckered his lips and gave a low whistle.
At once the big brute arose to his haunches and whined.
Something wrong about the premises was Carver's first thought. A dog of that breed would not bid for friendship with a stranger unless actuated by an instinct that a friend was near by. But it was no time to take chances. The first thing he thought of was that Parkins had not returned and the dog had been left without water or food. On the other hand a wolf hound invariably fought the stranger at its gate. They were never allowed to roam at large except in forest camps, or on extensive estates. The situation was altogether strange, and, to prove it, Carver rose to his knees.
He expected a wild lunge on the part of the dog but the brute rose to all fours and wagged his tail, whining the while, as he strained at his chain. That seemed full evidence that Parkins was not in the hut, and forthwith he stood up and walked toward the dog, now manifesting great joy. At the length of his chain Carver reached out his hand, but with one eye on the hut—then he patted the dog on its head.
That settled the friendship between them. Carver then pulled out a chocolate bar and tearing off the wrapper reached out his hand. One sniff and the big brute took it into his mouth and practically swallowed it whole. He was starving—further evidence that the master was still at large.
After parting with his last piece of chocolate Carver walked to the front of the hut and tried the door.
It was locked.
He then took out a bunch of keys and tried to fit one in the lock, but none of them would enter.
Then he reached for his electric torch and peered into the keyhole—there was a key inside that obstructed!
Carver dropped to the ground, on his stomach, and with his automatic reached far up on the door and gave it a thump.
There was no response, whereupon Carver shouted—"Parkins" in a voice both harsh and loud.
"Wake up, you scoundrel, and open this door! You can't play any tricks on us! We've got you surrounded! Make one bad move and we'll kill you!"
There was no answer—except the whining of the dog in the rear.
"What do you say, boys!" shouted Carver to his "phantom" companions. "Shall we burn the place down? Those in favor will raise their right hands! Unanimous, eh?—then bring the oil can," continued Carver, who shouted—
"We give you one minute to open the door—hush boys!—keep your eyes open, and cover this place. When I say the word put a match to the oil!"
Then all became still save the dog in the rear, which strained at its chain and sent up pitiful howls, as if baying at the moon now fading in the early daylight. No answer forthcoming he kicked at the door and it made his blood tingle as it swung back—wide open!
Carver jumped to one side and reached for his torch, with that in his left hand he searched the front room. It was a moment when courage had no chance to take counsel. The advantage now lay with the man that he sought. The glare of the torchlight swung into each corner, all over the room, and under the bed, but only a shirt and some clothing lay on top of it. Parkins had been there recently for the imprint of his body showed on the coverlet and an empty bottle rested under the pillow. Next came the bath-kitchenette.
One glance into that and the story was told!
In his night clothes Parkins lay dead in his bath tub, his legs at the bottom and his dead body floating. His eyes, partly closed, seemed to stare at a picture, an old-fashioned daguerreotype. "From Mother" was printed at the bottom of the cheap little frame. On the floor were empty bottles, and one partly filled, was clutched in the dead man's hand. Evidently he had placed it there within easy reach, as he lay in the water refreshing himself—hours after his escape from Dreamy Hollow.
Making careful notation on a sheet from his note book Carver drew a rough plan of the scene to be given to Updyke. In a combination cupboard he found the remainder of a parcel of food, crackers and sausage, and a slice of cold beef. These were fed to the famishing dog, then closing the door he hurried back to Patchogue, where he phoned Dreamy Hollow.
"Well—it's all for the best," said Updyke, not without a shade of sorrow at the tragic death of the man. "He was a stormy petrel, as I've often said, and he sacrificed his life upon the altar of booze."
"I'm thinking of Winifred," said Carver, huskily. "She——"
"Calm your soul on that point—she never loved him. He was thought to be a friend of the family, but she found that he was just an old-fashioned knave. She and I have talked over this whole matter, and I know what I say is true. Shall I phone her the news?"
"Yes, if you will. What shall I do about the corpse?"
"Just turn the whole matter over to the coroner, and if any questions are asked, refer him to me. There is no longer any chance of publicity. A burial notice among the paid advertisements. That's best for him, and best for all. After you have made your report to the coroner beat it for home and go to bed."
"But that wonderful dog—I want him! We already love each other."
"Go get him and take him with you. But don't you ever tell your wife that he once belonged to so and so. Just say that the poor thing seemed to have no master so you picked him up and brought him home. Now that is no lie."
"You are a great old bird, Henry. I'll do as you say. No use to talk with Julie, I imagine, except about the booth."
"That's all," said Updyke, "go on about your business and I'll pick up the matter just where you left off."
"Tell Mary that she may stand a chance to get that quiet little dinner after all," laughed Carver.
"What do you know about that?"
"I'm a married man and we fellows know everything!"
"That will be all from you! I may cut you out of my gold expedition, if you get gay. So long."
The death and burial of William Parkins received the exact amount of space that Updyke had indicated to George Carver—four nonpareil lines among the death notices—paid for by the Updyke Agency. Henry Updyke himself wrote the announcement. And then came the search for the stolen funds which were quickly found within a hundred feet of the hut with only a thousand missing. The Quebec Agency was notified quickly and the bank officers were profoundly thankful. They wanted to reward the agent, but that was tabooed by a terse telegram.
"We never take money that we do not earn stop we sent the man up in your country to reform him stop we accept the liability as our own and are sending check today for a thousand. For all favors we thank you—signed Updyke."
At last came the evening when, without the least "fuss and feathers," Mary Johnson leaned back in Henry Updyke's big car and drank in the ozone of Westchester county. She looked a dream in her light summer furs and stylish coat that concealed her pretty party gown. Twenty miles whizzed by with little in the way of conversation when suddenly the car made a quick turn, and stopped in the shadows of a great boulder. Behind them lay Riverdale, and the black forests of Spuyten Duyvel loomed ahead, just across the East River, five hundred feet below. The moon was now doing its best to light up the mighty Hudson. Nothing like this grandeur had Mary Johnson's eyes beheld. A thrill of ecstasy crept into her heart. A new world was opening before her, and all within the limits of little old Manhattan, where all kinds of worlds exist—pay as you enter and take your choice.
"I never dreamed of such splendor!" sighed Mary, her heart filled with emotion, which was just like most women, who cry when they are glad.
"Well, little girl, while you go on dreaming I'm going to say something to you," said Updyke, gruffly.
"I'm always glad to hear your voice, dear," replied the girl still awed by the scene.
"I love you!" exclaimed Updyke, in as harsh a tone as a frightened man of his size could muster.
"Say it again," said Mary, snuggling closer.
"I meant it the first time, and I never repeat," he fumed uneasily.
"Oh, do—just to please me," she whispered.
"No, mam!—what I want is a kiss!"
"S'pose we kiss each other—dear?"
"All right here goes," and with that Updyke took her bodily into his arms and held her there until the moon lady looked down and laughed at them. And when all was said, and the gardens of their two hearts had been merged into one, Updyke suddenly recollected the seats he had engaged on the Swathmere roof.
"I am hungry, Mary. Shall we jog along back?" he asked meekly, as if taking orders for the first time in his life.
"I could stay here forever," said she, putting her lips up to be kissed.
"Let's get married to-night," suggested Updyke, his eyes aflame.
"No, sir! with one good dress to my name—Never!" exclaimed the girl.
"Well, you hurry up those dresses. Your pay is raised one thousand dollars. Draw it to-morrow and go up the line. You ought to get a couple of 'em for that," said he, grinning.
"Thanks for the raise, dear, but I'll buy my own wedding clothes. I haven't thrown my earnings away. How about that little dinner at the——"
"Nuff said," replied Updyke, "but you just keep those arms about me while I do the driving. They don't seem to bother me," said he, chuckling down in her pretty face.
At the Swathmere two tall hatted porters ran out to the car, and with much ado landed the guests under the canopied entrance, where they were met by the captain and escorted up-top to the table that Updyke had engaged.
"Does you know who that big fellow is?" inquired one porter of the other.
"I don't reckon I does. He don't look good to me, nohow!" was the answer.
"Well, be ca'ful of yo' step when you see him edgin' yo' way!" warned the other. "He's de bigges' ov 'em all—gits 'um goin'—and gits 'um comin'—is you guilty?—den kiss yo' baby good-by!"
CHAPTER XVIII. FLIGHT OF A SOUL
Beautiful Dreamy Hollow, peaceful, charming—with the master always on hand. No longer in business he lived in a dreamland and never looked out except toward the sea. Alone, he lived in silence, with only the future state in mind. Alone!—not just that—for way up in the skies a sweet soul was waiting and beckoning to him. He could see her quite plainly as the veil lifted at night, and also, whenever he looked this way or that—those were terrible blows that the mad Parkins dealt! Only the strong of heart could have survived them and turned them to account—but Drury Villard, once the farseeing financier, only looked at the heavens and bided his time. Things earthly were now forgotten, and old friends forsaken, not with malice aforethought, but because of a tiny link missing—the mischief of a dreadful night.
To talk with himself was no trouble at all, but to sit and laugh at his own jokes when no one seemed near lent a pathos to those who chanced to look on. But the Winifred of his first love heard him, and evidently applauded, for when unduly excited he ran to the window and clapped both his hands—then called out her name! Just why Mrs. Bond should cry and run out of his presence was a mystery to him. And Santzi, wide-eyed, when he took the master to drive, sometimes felt compelled to signal Jacques to turn back. To avoid passers-by the woods road were used, but the birds seemed to know that a friend was out riding. The blue jays shouted at him and he shouted back, as near in their language as he could imitate.
Then one day came a great specialist from over the ocean. A cable to Updyke told the date of his sailing, and when the big liner warped in at her Hoboken dock, he was on hand to welcome, and took the expert in charge. A few days went by before arrangements were ready, and certain experts engaged to help on the case. It was quite a big party that trailed the Updyke machine down from the city. Among them several nurses—one of them Winifred—with Carver's consent—for hers was the one name that Villard seemed to remember—so Carver himself came along as her escort.
Of course Winifred had nothing to do with the others, or the lances and things—but she was there all in white, as the patient came to, and she was the first person he knew when he opened his eyes. There she was in the life, all smiles, with her husband, and Villard smiled at him, too.
"I—thought you had—all deserted me," said he weakly, but Winifred put a finger over his blue lips, and whispered——
"Don't talk, Uncle Drury—just rest—that's a dear. We're not going to leave you until you are strong and well! There now, close your dear eyes and go back to rest. We'll—not leave you—go back to sleep—back to dreamland—you'll soon be——" And with a smile on his lips Villard lapsed into slumber.
As the great surgeon looked on, a smile lighted his face, and with actual tears in his eyes he grasped Winifred's hand. He had risked his reputation in coming to "far-off America" on such a hopeless case. And to win!——
"Most wonderful!" said he. "There's nothing that answers the call of returning reason as the voice of a sweet woman," he concluded, as he again grasped her hand, and this time squeezed it hard.
Then to George Carver he said: "You're the right kind, young man. You'll go far in the world."
In less than a week Villard sat out in the sunshine, with light blankets about him, and Winifred near. She read to him, sang to him, laughed at him, called him a bear, and teased him for trying to live alone.
"If you and George move down here and live with me, I'll will to you both, in common, a cold million dollars," said Villard eagerly.
"And me leave my dear little white cottage! Oh, how could you dare to tempt me, Uncle Drury!" she exclaimed, with a laugh.
"I mean it, little woman," said Villard, very soberly.
"Well, don't tell George that, please. He likes you now, and it might turn him against you. Don't you see, dear man, he wants to make his own way in the world!"
"He is right, little woman, and you are going to help him, more than he will know," replied Villard, with enthusiasm.
"Well, if you just knew all about it, you'd think differently. He is so active, and so kindly, that he often steals out of his bed and cooks his own breakfast rather than awaken old lazy bones—that's me," laughed Winifred.
"It won't hurt him, and it shows his affection. He'll rise in the world—all good husbands do."
And so ran the days by until Villard, in sheer pity for Carver's young bride, sent her away in his car to the home that she loved. Then back to his old haunts he went straightway—to the window where the open sea came into view. From that point of vantage, somehow, he heard the voice of his old love, bidding him come—and with a prayer in his heart he lay back and died.
When Updyke came down to take charge of affairs, a letter was handed to him by the weeping housekeeper—Mrs. Bond's heart seemed broken!
"Don't cry," said he gently. "He's happier now than he would be on earth. There's a reason that's sacred, but you may take it from me that for years he has waited impatiently for his time to go."
Seated in a deep leather chair Updyke opened the letter. It was short and to the point. It read:
Dear Henry: My will is in the Bankers Deposit Company vault room. The enclosed release is made out in your name. You will find instructions along with the will—your name is entered as trustee, without bond.
As ever, faithfully,
Drury Villard.
And so passed from earth a man of big soul, whose wealth had not spoiled him, nor brought much joy. As trustee, Updyke soon fathomed the great heart of the man. Not one person having the least lien upon his generosity was omitted from his will. Only within the past month had Parkins' name been stricken from it—just scratched with a pen, and initialed D. V.—without giving reasons.
Each servant came in for a good start in life. Dreamy Hollow was to be turned into a home for aged and infirm nurses. His business was to be divided equally between his old partners to the extent of his holdings—three-fourths of the whole. Of the individuals mentioned Updyke came first—he to have twenty thousand a year for ten years while settling the estate, and to Sawyer his watch and an annuity of five thousand a year if any misfortune should ever befall him. To Updyke's wife Mary, in token of her faithful attention to his affairs as they related to the Updyke Agency—twenty thousand dollars in cash. And last, but not least, was his legacy to Winifred Barbour Carver, "share and share alike with her good husband, George"—one hundred thousand dollars—"and an additional sum of fifty thousand to their first offspring."
"In further acknowledgment of my high regard for the Carver family I hereby appoint Mrs. Winifred Carver chairman of the board of directors of Dreamy Hollow Home for Aged and Infirm Nurses."
"And through the veil to the great unknown,Sped the soul of an upright man."
So wrote the girl, Winifred, as an epitaph for the tomb of Drury Villard.