Wondering what might be going on at Sawyer's home, Villard went into his study and gave him a ring over the phone. Sawyer personally answered the call. Evidently the episode of the morning had been trying, for his voice was gruff—much deeper than usual.

"Who calls?" he demanded in a rasping tone.

"Villard speaking—I have been wondering how matters stood over your way. All serene over here. The girl has opened her eyes, but immediately went back to sleep."

"I'm glad to hear that—over here the situation is terrible! This man Parkins is a ruffian—at death's door his oaths are blasphemous, and to those who are trying to save his worthless life he shouts defiance and demands his revolver that he may 'kill the whole bunch'—to use his words, expurgated. His language toward Doctor Benton was vile!"

"Well, well—that must be stopped! Wouldn't it be safe to move him to a sanitarium—or something?"

"Yes—an asylum for insane drunkards—that's what you meant to say—wasn't it?"

"Approximately that—why not drop over for a while and we will have a chat? You can count on me—you know that. I'm awfully sorry that you're mixed up in this, but when you come to know the girl you'll forgive everything."

"I'll do that now, and I will be right over," said Sawyer, slamming the receiver back in its place in pure spite against the upheavals of the day.

It was well along toward evening before Dr. Sawyer took leave of Villard's happy hospitality. He had even been invited to take a peep at the beautiful Winifred Barbour, who still slept, but would soon be normal—according to the doctor whose second call had brought complete assurance to the household. But the ever recurring subject between them was William Parkins. What should be done with him? More than once Villard showed signs of irresolution regarding him. Perhaps if he were sent to one of the far-off branches—Cape Town, for instance—but Sawyer threw up his hands and shouted "Pish—tush!"

"Why man alive—he would kill the business of all your foreign connections. Asylum!—put him in a place where he may reflect at his leisure—and, say!—here's an idea—send for Henry Updyke!" exclaimed Sawyer, banging the arm of his chair.

Without a word Villard stepped into the booth and rang up his man—promptly making connection.

"I wish you'd run down here, Henry," said he, "I have a problem to solve."

"You bet you have—same old problem—Parkins!"

"Of course you would know all about our trouble," laughed Villard. "You surely have a nose for news."

"Yep—Parkins is at Sawyer's pretty well smashed, but still keeping his eyes open. We are watching the place—night and day shift from now on—but we've got nothing on him. You can't jail a man for a smash-up unless it was by premeditated defiance of the speed laws. And you'd have to prove it. How is the girl?"

"Resting easily—Benton says she'll come through all right."

"Wonderful girl—eh? I've seen her off and on since she was a little child. I've known the father quite well—a dull sort, but easy to extract information from—if he has any. If he ever had any he didn't know it—just gave it up by way of general conversation. I guess I'll run down after a while, probably be at your house about eight—that gives you time for your dinner."

"Bless you, yes—come down at once and break bread with me—I'll wait."

"No—can't leave now—see you to-night at eight—have Sawyer there if you can."

"He's here now—I'll have him dine with us. He's pretty well broken up over the day—but—my boy!—it has been a great day for me!—can't talk now—good-bye!"

Turning to his friend Sawyer, Villard again appealed to him to stay for dinner, but his neighbor felt that that day had worn him out. Bed was the place for him, as early as possible, after his dinner. He urged that Updyke be coaxed to stay over night, and take a look at Parkins. Dreading the presence of the man in his home he stood in need of courage, and Villard agreed to hold Updyke if such a thing were possible.

Promptly at eight the big fellow rode into the driveway at Dreamy Hollow, accompanied by two men, a chauffeur and an operative. Having been expected, Villard himself met Updyke at the porte-cochÈre along with the servant. Santzi hovered near, but was not obsequious. When the guest had alighted, he jumped upon the running board and showed his man the way to the garage. It had been a glorious day for Santzi as he had served his employer well, which made him very happy. When the car was garaged he led the way to his small kitchenette and served the two men a Japanese dinner.

Meanwhile the big mansion showed no lights, Villard and Updyke having gone into consultation in Villard's office. Big men that they were, each eyed the other solemnly, and then, simultaneously they broke out with a hearty laugh—and that relieved the tension.

"Life is a great experience," said Villard, his big open face radiating his good humor—"one little thing right after another."

"And the more we laugh the more we live," replied Updyke, lighting his usual black cigar.

"A big day for me, Henry!" exclaimed the host; "a great day indeed!"

"Yep—little Winifred—your luck is phenomenal, old fellow. I congratulate you with all my heart."

"But suppose she wakes up and asks for Parkins?" queried Villard, anxiously.

"I had thought of that, and my hope is that something else will occur. But that very thing might happen. Better be prepared for it," said Updyke, his face denoting his serious thought on that subject.

"Please particularize, Henry. What precedent have you to offer?"

Villard's interest was from the depths of his heart and the uncertainty of the girl's attitude on awakening was already forming a dread in his mind.

"I gauge my thoughts on what has gone before in numerous cases. Consider yourself in my car seated in front beside me. I'm loaded with booze but it is inside of me, so I do not catch the odor of it myself. But you, who have never touched liquor, catch a whiff of it, and instantly your suspicion is aroused to the fact that I'm a drinking man."

"But there are——"

"Yes, I know there are moderate drinkers, but girls brought up carefully, as Winifred has been, have nevertheless come to know the terrorism of old John Barleycorn. She lives near a great artery of automobile traffic. Most of it perfectly respectable, but some of it vile and besotted. She reads the Riverhead paper probably, and a magazine of some sort, appealing to her feminine viewpoint. In other words, now that she is a business woman, her vision has enlarged, and not a day goes by that she does not witness something that reminds her that she is opposed to drunkards. But she is sorry for them, nevertheless. Given her choice, she surely would not associate with a man who drinks."

"Undoubtedly Parkins had been drinking. Dr. Benton admitted as much to me," volunteered Villard. "The odor was still on his breath."

"Yes, but Winifred may not have sensed it, for Parkins uses the old fashioned eau de cologne on his lips, eyebrows, handkerchief, and his hair always smells of pomade and tonic. A country girl might easily believe that perfume used by a fascinating fellow like Parkins was quite the thing, but no girl would sit beside a man who drove into a curve at a fifty or sixty mile gait without sensing danger—would she?"

"I dare say no sophisticated girl would—probably no girl, sophisticated or otherwise, would fail of being apprehensive," agreed Villard.

"Very well—now comes the point you originated. You asked me to guess what she will say when she comes to her senses. She will not say what you think she will. The last thing she thought about just as the cars collided will be the thoughts she will wake up with."

"Sounds logical," agreed Villard.

"Statistics prove it in hundreds of cases. As her senses left her she felt a shock akin to death," said Updyke, soberly. "And as she went into what looked to be certain death she must have wondered if Parkins was insane. It was all so sudden, her thoughts may not have been entirely formulated, but even in the zone of coma the brain functions in a weird sort of way, incomprehensible to the victim, but remembered afterward—if the victim survives."

"Doctor Benton thinks a little soft music from the organ might be helpful in bringing her out of her present state. Under your theory it might not help," said Villard. "Would you experiment?"

"Surely I would," exclaimed Updyke, "but I'd soft pedal at the start. As I understand the situation she hasn't opened her eyes since the accident, therefore I would go slow in startling her sensibilities for the present."

"I'm going to make a confession, Henry, but don't say anything to the doctor about it when he comes in shortly. My housekeeper and I stood by her bedside and she was so beautiful I said to Mrs. Bond, 'I wish she would open her eyes'—I hadn't seen them, you know, although I had held her in my arms for awhile just after the accident—and all the way home. Well, believe it or not, I'll be switched if the little creature didn't do it—and by jinks—she seemed to recognize me!"

Updyke was plainly at a loss to account for the recognition.

"Very strange, indeed," he conceded as he gave Villard a sharp look. "Sure you didn't have a little brain trouble when you saw those bright eyes?" laughed Updyke. "I can't account for her recognition of a person whom she had never seen or heard of before."

"Nevertheless, what I say is bona fide, as Mrs. Bond will attest. She saw the girl's eyes open, and the look of recognition—and more, the girl smiled at me, and went back to sleep. Now, old sleuth, 'what do you make of that'?—as Sherlock used to say."

"Well, let's see if we can figure it out," replied Updyke soberly. "Why, it's perfectly plain—the message from your dead sweetheart, and the father running around calling his girl by name. My operative phoned me the circumstances. He saw and heard everything."

"You are right—as usual. I'll have to buy a medal for you, but for the present I am going to ask you to look at her. Sometimes a man of your experience may have intuitions that doctors may not have. Benton was here on his second visit just before you came, and is coming back again to-night. Parkins is in very bad shape, so he is giving a larger share of attention to him. He feels sure of Winifred's recovery and is not uneasy about her. Now you come with me and tell me what you think after you've studied her face."

"Lead the way," said Updyke as they ascended the stairway.

The night nurse had arrived, and she came to the door, as the two men looked into the sick room. She glanced up inquiringly.

"I am Mr. Villard and this is Mr. Updyke—a specialist in his way. I want him to look at the patient."

"Come in please," invited the nurse. "She is still asleep and I've kept the night lights on in order that she shall not wake up in too much darkness."

"Has she opened her eyes since you came on duty?" asked Updyke.

"No—only once has she opened them I'm told, and then only to close them again," was the reply. "That happened earlier in the day. Her father was in several times, and it was pitiful the way he prayed for her life. I just couldn't help crying."

Updyke went over to the bedside and bent over the white face, scrutinizing it carefully. For nearly a minute he peered steadily at the eyelids until finally his patience was rewarded—they twitched! Noting the fact, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered as softly as his voice would carry—"Winifred," he breathed—and the eyelids fluttered.

"Wonderful!" whispered the nurse, but Updyke raised his hand indicating his desire for complete silence.

"It's time to wake up little girl—your father wants his breakfast and the booth must be opened—it's going to be a busy day."

Updyke's voice, gentle at first, was almost natural in tone at the finish. A perceptible movement of the hand and lips indicated that her condition was not so serious as Villard had feared, and his solemn face became radiant—but immediately afterward, glum, when Updyke said:

"That's all for the present—she'll wake up naturally bye and bye. It's dangerous to force the issue."

A servant bearing a message suddenly took both men out of the sick room—"Mr. Updyke is wanted on the phone."

An operative had some important news for him.

"Have put Parkins' valet through a sweat bath—got everything he knew. 'Number Nine' was with me and took down the whole story. Shall I shoot it?"

"Shoot" replied Updyke, winking at Villard. Then to the latter he said: "He is going to give me the confession of Parkins' valet—and the valet is one of my men."—"Go, ahead—I am listening," said he, as he removed his hand from the mouthpiece.

"Here goes," said the operative—"Parkins, drinking heavily as he got himself ready for a run over to Long Island licked up two-thirds of a quart of straight whisky while he shaved, bathed, and dressed. Had been brought home in Villard's limousine guarded by a Jap. Though jaded he didn't try to sleep, but began to change his clothes, and talked to himself in a maudlin way. The valet said he continually referred to a poor little motherless girl—who evidently lived on Long Island. He was to bring the girl and her father to New York—neither had ever been to the city—although lifelong residents of Long Island. Parkins talked of sending 'the old man,' meaning the father, on a bus ride to the end of the line and back, probably for the purpose of losing him. The girl was to stay with Parkins and be shown the town, the big stores—tall buildings and so on, with a probable wind up at dinner at some shady joint. While Parkins had not actually unfolded his intentions toward her, the inference was that he would see that she took something that would put her out for a time. Nothing indicated as to the father after the ride on the bus—sequence would naturally suggest that he would be allowed to drift. What do you make of it?"

"The plan seems plausible up to the word 'sequence,'" replied Updyke. "Parkins was known to the girl's father, who trusted him. He could not afford to let the old man drift for he knew Parkins by name, and would naturally make inquiries. Parkins could not have risked that. More likely he would take the girl to a sporty restaurant, and order a private dining room. If possible he would slip something into the coffee, or whatever he got her to drink. Parkins is a damnable villain, and, thank God! we got him before he had a chance to succeed!"

Updyke, whose wrath took on new vigor, fairly snorted as he sensed the real story.

"I've got a 'John Doe' on the valet," replied the operative. "Fifteen is in charge of him, here in the office. What shall I do with him?" asked Number Twelve.

"Just hold him over night in one of the rooms—it might be risky to jail him. Make him feel at home, and that he is doing us a great favor, for which he won't lose anything—see? Better put a man in the entrance hall, next to his room."

"I got you—good night," said the operative.

"Good night, Twelve. You've done a big stunt. See you to-morrow afternoon or evening," replied the chief, turning to Villard with a broad grin on his face.

Not wishing to further upset Villard's mind, he said that the information was second-hand, therefore he would reserve it for the present. Parkins being in such a serious condition the case might be settled through his death. Meanwhile, bad off as he was, he should be "watched like a hawk," and any attempt at escape should be balked at all hazards. The evidence of the valet was conclusive, but always there loomed the chance of newspaper notoriety. Therefore, the necessity of great care.

"Now we'll make a call on Parkins," suggested Updyke, to which Villard agreed, although the doctor was overdue. A last call for the night on Winifred had been agreed upon, but evidently the case over at Sawyer's home was too critical—perhaps an operation had been necessary.

On reaching the Sawyer home Updyke and Villard were informed that the host had retired, but that Doctor Benton and a surgeon from New York had experimented upon Parkins, and were awaiting results which might call for a more dangerous operation in the region of the brain. One of the two nurses had volunteered the information. The situation was grave.

"I'd rather he died than come out of it a cripple for life," said Villard, as they strolled back to Dreamy Hollow in a roundabout way.

"Don't worry as to that—he will pull through, and the more crippled he is the more dangerous he will become," said Updyke. "He will steal the girl one of these days if you are not everlastingly on the alert."

From that thought Villard, who saw the truth in the prophecy, became silent, as a new fear seized his heart. By every means in his power he would frustrate such an eventuality, and with his last drop of blood he would stand between the girl and the evil genius whose touch would defile, and whose snares would destroy. Updyke, "mind reader" that he was, had just grounds for planting the seed of everlasting vigilance in Villard's brain.

"There is an old saying that 'it takes a rogue to catch a rogue,' Drury, and I've spent years in acquiring a rogue's viewpoint. Just make up your mind that Parkins can never assume the rÔle of a saint, except as a subterfuge, and that every hour that he isn't asleep, he is dangerous."

"I place the whole matter in your hands, Henry. I have not the wits for the job, and would probably lose in any fight against any man with the mind of a crook," replied Villard.

The worries of the day had been great and rest was important in view of the duties of to-morrow. A peep into Winifred's suite found the nurse in good cheer. The sleep of the patient was more normal, and signs of a desire to awaken had been noted. All was well, as the two men took their separate ways to comfortable beds and a well-earned rest.