Drury Villard waited impatiently and well into the dark of the night for the arrival of Henry Updyke at Dreamy Hollow. And when he did arrive, he was worn and weary to the point of brain fag. Parkins had been given the "third degree" and was now "a master crook"—according to the man who for two hours had raked him fore and aft with scathing contempt and pitiless ridicule. Hour after hour Updyke had battered at the portal of his victim's brain, until, at last, it creaked—then, opened wide to the flood of light that revealed the manner of man he was. The big fellow was glad, indeed, that Villard had not been present. Soft-hearted men had no place in such proceedings.

Updyke was not the only one to ply the questions. The Updyke "system" was there in force—certain lawyers—trained for the work, who came to browbeat and cajole, to threaten and scorn. To none of these had the case of Winifred Barbour been confided—that was a job which the master mind reserved for itself. Old matters long since condoned were exhumed whereby to wear the culprit down to a full confession of his most recent exploit. When that moment arrived the man was limp, dazed and completely shorn of combativeness.

Then came Updyke himself, and along with him five additional operatives, fierce of eye, solemn, and noiseless, as they arranged their chairs in semicircle formation, the better to confront the would-be kidnapper. Two shorthand men took seats, one on either side of the witness—then the steel door, to the great concrete "sweat room," was closed with a bang—and locked against further admissions. All this had been done within three minutes, and with studied intent, that the witness should not have the advantage of an unnecessary moment of respite.

The Barbour matter was Updyke's own case and he went about it "hammer and tongs." To the stenographers he said—

"Every word must be taken down verbatim—see that your notes compare, rigidly alike, at the close of the confession." Then to Parkins he bawled—

"Sit up like a man and tell the truth! Don't try to lie, for we know every side of the case and you will only serve yourself a bad turn if you try any smart-aleck subterfuge. The more you tell of your deviltry the fewer the witnesses that will be brought in to testify against you. It's up to you, whether or not you gain credence with those who confront you—all sworn officers of the law—who have no prejudices to start with, but will give you all that is coming to you should you lie in an attempt to save yourself. For once in your life it will pay you to be honest! Talk out loud so every one present can hear you plainly, or you will get a bucket of ice water in your face! No foolishness—we will now begin—sit up straight and don't look annoyed. You are the star actor in this drama."

To Martin Leroy, one of the stenographers, a public notary, he winked. Then said—"Swear this man to tell the truth!"—and turning toward the much-perturbed Parkins he shouted—"Stand up and raise your right hand!"

The notary knew full well that such an oath had no legal force—but it was part of the sweating process.

Weak from mental anxiety, Parkins struggled to his feet. When he had repeated the last words of the oath—"so help me God"—he fell back into his chair exhausted. All bravado had left him.

"Sit up straight, and answer the questions that are put to you," commanded Updyke, whose deep voice and ominous frown bore down upon the wilting degenerate until he squirmed in his chair.

"Stop that fidgeting, and make up your mind that the truth will serve, but the lie will condemn!" he shouted.

"Now sir"—began the man whose iron blood coursed through veins of corresponding vigor—"state your full name, your age, place of birth, residence, and avocation."

"I was born in New York City—and, er——"

"Speak up!" shouted the inquisitor. "A brave kidnapper would never cringe like a starving puppy."

"I am thirty-five years old, and I was born——"

"Here in New York—we managed to get that. Go on with the rest," said Updyke, gruffly, well knowing the advantage of getting in a quick first blow.

Then came the answers to the other questions in sequence from the beginning.

"Now tell us the story of your life—the good—and the bad—the indifferent," commanded Updyke. "We know it, pretty well now, but we want it from your own lips, so, by comparison with our records, we will know whether or not you are lying."

Parkins' face turned purple at the thought of his predicament. To be stigmatized as a liar in the presence of men was as a blow in the face.

"It's—it's a long story—not all bad," said he, reminiscently. "There was a time when none could say anything against me. I am a victim of drink and narcotics. If I could go somewhere—find a place in which I could be cured, I would begin over again. Often the feeling comes to me to run away from it all—but where could I go? The stuff is found everywhere! Most men drink, to some extent, but are moderate. To one of my temperament, one drink means a drunk, for I cannot quit until I become a sodden rotter."

"That is a sad state of affairs, Parkins, but interesting—go on with your story," snapped Updyke, his eyes fixed cruelly upon the man in the witness chair.

"There are many things and many angles, to a life such as mine," began Parkins, nervously. "I was orphaned when a small boy, and grew up on the streets of the city. I sold papers, slept in delivery wagons, tended furnaces, did odd jobs—anything to keep going—but they were happy days. After a time I became a messenger boy, in uniform, and to find myself in decent clothing gave me an uplift. But that job was my ruination. It took me into vile places as well as the best of homes, clubs and hotels. A messenger boy goes where he is sent—into a saloon, a house of shady repute, or a home on the avenue."

Here Parkins paused and wiped his face with a silken kerchief. At a glance he could see that his story, thus far, had been listened to attentively.

"But it was not at any of those places that I took my first drink," he continued. "A stag dinner of young college fellows at one of the leading hotels required some one to attend the door. A ring for a messenger took me out on the job. They had expected a man, and here was I, with my brass buttons, red stripes, and cap to match the blue coat and trousers. The party was well under way when I arrived, and when I opened the door and announced who I was, and what I was wanted for, a big howl of laughter took place. 'The Doorman!' shouted one fine big fellow, as he grabbed me and stood me in the center of a very large dining table. At once they proposed a toast to 'The Doorman,' and I was 'it' from then on. They served me a tiny cocktail, which I drank without trouble, although it was my first. One man protested, and was brushed aside. But another fellow handed me a glass half filled with champagne. That appealed to me, and I asked for more, whereupon several guests shook their fists at the man who gave it to me. To stop the fight I shouted in regular newsboy language—'What's de matter wid you'se fella's. I drink dis stuff wid me breakfas' ev'ry day of me life!'—then I began to feel dizzy."

"Very interesting," observed one of the operatives to another in a whisper.

"Then what happened?" grunted Updyke, less gruffly.

"The next thing I knew I woke up in a wonderful room. It was part of a suite in one of the swell hotels of those days—the old Fifth Avenue—and a kindly faced woman arose and came over to me. I was all right—and I told her so. I wondered why she had on nurse's clothing, but later on learned that all hotels had a head nurse. A few hours later a very bright faced, well dressed young man, not over twenty-one, came rushing in. His eyes twinkled, and he patted me on my cheeks—'Never again for you—young fellow!' he said—then—'I nearly got my jaw broke last night at the fraternity smoker. I'm only a freshman, and unfortunately the man who was serving you wine was a senior. Don't you ever let another drink go down your throat as long as you live!' he urged—and I promised."

"Who was that man? Did you learn his name?" asked Updyke.

"Yes—Drury Villard," sighed the witness. "He did not drink, and had his senses about him. If I had stuck to his advice, this situation would never have come about."

A blank expression came over the face of Updyke when the name of Villard was spoken. In a brown study he paced the concrete floor for several moments, then suddenly he turned toward his operatives and dismissed them from the room.

"The inquiry will be private between this man and myself—except the stenographers, who will make of this case a separate verbatim report. They will be kept on file for further reference," growled Updyke, scowling at Parkins.

When the door was shut upon the operatives, Parkins, relieved, again took up the history of his life.

"The upshot of my meeting with Drury——"

"Mister Villard!" corrected Updyke. "You have forfeited, many times over, his respect for you. He is no longer an intimate friend of yours—now proceed."

"Mr. Villard got me a place in an office downtown—an investment company, now merged with another concern. There is where I learned to figure in a financial way. I——"

"Yes—and you stole a ten-dollar bill, and was caught at it!" bellowed Updyke, breaking in on the testimony. "Don't miss anything—I know your record, and it won't hurt you to refresh your memory of your rascality."

Parkins winced, but he had no courage with which to combat his interrogator.

"That one overt act made an honest man of me for several years. When Drury—I mean Mr. Villard—came out of college as a graduate, he returned to New York, bent on going into a business that was entirely new. We met on Broadway one day, and he was very cordial. He asked all about myself and I told him I was still at the old place."

"Didn't tell him about the ten spot, though—did you?" leered Updyke, intentionally. He would leave no loophole for sentimental nonsense by which Parkins might try to crawl back into his good graces.

"No," said the witness, dully. "I had learned a lesson that I thought unforgettable. I had become an honest man, and I would be yet—only for drink," he added, sadly.

"Yes—and for drugs, and bad companions, and the natural-born tendencies of a crook," snarled Updyke.

"Perhaps so," responded Parkins wearily. "As I was going to say, I met Mr. Villard, and after a most friendly conversation he seemed to think I was the right man to help steer the new organization he had in contemplation. His mind was that of a dreamer of great projects, while my own was full of the figures with which to carry out big financial undertakings. I had practical experience against his theoretical college training. We were well met, at the time. He had personality and tremendous energy, to say nothing of wealthy acquaintances—fathers of his college chums. So he——"

"Yes—I follow," said Updyke. "He took you in as an expert in financial figures, and made you treasurer, also gave you his whole hearted support in every way, and finally gave up active work in the business, thus practically turning it over to you to run," sneered Updyke. "But that is all off now. You are done for—where you will land is not yet decided upon. But you may be well assured that you will miss the golden opportunity that was yours only a short while back. You are a failure—a dishonest, worthless drunkard!" concluded the big fellow who now advanced to a position where he could look into Parkins' eyes and fill them with fear.

The witness, already faint from Updyke's relentless tongue lashing, wavered in his chair, though making great effort to steady himself. He craved a stimulant—wine, beer, whisky—anything to quench the parching thirst within him. At this point Updyke handed him a drink of cool water, and he swallowed it down at a gulp. The effect was carefully noted, the demeanor of Parkins almost immediately changing back to normal. He asked for another and that was given to him. Then he sat up, quite refreshed, and indicated that he was ready to proceed.

"Did you ever consider the fact that water is one of nature's greatest stimulants?" queried Updyke.

"I never thought of it as a stimulant, but rather as a necessity," was Parkins' reply.

"Now then, I'll ask you a question that might help you if you ever test its meaning. You have just drank two glasses of cool, fresh water—would you care to take a drink of liquor on top of them? Would your appetite call for whisky, now, if you saw it before you?"

Parkins carefully considered the matter, remaining in deep thought for several moments, as he analyzed his desire for strong drink.

"No, I wouldn't care for any sort of liquor, at the moment," he replied. "I seem to have appeased my thirst for the present."

"Then why not drink your fill of water the next time your stomach craves an intoxicant," suggested Updyke. "Of course your dissipation has undermined your powers of resistance and you might have some trouble at first—but it's worth a try-out. Anyhow you will be afforded the opportunity," suggested the big fellow.

At this point of the inquisition Updyke found himself approaching the main issue—the affair concerning Winifred Barbour. All else had been more or less the paving of the way to that subject, and taking the combativeness out of the witness. Now the time had come when Updyke felt compelled to take the chance. Parkins' testimony was necessary to his plans, and if successfully brought out the case against the man himself was "nailed down and copper riveted," a time-worn expression, that Updyke often used. Before starting on the subject he drew a table between himself and the witness, and placed upon it an automatic revolver. This action very naturally caused Parkins to look up in alarm, and also the stenographers.

"No one need be afraid of that little thirty-eight. It's harmless," said Updyke. "I've carried it for years and have never shot any one with it—yet. But I am always prepared to use it instantly, as I carry it in a hidden holster just under the left side of my coat. Now I am going to leave it there, in plain view on the table, at present, for I am about to question the witness concerning his intentions toward a certain young woman, on a certain day, not long since. The name of the girl is not to be spoken. Parkins will speak of her as 'the girl,' and the stenographers will write it that way. If Parkins, either by accident or design, speaks her name I'll shoot him the moment he utters it! What I am now saying is a personal matter, and must not go into the record. When I hold up my hands the recorders will proceed."

Immediately Updyke raised his hand.

"Now then, Parkins, I want nothing but the truth out of you. Lying will be your undoing, if you expect clemency. You remember the day of the accident?"

"Yes, sir—I do," replied the witness.

"A few days before that you invited the girl, and her father, to take a trip to New York with you in your automobile, did you not?"

"I did, sir. They had never been to New York, and being friends of long standing I invited them to go in my car—and the date was set."

"Why do you sit there and lie in answer to my first question!" yelled Updyke, his face denoting extreme anger.

Parkins grew pale at the sudden fury of his inquisitor.

"I meant to tell you the truth," he replied meekly.

"Parkins, your habit of lying is constitutional. Maybe you don't know how to speak the truth—even under oath. You said the girl and her father were old friends of yours, didn't you?"

"That was a mistake—unintentional," said Parkins, now thoroughly alarmed.

"You had known them for about six weeks," snapped Updyke. "No more lying, or there will be some one hung up by the thumbs so he will remember to tell the truth thereafter. Now then—I'll ask you to tell me how and when you got acquainted with her?"

"I bought some cakes, and pies, at her stand on the motor parkway at Patchogue," said the witness.

"Started in by kidding her, didn't you?"

"Perhaps—I don't quite recall," replied Parkins, mystified as to Updyke's source of information.

"Yes you do recall—and you also remember apologizing to her for calling her 'little sister'—now don't you? Speak up—say yes or no," growled the big fellow, as he stared the witness out of countenance.

"Yes"—replied the witness, his face now almost purple.

"You have a so-called hut on the ocean side—did you ever drive her out that way?"

"Yes—once."

"Showed her all the conveniences, too—didn't you?—the kitchenette and everything?"

"I presume I did—that would have been the natural thing," replied Parkins.

"You really think so—eh? Don't you know that you are lying again? Well, now, you quit that stuff! I wasn't born yesterday," snarled Updyke as his eyes sought those of the man on the witness stand.

"Now I'm going to ask you a question," he continued, "that is going to stagger you!—what were your intentions toward her had you got her safely to New York? Be careful—say nothing but the truth!"

Updyke's steady eyes caused Parkins to shut his own and consider well before answering. How his persecutor could know so much was beyond his power to reckon. But he had to answer. The question was categorical.

"I meant to marry her," he blurted.

"Open your guilty eyes and tell me that again," shouted Updyke, bending over the table where lay the automatic. "It was to be a mock marriage—now wasn't it?—'poor little country maid!' Do you remember your maudlin conversation with yourself in your apartment the morning you were fired out of Dreamy Hollow? Of course you do—and only an act of God saved her from experiencing a try-out of your scheme. You had won her trust, and that of her father, who was to be allowed to 'drift'—wasn't he? Zim's Midnight Inn was a fine place to sup and drink—and tempt! you—scoundrel!—but God saved the girl by upsetting your car—her father is at death's door!"

"Oh, merciful heaven—stop this cruel torment! I am going crazy! I'm——"

But Parkins could go no further. He put his face in his hands and sobbed, while Updyke pulled forth a long black cigar and lighted it. He was "dying" for a smoke, and now was his chance. The stenographers, used as they were to "third degree" work, showed signs of pity for the wretched man on the stand. They watched Updyke, too, and saw him touch a button on the wall near the door. Then they saw him go to a speaking tube and heard him say—"Send him in...."

During the interim Parkins never lifted his head, until he heard the rasping noise of the steel door as it opened and closed. When he raised his eyes to see what was going on, there stood his valet and man of all work, talking with Updyke. They shook hands cordially and stood near the door, talking to each other for several minutes. By that time Parkins, red eyed and sullen, had assumed an air of defiance. His own man had trapped him, and a desire to kill crept into his mind. There lay the automatic—one jump would be sufficient, and it would be "all off" with Updyke! A wonderful chance, and he would take it—but his mind moved slowly. Updyke, standing at the far end of the room, knew his thoughts and laughed at him, mockingly—

"No use, Parkins—it isn't loaded. Here's it's mate," he said, flashing it quickly, "and it's all set for action."

Then, walking toward the table, he picked up the other weapon and emptied it of six cartridges, and put them in his pocket.

"It was loaded, after all," said he. "Very careless of me—eh—Parkins? Allow me to introduce you to one of our most valuable operatives—Mr. Parkins—Mr. Michael Curran. He says you have the best equipped sideboard in the city."

Parkins was dumfounded.

The trusted servant was an Updyke "plant," and his case now seemed hopeless. There was nothing to say, and his eyes sought the floor.

"Look up, and face the music," nagged the relentless Updyke. "A brave fellow like you who connives against young women and sickly fathers surely must be a courageous man! What were your real intentions toward that girl?" yelled the big fellow, pointing his finger at the wilted Parkins.

"I had no real plan," said he finally. "I was sober when I took her into my car, and I meant to keep sober. No man in his right mind would offer insult to an innocent girl."

"Is that so!—then why did you, absolutely sober, and after ten days in bed with a wounded scalp—kidnap her and start for Herman's Roadhouse?" snarled Updyke. "For the sake of counterfeiting respectability the name has been changed to fool decent people. It is called a social club—bah!"

"I—I—ah—or rather I should say—we were eloping—we were going to be married! She and I are engaged, and——"

"Stop right where you are! Now I want you to look me squarely in the eye and tell me that lie over again."

Updyke's lowering face at once took on the look of a demon. His right hand stole slowly under the left side of his coat and his eyes seemed to be turning green.

"It was a lie! Don't shoot me! I'll tell the truth, sir," screamed the witness. "You already know every move, every thought, every act—what's the use? Do what you will but don't ask more questions—I'm done for!" he ended, as he swooned and fell forward, but Updyke caught him in time to save him from injury.

The erstwhile "valet," stepped forward and helped to lift the limp body to the table in front of him, the barrier that had stood between him and his tormentor.

"The jig is up!" said Updyke, grimly, two big tears rolling down his rugged cheeks. "We have it all. His guilt cannot be questioned. And that's the only reason why the so-called third-degree inquisitions are to be tolerated. Slap cold water on his face. He'll come out of it in a minute or so."

Turning to Curran, he whispered—"Stay with him, and when he is fully aroused help him up to my suite upstairs and put a guard in with him. He can't get out, but he needs company," said he significantly. "I'm going out to Dreamy Hollow as soon as I get first copies of the testimony. Order my car around as soon as you can—no hurry—tell Miss Johnson to phone for it to be ready in an hour."

With that the big fellow left the "star chamber" with its windowless walls and concrete floor, a sigh of relief escaping from between his yawning jaws. He was tired, dead tired, and victory won, left no feeling of elation in his breast.

"Justice is hell for some and joy for others," said he to himself as he stole his way through to the private door into his office. Updyke's mind was upon the man that had collapsed under his lash and the cruelty of it had left its imprint upon his own heart.

A few hours later he was welcomed by the master of Dreamy Hollow.

"I've come to stay until the day after to-morrow. I need a day off," said Updyke, as he grasped the welcoming hand of Drury Villard. "I'm all in and I want to go to bed at once."

Villard scrutinized him carefully, and decided that his friend and guest knew what was best for himself.

"I'd planned for a lively evening—what is the news of the day? Did you——"

"Yes—here it is, all typewritten, and will afford you an evening of varying emotions. Show me a room—that's all I ask. To-morrow we will both be fresh, and will talk things over. No food—I snacked in my office," said the master inquisitor.

And so it was settled, and a short time thereafter Villard sat alone in his office, reading the testimony of his old-time friend, now a self-confessed pariah, and a conscienceless scoundrel. When he had finished his lips trembled, and his heart cried out against the villainy of his once trusted partner. He now loathed him as he would a viper, and there was nothing left in his bosom but abhorrence. In his present mood, good man that he was, Villard felt that he could have looked on without mercy while the low creature was strung up and tortured.

"No wonder Henry left, and went to his bed," he mumbled to himself. "Case hardened as he is to crime and malevolence, his soul has been seared with the events of this day."

Villard arose to his feet and slipped quietly out into the night, where his heated brain could be cooled and his senses restored. He hurried on toward the beach as if bewildered, caring naught for the bats that darted in front of him, and the limbs of bushes which swung back and whipped his face. The Parkins' confession stood out as might a picture of Herod cleaving the heads of helpless babes, and watching their writhing bodies as they fell at his feet.

What Villard would have done, or where he would have gone in his madness to rid himself of his obsession was a matter of conjecture, but for a terrible coughing spell on the part of some person just ahead of him. It was Alexander Barbour, bundled from head to foot against the chill of the night, who stumbled along the same path, only a few yards in advance. His walk was painful, and his voice hollow and unreal as he cried—"I want to go home to die!"

This dismal wail brought Villard back to his senses, and he ran forward in time to catch the man in his arms. For a moment there was a struggle but Barbour was too feeble to resist.

"You shall go to-morrow," whispered Villard, "and your daughter will go with you. The time has come when it will be safe for her to return to her native town, and I shall take you both home in the morning. I know how you feel, and I sympathize. Come, let us go back into the warmth of your room."

Some hours previously Winifred had helped her father into his bed, and stood over him, while rubbing his forehead and chafing his icy hands. She had placed a small electric heater at his feet.

"They feel like lumps of ice," he complained, but to the soft touch of Winifred's hands upon his forehead he succumbed to nature's balm—sleep without pain.

For half an hour she stayed beside him, and then as his hands relaxed and his breathing became normal, she knelt and prayed for his restoration to health and happiness.

Then she went to her room, but on returning a few minutes later the bed was empty—her father had gone. She notified Santzi at once, who gave the alarm, but when all hands had taken up the search, they came upon Villard and with him was the night-clad figure of Winifred's father. There was much in the way of speculation as to the result of the sick man's adventure, but the night nurse, arriving soon afterward, said that his effort to help himself might turn out to his advantage.

All through the excitement, Updyke slept on unknowing, but Winifred and Villard sat out on the moonlit veranda and talked of the plans for the morrow. He felt that she should be told of Parkins' "detention" pending further developments, but in no way did he intimate the happenings at the Updyke inquiry.

"I think your father should go back to his old home at Patchogue for a time. This place palls upon him and he will never be happy here. You must go with him, of course, and I shall ride over every day or so to see how he is getting on. We must not allow him to die from longing for his old home, where your mother lived and died. That's his trouble—and if I were in his place I'd feel just as he does."

"I believe you have solved his problem, and I am very glad you have thought it all out for us. We are plain country folk, and fairyland is too much for us. Indeed we have grown in experience since we left our little country home. But our country eyes have been opened to the love we feel for our native town and its people. There is where we belong," said Winifred, dreamily, as her face broke out into smiles.

"You shall have your wish, dear child," said he, gently. "There is nothing that I would deny you."

"But you wouldn't live there," bantered Winifred, throwing back her head and laughing at the idea. "We'll wait and see how you hold to your resolution to 'ride over every day or so.' My, how my friends would get together and gossip! I just dare you to try it," she gurgled, as she held out her hand and bade her host good night.

"No—you don't get off that easy," said Villard, striving to catch her up in his arms, but she escaped through the door of her father's chamber and tiptoed in to see if he was resting comfortably.

"All is well," she whispered on her return, looking up into Villard's eyes—"so you may return to your den, Mr. Lion—it's bedtime for me!" she laughed, as she started to go.

"And kissing time for me," laughed Villard, reaching out as if to take her in his arms.

"No, sir—this is the kind of kiss you shall have," cried Winifred, as she put her arms about his neck and her lips upon his forehead. Then she blushed, and sighed, a shyness creeping into her eyes.

"Only a kiss on my forehead!—not surely——"

"If I ever do kiss a man on the lips it will be the one to whom I am wedded—not before," said she, her face lighted with honest conviction.

"Don't forget that I am going out Patchogue way very often, in the future," he warned.

"I am sure my father and I will be ever so proud if you will come to our home as often as you can," replied Winifred, as prettily she dropped him a curtsey in a quaint, old-fashioned way.