"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.