"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.