"That's it—I am thinking of her—to memory dear. It's good of you, Updyke. Downright generous! But why do you propose it without my asking?"
Villard began to pace the floor.
"Sit down, please," said Updyke gently, as he twisted his watch chain, and cleared his throat of a great lump of hesitancy. "I once had a sweetheart, Mr. Villard, and she went away, too—somewhere up in the skies, just like your Winifred. And like you I have never married. I cannot spare the memory of her—I'll die single!"
Every doubt of Updyke's genuine friendliness was now discarded by Drury Villard, as his eyes lighted with reciprocal understanding.
"Wonderful, old fellow! Let us find joy in the fact that we have both loved, and both of us have been loved. Now we will burn this record. That shall be the seal of our lasting friendship."
Villard's eyes spoke for his heart.
"Here, take it—burn it yourself, Drury. I shall call you by your first name hereafter."
Turning upon his heel, Henry Updyke walked to a window and looked down twenty stories upon the great metropolis, its streets agog with people and traffic. When he heard the click of the latch on the door, he turned about. Villard had gone. It was no longer necessary for Updyke to hide his emotion.
But there were things to be done immediately. Parkins must be found and delivered to Villard. Updyke pressed a button and immediately one of his operatives entered and approached his desk.