"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!"