The next five minutes dragged along at a snail's pace, so overwrought was Updyke—and no less the efficient Mary Johnson. But the right tingle came along in due course of time.
"This you, Henry—all right—he telephoned from Yaphank for a parlor and bath suite—expected very soon—can I help you in any way?"
"You are still a deputy sheriff?" queried Updyke.
"Yes—they wouldn't take my resignation."
"Listen carefully, George—this is a serious matter. This man Parkins has kidnapped a beautiful, chaste girl, and is taking her to Indian Head, if I am not in error. You have a motorcycle?"
"Oh, yes—can't get along without one over here," replied Carver.
"Then hop it instantly, and ride for your life to that club. If Parkins hasn't arrived—thank God!—you stop him before he gets there, and save a great scandal that would ruin the girl. She is as pure as snow, and is betrothed to the best friend I have on earth. Help me out, boy! Get that man Parkins—serve a 'John Doe' warrant on him and take him to the home of Drury Villard at Dreamy Hollow. It's a big black limousine, two men in front, and Parkins, with a woman accomplice, inside. The chauffeur is McGonigle's man, but the other fellow is my man. He may need help—he might be killed—but you save the day from scandal."
"I'll do my best, old-timer. What you have told me makes me see red. I may shoot the skunk," said he in a rasping voice. "If it was a Riverhead case, we'd tar and feather him."
"Go like the wind, George—and don't fail," replied Updyke, a husky tone in his deep voice.
When George Carver swung into the Jamesport road a cloud of dust trailed behind him until he stopped in front of the clubhouse. Parkins had not arrived, so everything was safe thus far. Turning back along the road he traveled leisurely and muffled the "cut-out."