"Don't say another word, please," begged the father, who could not bear to have the subject referred to. "It isn't that I don't trust you, sir, it's because my child is my life, and I can't spare her—yet. Only a little while will I need her. You can see that for yourself. I am on my way to her mother—I'll soon be with her. Then you may come for Winifred, and she will go with you. She loves you from the depths of her heart!"
Wearied by his effort, Alexander Barbour gave himself over to another spell of coughing, and failing to stop it, retired from the room. He had said his say about Winifred and there was nothing left for Villard to do but accede to his point of view. After all he had awaited so long the advent of the girl of his dreams, that he could afford, for the sake of all concerned, to accede to the father's wishes. But his Winifred should be safeguarded by day and night!
CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD DEGREE
Drury Villard waited impatiently and well into the dark of the night for the arrival of Henry Updyke at Dreamy Hollow. And when he did arrive, he was worn and weary to the point of brain fag. Parkins had been given the "third degree" and was now "a master crook"—according to the man who for two hours had raked him fore and aft with scathing contempt and pitiless ridicule. Hour after hour Updyke had battered at the portal of his victim's brain, until, at last, it creaked—then, opened wide to the flood of light that revealed the manner of man he was. The big fellow was glad, indeed, that Villard had not been present. Soft-hearted men had no place in such proceedings.
Updyke was not the only one to ply the questions. The Updyke "system" was there in force—certain lawyers—trained for the work, who came to browbeat and cajole, to threaten and scorn. To none of these had the case of Winifred Barbour been confided—that was a job which the master mind reserved for itself. Old matters long since condoned were exhumed whereby to wear the culprit down to a full confession of his most recent exploit. When that moment arrived the man was limp, dazed and completely shorn of combativeness.
Then came Updyke himself, and along with him five additional operatives, fierce of eye, solemn, and noiseless, as they arranged their chairs in semicircle formation, the better to confront the would-be kidnapper. Two shorthand men took seats, one on either side of the witness—then the steel door, to the great concrete "sweat room," was closed with a bang—and locked against further admissions. All this had been done within three minutes, and with studied intent, that the witness should not have the advantage of an unnecessary moment of respite.
The Barbour matter was Updyke's own case and he went about it "hammer and tongs." To the stenographers he said—
"Every word must be taken down verbatim—see that your notes compare, rigidly alike, at the close of the confession." Then to Parkins he bawled—