The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dreamy Hollow, by Sumner Charles Britton

DREAMY HOLLOW

TO THE GIRL OF MY DREAMS
—F. A. B.—

SHE GAZED UPON HIS KINDLY FACE, AND THEN WITH
THE JOY OF YOUTHFUL SPIRITS, PLACED
HER HANDS OVER HIS EYES.

Dreamy Hollow

BY
SUMNER CHARLES BRITTON

A
LONG ISLAND
ROMANCE

NEW YORK
WORLD SYNDICATE COMPANY, Inc.

Copyright, 1921,
By World Syndicate Company, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

CONTENTS

DREAMY HOLLOW

CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY

Dreamy Hollow may be reached three ways—by automobile, aeroplane or boat through Great South Bay. But to go there without invitation would have spoiled the welcome, for, at the time of which we write, the master of this magnificent acreage was a man of square jaw, protruding forehead, and very punctilious. He also possessed two deep blue eyes that set far back under brows of extra overhang—eyes that reflected the soul when tranquil, but in heat of passion, turned to lead.

A forest of trees and kindred foliage protected his gleaming villa from the prying gaze of curious tourists. Only from the water side could it be seen at all. When it was learned that the great concrete walls topped by heavy iron pickets admitted of no entrance except by invitation, the sight-seeing tourist scorned the gatekeeper's apology and scurried away along the gasoline trail.

For quite a long period much mystery existed as to the ownership of the magnificent estate, but this much was known: that for five straight years the great house stood empty. No one was seen to come or go, save the watchman at the ornate iron gates opening upon the motor parkway, and his fellow guardsmen in charge of the estate far in behind the trees and bushes,—out of sight. It was built by a trust company, and whoever might be the owner, he came by sea at rare intervals and sailed away at night. Only a chosen few had visited him there, but they came as he came, and departed with him as he went away. Thus the wondrous white home with its wealth of trees and shrubs came to be known to the families of neighboring estates as "Spooky Hollow."

Drury Villard, after amassing a most prodigious fortune, suddenly appeared before his directors one bright June morning, and announced his retirement forthwith, whereat there was great consternation. For a time the silence following his announcement became so tense that, as President, he felt it necessary to say something more definite. Gathered about him were men who had carried his message all over the world and had sold it for cash. Never had they known a human specimen of such overwhelming energy of body and mind. Although strong in themselves, individually, and as a group, they knew they were merely "spokes in the wheel" of a giant intellect. They had carried his banner into every port, and that banner had spelled prosperity for every agency that held it aloft. But the Master Mind would quit! Now he would lay aside his life work and "desert" the greatest organization of its kind in the world! It amounted to just that—desertion—to those who had grown up with the business—their all was involved.

The stern faces of the strong men about him finally brought President Villard to his feet and caused him to walk nervously to and fro across the room. Every eye was upon him, and he knew in advance each man's thoughts, so intimate had his relations been with them. It was his intention to be frank. He meant to tell them everything about his future plans, but he who had always dominated now halted, ill at ease. For once in his life he exhibited a diffidence of speech in the presence of his directors. They would most likely think his reasons silly—perhaps they would think him crazy! Above all else he wanted, as he well deserved, their lasting good will. Under no circumstances would he forfeit that; but there were certain men in the organization who might feel that he was in the act of jeopardizing their future welfare. Each was a special partner and entitled to the truth, therefore he determined to put his case squarely up to them as a group, regardless of their attitude toward himself. With his hands clasped behind him he finally came to a standstill before them and dreamily peered into their faces.

"Boys," said he, his lips curving into a queer little smile, "I've got to quit—but I won't desert you. I shall do nothing that will subtract from what you have, nor will I retard your progress in pursuit of your goal. I have enough—more than I ever wanted—more than is good for any one man to possess. But for you, untiring faithfuls that you are, I should have said 'good-bye' to this great business five years ago."

Being a man of few words he stopped short and leaned back against the wall where he stood as one at bay until the silence became awkward. Then in a soft sympathetic voice a member of his board of directors spoke.

"Why, Mr. Villard—why would you have done this, when at that time your zeal was at its height?"

Vice-President Parkins asked this question in all good humor.

"Because I feared to lose my soul in pursuit of riches that I did not need. Besides, I was building my future home at Dreamy Hollow. I felt that I should need one as I was on the point of marriage. None of you know that, however," concluded the President, with a far-away gleam in his eyes.

Man of silence and strength, he paused for a moment and again paced the floor. Finally he said, simply, a whimsical expression lighting up his face: "She died—but I went ahead and built a home for her just the same. It has taken years to make it into a place she would have loved. Now, at last, it is ready. Maybe she will hover about it some of the time, so I want to be there. I want to be near at hand, so that——"

President Villard stopped suddenly and looked helplessly about him, for there were strange lights in the eyes of more than one member of the board, and by each man's sobered face was shown a deep sympathy. He looked upon them in amazement, and, suddenly taking his seat at the head of the directors' table, broke out in his accustomed voice.

"Gentlemen," said he, "we must now come to order and proceed with matters to be passed upon by the Board. The first thing is my resignation. In support of that I most earnestly bespeak your hearty concurrence. I must be relieved. Parkins is the man. He has been the real head of this corporation for years—yes, you have Bill," said he, insistently—"and all of us know it. You are the 'System Sam' of the concern, and I won't desert you by any means. Make me Chairman of the Board, if you think best, and I'll come to the annual meeting, or any time you really want me, but I trust that you will find my presence unnecessary. There need be no outside talk. Just say that I am playing with my new home, but am still in the ring. Go on with the business, boys. It's yours from now on. I'll gradually draw out and let go of some stock from time to time in equal shares to you who have carried the hod. I shall keep some of it always just to be one of you, but at my death my executors will find advices from me to dispose of any remaining interest equitably between you. Also allow you time to work it out, if need be. It's all up to you."

What the retiring president had to say was so entirely unexpected that no member of the board found words for reply, although it was patent to all that a great good fortune had been handed them in a fashion never to be forgotten. After a tense period of silence Vice-President Parkins arose from his seat and, walking forward, grasped the hand of the retiring president. A look into each other's eyes told of their mutual trust and esteem; and then one by one, the directors passed in review, several of whom put an arm about Villard's broad shoulders and peered through the mist of their own eyes into his serious face. It was plain that he wanted to be sure that each man was satisfied, and when all had paid their tributes of respect he stood before them irresolutely for a moment—then, without looking back, walked out of the room.

Drury Villard carried no heart upon his sleeve. His was a vigorous nature and he was determined that his first real attempt at home life should light his path toward contentment. No one could have dreamed that this indefatigable specimen of the strenuous life could so easily adjust himself to the new order of things. The usual servants, male and female, amply vouched for by expert agencies, had entered quickly and at once became a part of his orderly household. There had been no fussy superintendence on the part of any one, each member of the menage quietly walking into an appointed place, to take up the duties belonging thereto.

All this was to the liking of the master, whose "stock" was soon "taken" by the experienced coterie of servants who forthwith gave him their approval. Thenceforward his time was his own. He would lead a new life; he would make it his sole business to solve the problem of the real gentleman of leisure. To accomplish this he must discard by degrees all superfluous endeavor. Every habit of haste and impatience must be thrown overboard. Tranquillity of mind and body must be transplanted in their stead. He had a vague notion that his loneliness would soon vanish and that certain seeds of contentment implanted by fixed habits, together with forces not hitherto encountered, would, in time, lead him "beside the still waters,"—away from the storms of life. He welcomed the thought. It stood out as a rainbow of promise before his mind's eye, and took root within his bosom.

As days followed his occupancy of the great home he had builded, he became aware of the perfect solace which now permeated his inner being. Although assured that he had control of his every faculty he did not gloat over his sudden surcease from sorrow. There was a reason for everything and consequently no need of haste in forming "half-baked" conclusions. He had been helped along by a process yet to be fathomed—most probably the will to do. His great homestead, a marvel of exquisite taste, also performed its part in the transformation. But there was something deeper still, an underlying cause, that mystified him. Then, all at once, a great thought crept forward—was she near? Did she know all—everything about his great longing for her? His heart seemed to stand still!

He gazed out of the window; evening shadows had fallen. He had been seated in a huge cushioned chair seemingly for a long time. The room was noiseless but for the deep moaning of the waters of Great South Bay lapping at the beach. Then—vaguely—he thought he heard a voice; "Drury!" it seemed to call.

Villard roused himself and stood upon his feet. He wondered at the calm within him, and with glad voice shouted back: "Winifred! you have called to me! Speak again, dear one! I——"

"There is no death!—There is no death!" came the answer clear and joyous—and then a stillness fell upon the room, so intense that through a heavy metal door could be heard the ticking of a clock in an adjoining room.

Shaken by the experience Drury Villard fell back into the soft upholstery from which position he had heard the voice. He must have time to think! What did it all mean? How much was fact—how much was fancy? Had he been asleep? Would it not be best to walk out along his private beach and breathe the salt air of the evening tide, thus to tranquilize his mind? There was nothing to brood about—that was his thought. He had witnessed a certain phenomenon, the secret of which time must disclose to him. He would wait, "patiently and without stress of mind," was his sober conclusion. In fact, as he walked out along the sandy path leading to the water's edge he found himself supremely happy over his wonderful adventure. His Winifred had kept the tryst!—such was his impression.

From within the great obscuring veil she had spoken, had called his name,—had fulfilled the promise she had given while in the life!

"'Tis naught for Sun to shine," he quoted. "God works in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. There is no death, says my Winifred. Then must I strive with all my soul to meet her in the great beyond! But I must not brood over this matter. I feel the need of fellowship. I'll send for Parkins and put my story before him. I must have some one in whom to confide," and forthwith he put his plan into action.

Never was a man more seemingly delighted than William Parkins when a "long distance" call from the Master of Dreamy Hollow invited him over for the week-end.

"I'm just beginning to want to pal with somebody I know. Five weeks is a long time to wait for friends to invite themselves, so I'm going to start in from my end. You're first on the list, and the first invitation is yours. I won't take no for an answer."

"You will not have to, my dear fellow. I'm most happy to have the opportunity. Which way shall I go out?"

"My boat will take you on board at your pleasure any time after noon on Friday, and will land you back at the same Forty-second Street Pier at such time as you suggest."

"Well, now, that would be perfectly bully! Let's see—your estate joins the Sawyer Place, does it not?"

"Yes—on the east. His hedgerow is the dividing line between us."

"Then I know exactly how to get to you, so I shall taxi over," replied Parkins with enthusiasm. "You see I can kill two birds with one stone by stealing away Friday afternoon and motoring over to my fishing hut at Patchogue—wonderful flounders down there! I have my own boat and I want to see what condition she's in, so I'll get over to your place by noon on Sunday. How does that suit your convenience?"

"Nothing could be better."

"Then it's a go—and many thanks. Bye, sir," concluded Parkins, in his usual courteous way.

"Bye, old boy. I await you with great impatience. Speed the day—S'long—keep yourself good."

A delightful sense of anticipation came into the mind of Drury Villard as he hung the receiver. He felt the need of fellowship and upon Parkins' acceptance his great frame took on a certain vigor that called for action. He must hurry the time away that intervened before Parkins should arrive on Sunday. He must make plans. Perhaps Doctor Sawyer of the adjacent estate would join him in a dinner of welcome.

Such a plan would brush away all business talk, sure to take place if Parkins and himself were left alone the first evening. His idea was to dodge business altogether. Parkins needed a rest, and, as for himself, he had no heart for ordinary commercial chit-chat. He held a great secret in his bosom, a precious secret, and even with so good a friend as Parkins he would be chary of sharing it. For the present, pending the arrival of his visitor, he had much in mind with which to occupy himself. Parkins must find an improvement in him, therefore he would hasten his plan of mastering the secret of composure. His great experience of the afternoon might be repeated if he could but put his mind in condition to receive it. Wonderful thought!—and he would strive to bring it about.

First of all, for the sake of health, another walk along the beach seemed practical, and obeying the impulse, Villard soon found himself strolling leisurely over the path leading to the waters of the bay. He could hear the heavy intonation of the milling tide as it broke upon the sands, long before he reached his destination. Its deep muffled roar was not unlike the reveille of a drum corps in a far-away encampment. As he neared his destination, such was his serenity of mind that he felt himself in tune with all nature from earth to sky. His whole being thrilled at the wonderful message from his dead love.

"There is no death!" he murmured—and then, in lower tone, almost a whisper, he repeated—"there is no death—my beloved knows the truth!"

"Oh, Winifred," he cried aloft, "speak again to me! Tell me that you are near—that I may hope—that I may——" and then a chilling blast swept over the sands that sent a shiver through his body. A voice shouted—a voice he knew and loved so well. It seemed to say—"Life never dies!"—as clear as ever a human tongue could bear a message. It was the same sweet voice as of old, but all-pervading, seeming to completely encompass the eager man on all sides—and from below, and from above. His eyes opened wide in amazement as he put forth his whole strength to control his senses. A man of iron will, he would not fail himself at such a supreme moment! Near unto him was the spirit of his dead, the soul of his loved one—a second visitation.

"Speak on, my Winifred!" he whispered hoarsely, while attempting to shout his words.

"Life, itself, is everlasting!" rang out the voice once more. "The body dies when the soul takes flight—it is no more in being."

"Yes, go on, my loved one! Tell me——"

"Life is a common fund—endless—vast as the heavens—encompassing all space. Life is universal—it permeates, and through constant vibration animates all living things, from the blade of grass to the human soul—but the body dies, and returns to earth."

"And of the soul, my Winifred? Tell me all that I should know, that I——"

"Within the last moment of your life, when your soul prepares to take its flight, all shall be revealed to you. Your soul is the mentor of your brain, and the master of your conscience. By virtue of its quality will its destiny be governed.... So live, my Drury, that when your body dies your soul shall take the flight which leads to everlasting life."

"And we shall meet again, Winifred?—and know each other——"

"The test lies with you. I'll be waiting, Drury—waiting——"

The voice ceased, and Villard, startled by the unfinished sentence, heard a faint sound as if a silken kerchief had fluttered forth upon the breezes. At once the air seemingly regained its usual warmth, the chilling blast following along in the wake of the departing spirit.

Greatly agitated the astonished man looked about him as one who had but just awakened from a dream. Nevertheless he nerved himself into a full control of his faculties as one of his great mental poise is ever capable. He felt sure that his sanity was perfect. He had experienced an extraordinary visitation, but it had left no uncanny feeling within his bosom. His real anxiety, if any, was the fear that the spirit of his loved one had revealed too much—such was her love for him—and that future visitations might thereby be thwarted. Against that possibility he compelled himself to concentrate every force of his intellect and every ounce of his soul—and with that resolve he turned his footsteps toward his home, his body erect, his face illumined—his heart enraptured.

"Winifred!" he whispered, over and over again, and, as he neared his stately mansion—all quiet, serene, and beautiful to look upon—a great wave of regret seized him because she had never crossed its threshold "in the life."

CHAPTER II. WILLIAM PARKINS ARRIVES

The arrival of William Parkins on schedule time, all energy and activity, completely changed the atmosphere of the peaceful home at Dreamy Hollow. Parkins could not sit still. His face, red with sunburn, seemed that of a dissipated man. He fidgeted in his chair, or paced the floor while talking incessantly about the business and its prospects. He had, since Villard's retirement, become its "steering wheel," according to his own estimation. Others in the great organization who, with no shouting of self-praise, had suddenly become open game for his shafts of criticism. With blearing eyes he asserted that if left to himself he would buy out the interest of two or more stockholders—"dead ones"—he called them, but for the fact that his own contract with Villard had foreclosed upon the possibility. In less than half an hour he had, by hint and innuendo, thrown a wet blanket over the future prospects of the company. The morale was "bad." A strong man was needed at the helm—that was his verdict. And in amazement Villard listened without a word from his lips. Had the man suddenly gone crazy!—that was his first thought, but—as Parkins continued, Villard became convinced that he was a knave.

"With your approval, Drury," said Parkins, assuming a new familiarity, "I can make a great institution out of the company. It would be no trick for me to put all competition out of business. In fact, I have a plan——"

"What would you do with the present organization?" Drury Villard asked softly, but with a glint in his eyes that should have warned his guest of a lack of sympathy toward such a scheme.

"I'd scrap it!" replied Parkins, with energy.

"Scrap it!"

Villard raised himself to a straight-up sitting posture.

"Completely—and I'll tell you why," replied Parkins, with an air of finality. "The boys are getting along in years. They are old-fashioned. Business has hardened since they started in, away back there, and they don't seem to know it. 'Let well enough alone' is the invisible motto they seem to see hanging upon the wall. It makes me sick—this nonchalance. They golf Saturdays, go to the shows at night, dine out with their wives, spend a lot of money and come down to business next morning unfit for their duties."

"I'd think they would work with more energy for having taken a little pleasure as they go along—and their wives should share in it!"

Villard smiled into the eyes of his visitor as he awaited his answer, although his soul revolted at the change in the man he had made vice-president of "Villard Incorporated."

"Perhaps they might—more likely they won't," replied Parkins, his voice snappy and hard. "Business is good, all right. Sales are bigger, but that comes from my work, and as complete head of the company, I could give it not only greater national scope but greater international scope as well. I tell you this because you hold the key to the situation, and you'll agree that it takes a blood and iron policy to succeed on a big scale."

"Yes, partly true," replied Villard, whose facial expression gave no clew to his real thoughts. But had William Parkins known the trend of the Villard mind he would have packed his apparel and returned to New York. For a man of his shrewdness his blunder had been colossal. Having enthused himself to believe he was on the right track, and failing to note downright objection on the part of his host toward the trend of his conversation, he began a long drawn out indictment against each member of the company.

"It isn't a case of let well enough alone, even if it is true that we have done especially well," said he. "But my plans mean millions, not hundreds of thousands, and nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of them—not even the men who have grown up with the business. With your help I can buy every interest, and if you consent I'll quadruple your fortune in a couple of years. Of course, I'd keep some of the men. All I need is the nucleus from which to expand—and your consent to proceed."

Parkins' face glowed with pride at the manner in which he had presented his case.

"There is a certain change in your appearance, William, since I last saw you. Anything happened to disturb your mind?" inquired Villard.

"Not a thing, sir. I've been working hard—very hard, Drury. This little trip to Patchogue over the week-ends is about all I do. I like to fish, and drive my car. They are the extent of my pleasures. That's what makes my face red—sunburn!" laughed Parkins.

Villard smiled affably and agreed that the ozone from salt water was almost the elixir of life. Then, referring to Parkins' aspirations to become President of the company, he said:

"I'll think the matter over and let you know before you return to the city. At the moment I'm thinking of the jolly good dinner we're going to have. I've invited Doctor Sawyer to join us. He lives across the hedge and I screwed up the courage to introduce myself. When two sit at a table alone they are apt to talk over business matters, but a third person makes it a party. How's that for an idea?"

"All right, I suppose—three—yes, of course. It is all right, and very thoughtful of you, to be sure, although I've heard it said that two is company, and three is a crowd. However, I'm delighted at the prospect of meeting the doctor. Is he an old resident—one of our plutocrats?"

"That, I do not know," replied Villard. "His estate is magnificent and his home beautiful. I do hope he will turn out to be sociable. It is not well to dwell too much alone. We must not blight our minds through lack of exercise. The brain should have its share as well as the body. And also a certain amount of rest."

"I presume you are right, although this is the first time I have considered the subject. I give no thought to those matters—time wasted, I'd say."

Parkins, the impatient, did not relish such conversation and would have taken the short cut back to business talk had not the announcement of Doctor Sawyer's arrival stopped him. The introduction to the doctor was without warmth on either side; the regulation pump handle shake of the hands left both without a word or a smile for each other. Drury Villard was quick to notice that neither guest regarded the other more than casually.

"Mr. Parkins is connected with our company, and since my retirement from business has presided over the Board meetings," volunteered Villard.

"Indeed!" responded the Doctor gravely.

"Yes, and I am making things hum!" added Parkins. "It will be a long time before I shall want to hibernate, even in such a lovely spot as this. Action, action—I crave it! I must keep on the jump. Very pretty down here, though. Both of you have been prodigal with your money, but I'll wager neither of you could sell for the amount you've spent."

For several long seconds no answer came from either the host or his neighbor. Finally the latter broke the silence by saying, "ahem!" Drury Villard, however, did give Parkins a sharp look; then almost rudely said:

"Perhaps each of us should decide for himself how he shall spend his means. 'One man's food is another man's poison'—according to an old saying that still holds true."

"Yes, all very well," persisted Parkins, "but the wealth both of you have poured into your estates might easily have endowed a great hospital, or capitalized a huge business, giving employment to many people."

At this point Mr. Sawyer frowned, and with his fingers nervously thrumbed the arm of his chair. But he said nothing in reply. Fortunately announcement was made that dinner was ready to be served,—and much to the relief of the host, whose amazement at Parkins' poor taste was only equaled by his embarrassment. At once he rose from his seat and led the way to the dining hall, a great amphitheater with high ceiling starting from the main floor and reaching to the top of the second story. Never before had the master of Dreamy Hollow dined "in state" in his own home, preferring as he did the breakfast room, unpretentious and more inviting—or a nook on a side portico overlooking the garden of roses, and the inlet from the bay. Every appointment at this great dining hall was in keeping with its huge dimensions and the acoustics accentuated the voices of those gathered at the very large table in its center.

"I have never summoned the courage to dine at this table since I came here to live," laughed Villard. "I have been so long completing the house that I have not had time to try it on to see how it would fit."

"Most generous and beautiful," said Dr. Sawyer. "I am deeply impressed with your construction plan. I made a failure of my main dining room. Too small by far. I must do some tearing out and rebuilding. By the way, have you given your estate a name?" queried the doctor.

"Dreamy Hollow," replied Villard.

"I've heard it called Spooky Hollow," laughed Parkins, whose humor ever contained a dash of acid. Then noting the frown upon Dr. Sawyer's brow the subject was changed, Parkins taking the lead. Evidently the doctor had failed to appreciate the little joke at the expense of his host.

"By the way," said Parkins, "there is a large institution out West called the Sawyer Dietariam. Was it named after you, Doctor?"

"Now, ah—I believe it was, although I beg you to believe that I was opposed to the idea," replied Sawyer, who added—"although I am a medical doctor I did not practice medicine. My specialty was that of scientific diet, but they would call me doctor."

Parkins' face flushed red at the thought of his recent rudeness toward his fellow-guest. In an effort to straighten out matters he slapped his hands upon the table and gave voice to a nervous sort of laughter.

"Well, well! I did you a great injustice, Dr. Sawyer, and I beg your pardon," said he, most courteously. "You have really been useful to mankind, after all."

"No apologies, please," replied Sawyer, affably. "I am always sympathetic with those who jump at conclusions. Ah—by the way, I have heard that Mr. Villard, our host, was most prodigal when he retired from active business, going so far as to turn over to his organization the complete running of the institution in order that each man should have the ready made opportunity of becoming substantially rich. I don't know the facts, nor did I hear them from our modest host. The point is this, that whether or not he may ever endow a charity his record for generosity toward the men who helped him to build his great business has been warmly complimented by many leading financiers who know the facts. Unless his example should yield poor results I am prone to believe that other rich men, on retiring, will follow his lead. No plan should be followed wholesale, as it were, until some sort of tabulation as to its merits are consulted. The Villard experiment is being watched with great interest."

"Spied upon?" questioned Parkins, sharply. "I wouldn't be surprised if it is!"

"Nonsense, Mr. Parkins! Business is reputable in these happy days. No one concern can get it all. Old animosities and jealousies have been cast aside. Business is becoming standardized, and, I am happy to hope—humanized. Mercantile warfare is all but a thing of the past. Only the upstart and the unsophisticated engage in cut-throat competition these days. The stronger the organization in brains and honesty, the greater the outlook for success."

Strange to say, William Parkins found no words with which to combat the logic set forth by Dr. Sawyer. That he felt himself to be entirely out of the argument showed in his demeanor. Being no fool, however, he saw that his advantage lay in getting away from the subject, and that he proceeded to do. He could feel the searching eyes of the veteran as spotlights upon himself, eyes that were unafraid—stern but fair, as shown by the kindly twinkle that crept into them—likewise the smile that seemed to bid for good-fellowship all around. That there should be no awkward period of silence, Dr. Sawyer changed the subject.

"I am very much interested in a book I picked up recently, entitled, 'The Naked Truth'—most readable indeed. I try to laugh it out of my mind, but still find myself reading along without being bored. Thus far the author has made a pretty fair case in behalf of eternal life. There is no death, he says, and puts up an argument that I am not able to cope with. I have no license, no desire to dispute his statements."

"All rot!" exclaimed Parkins. "Of course you took no stock in it! There is positively nothing known beyond the grave—I'd bet my head on that."

As he looked around for support Parkins noted that his host had suddenly turned pale, also that his hand trembled, and his fork had fallen into his plate. Fearful that he might have antagonized Villard in some ardent belief, he was glad when Dr. Sawyer came to the rescue.

"I do not believe any one is competent to designate this author's theories as rot," said the visitor. "He might be as well assured of his ground as Mr. Parkins is of his. Perhaps he has had experience not yet a part of Mr. Parkins' stock of knowledge! As a fact, we have all been taught from childhood of a great reunion in store for us. The Bible is authority for that. Is Mr. Parkins able to support a theory to the contrary?"

Sawyer tried to catch Parkins' eyes, but they were fixed upon his plate. He then turned toward his host with a remark when he noticed the pallor of Villard's face, and the trembling of his hands resting upon the edge of the table.

"Are you ill, Mr. Villard?" he inquired, solicitously.

The host looked up and attempted to smile away the inference. But instead, something from within prompted him to say:

"I have every reason to believe that the dead have power to communicate with the living."

"You have!" exclaimed Doctor Sawyer, looking sharply at his host.

"It is true—I have experienced——" then Drury Villard halted abruptly and looked anxiously into the faces of both guests. Each seemed greatly surprised at his partial answer. Perhaps they doubted. Therefore, to a certain extent he would enlighten them.

"I have witnessed the greatest phenomenon possible to occur. Within a few days I have talked with some one whom I knew in the life!"

After Villard's solemn declaration there followed a long pause. Parkins' face became very grave, but there was a sharp, quizzical look in his eyes. There sat the paramount stockholder of the corporation over which he craved ultimate control. Once in that position complete ownership might easily be made to pass along to himself. A person in Drury Villard's state of mind surely needed legal guardianship—that was his notion—therefore, "why not, by legal action, become that guardian!"

This thought, on the spur of the moment, took root at once, and craftily, and through semblance of friendly credulity, Parkins began to work upon the good graces of his host. He at once decided to humor Villard in all things put forth in behalf of his uncanny belief.

As to Sawyer he could, perhaps, through subtle diplomacy, make of him an innocent ally. But extreme caution would be necessary—he would have to change his tactics, agree to the Sawyer code of ethics, and above all, build up in him a strong sympathy for Villard, because of his affliction.

"While I am much surprised at your declaration, Drury," said Parkins, "I can truly say that you have struck the one chord nearest my heart. Brain, body and soul, I believe in immortality."

Parkins' voice had now become soft and gentle, and a winning smile was upon his lips. He observed Villard's keen eyes searching him for the truth. It was a dangerous test to invite but it was successful, the host finally relaxing into a state of calm. Having accepted Parkins' overture as bona fide, Villard, with a sigh of relief, proceeded.

"I do not know why I have disclosed my secret," said he, looking calmly into the placid face of Dr. Sawyer. "Probably because it reflected the yearnings of my soul. Involuntarily I seem to have sought the loyalty of my guests toward the truth of my statement."

"Of course, it is true, Mr. Villard," responded Sawyer. "Why not? While I have never actually heard voices from the outer world I have always yearned for, and expected, a message from my wife. Also I have believed with certainty that I would hear her voice in all naturalness—sometime. Indeed I have prayed for just that. It is bound to come—I am sure of it," he finished with a gulp.

"There is nothing more strange than our own living presence as we sit here at this table," declared Parkins soberly. "Truly the phenomena of death and resurrection are no greater than life itself. But it is all so very unaccountable that I have only my unshakable belief to make me steadfast in behalf of my senses."

"Would you care to say more in relation to your communication with a spirit from the other world?" asked Sawyer, addressing himself to Villard.

"Perhaps, sometime—but not to-night. I must make sure that I am perfectly sane, and that what I say will be regarded as truth—not a mirage of the brain. I must not be set down by either of you as a crazy man—or even a morbid thinker."

"Quite right, Mr. Villard," responded Sawyer, who had begun to notice Parkins' nervous attitude. "That would be most unfair, considering your successful career."

"The world is not ready to believe in the return of souls to comfort the living," continued Drury Villard. "I shall strive the harder for another contact with the presence of that wonderful spirit. I knew her in the life, and I loved her. She would have been my wife years ago, but for her untimely death. Now that I so greatly need her she has found a way through the great veil to give me cheer."

As Villard finished his declaration, Dr. Sawyer gave vent to an audible sigh. His sympathy was bona fide; a fellowship for his host had taken root in his heart. Parkins had become most solemn in his attitude, his face denoting a real sympathy for the older men who were striving for knowledge concerning their departed loved ones. A guilty feeling of disloyalty caused him to wonder if his plans might not be disclosed to both Villard and Sawyer through the same voice Drury had heard. A creepy sensation ran through him at the mere thought of exposure. Notwithstanding his misgivings he believed both men were suffering under a delusion born of a desire to hear from their dead. Of the two, Sawyer was the more nearly sane. This was his estimate between them, but Villard seemed the more pliable.

Parkins' own plans were far too important to himself to spoil with overhaste, therefore he resolved that all necessary time should be taken, might it be a day, a month, or a year. The game was worth the candle. He would play in this one according to the opportunity offered by each, patiently awaiting the moment when he might safely spring his legal trap on Drury Villard.

"I have often tried to find the open sesame to the spirit world but perhaps I am too earthly to succeed," volunteered Parkins after a lengthy pause. "What can you tell me, gentlemen, that will give me a lead toward the door of the unknown?"

"I know nothing whatever," averred Dr. Sawyer, with lips tightened. "Perhaps Mr. Villard may have something to offer."

"Absolutely nothing, gentlemen. I've told you of my experience without going into detail. I do not claim to know anything, which is exactly the attitude of those great thinkers, Edison, Lodge, and Conan Doyle. Edison is said to believe that he can invent an apparatus so delicate that it may record communications from the outside. But I had no such instrument. I simply heard a voice that I knew, and I'd give everything I have in the world to hear that voice again—there! Did you hear that?"

Drury Villard looked up, and around about him. Parkins' face grew pale but he avoided the searching eyes of his host.

"Winifred!" shouted Villard, as he gazed abstractedly about the great dining hall, and into the eyes of his guests. But he did not see them.

On hearing the name Winifred, Parkins' eyes opened wide, as he searched Villard's face.

"Yes—yes, I hear you," continued Villard—"yes, dear heart—go on—you say to—what! My God! Can it be true?" Then, glaring at Parkins, he exclaimed:—"Yes, it is true—I can see the situation clearly. No!—it shall never be!"

Parkins shuddered with apprehension, as Villard's jaws snapped together, and for a full half minute his eyes looked down upon the white damask table covering. When he raised them he glanced swiftly at his host and then turned with an apologetic smile toward Sawyer.

"I have an acquaintance by the name of——" the sentence remained unfinished—Villard's face flaming with anger.

"I know you will pardon me if I ask that we change the subject," said the host in his usual tone of voice, and without a tremor of excitement. "With no volition of my own I have undergone another experience. I have nothing to say on the subject and will beg that no questions be asked at this time. Let us have coffee and cigars, Jacques," said he, addressing the head servant, at the same time eyeing his guests in an open, cordial way. His glance at Parkins was searching, but the latter seemed entirely at ease, and in full sympathy.

"Permit me to say that I intuitively comprehend all that has occurred," said Dr. Sawyer to his host. He then turned his eyes upon Parkins, but that gentleman avoided the gaze, although from no real understanding of its significance.

"You heard no strange voice, Mr. Parkins?" questioned Sawyer.

"Voice! I heard Drury talking to some one, or something, invisible to me. I heard no reply—seemed to me as though he had suddenly gone crazy!"

"Crazy—Yes! Most likely you would think that!" replied Sawyer, sternly. "Sometimes old friendships dissolve through lack of sympathetic understanding."

"But I don't understand, sir!" replied Parkins with a composure well feigned. Glancing hastily toward Villard he asked with eyes widely opened—"What has happened?"

Villard gazed back at him soberly before replying. Then finally after due thought he said, somewhat harshly—

"We will talk the matter over at another time. By the way, let us have the coffee and cigars outside, gentlemen. I have wonderful outlook that will give us a glimpse of the rising of the moon, now due. Its glow over the waters of good old South Bay lends wonderful effects."

CHAPTER III. A MESSAGE FROM WINIFRED

From a nook balcony and for more than an hour the three men bathed in the beauty of a gorgeous moonlit night. Over their coffee and cigars they drank in a grandeur of gleam and shadow over sea and land with little in the way of conversation to mar the serenity of a perfect night. Each had thoughts personal to himself and the inclination of all seemed to be that of introspection.

Of the three, Parkins maintained the more silent mood. Had he been incautious? He wondered if Villard had really been warned against him by a message of some sort, or was he subject to vagarious meditations by reason of his loneliness? As for himself, he was far too practical to admit that there might be such a thing as real spiritual communication. At any rate, there was yet a preponderance of belief to the contrary. He knew of certain persons who had been confined in sanitariums for asserting queer notions on the order of "pipe dreams." Thus next friends had, by order of court, taken them in charge and put them where, in his opinion, they belonged. If friends refused to act the law stepped in and managed the case in behalf of the public welfare.

It was along this line of reasoning that Parkins finally made up his mind to execute his plans at all hazards. His consuming idea of becoming tremendously rich depended upon his success in securing control of a majority holding of "Villard Incorporated." He longed for wealth and power, to gain which he must use the weapons best fitted to the task—diplomacy first, force if called for—and he would lose no time!

It would be necessary to watch Sawyer carefully—"a very canny old gentleman, who might cause trouble," was his thought. To win him would require a diplomacy of the highest order. He must be primed with the right sort of propaganda concerning the Villard hallucination and prove it to Sawyer's satisfaction—then all would go well. He would first turn them into "old cronies," as it were; cause them to strike up a most intimate acquaintance wherein the strength of Sawyer's will power could be utilized in behalf of the Villard weakness. Indeed, Sawyer must be so convinced of Villard's need of a next friend, wholly disinterested, except for his mental welfare, that no court in the land would deny him legal guardianship. Thenceforth the path would be clear of obstruction. Having formed in outline a plan of action, Parkins broke the silence by saying—

"Never have I seen so much beauty in moonlight. It is almost as bright as day."

"Glorious!" responded Sawyer, after several moments of hesitation.

Enthralled by the peacefulness of the situation he had not cared for small conversation. Villard, evidently buried in thought, remained silent. He wondered what manner of girl was the Winifred of whom Parkins had spoken, but he asked no questions. He also wondered as to Parkins' intentions toward her.

"If the sunrise over the Alps is half as grand as the sheen on the waters reflecting this moon, I can see myself buying a ticket that way soon," said Parkins, airily. "Would you care to go along, Drury?"

The question went unanswered overlong, so absorbed was Villard with his own thoughts. Reminded of the fact that he had guests to entertain he sat up quite suddenly and gave attention to Parkins' query.

"All that is in the background with me. I've seen every part of it; been everywhere worth going. This is the spot where my dreams will come true. Here I will live—and here I will die."

"Right," agreed Sawyer. "I am glad you have come to stay. If ever a man needed comradeship it is myself. I shall haunt you, Mr. Villard, and your beautiful home, unless you agree to become a downright good neighbor who will swap visits often."

"I shall esteem it a high privilege to visit you, often," replied Villard. "You must come over the hedge every time you have the courage to choose a poor companion. Of late I have been so much alone that I need a course of training in order to become sociable. I'm willing to make a great try of it and will hope for success. You have seen me at my weakest to-night—perhaps you may never catch me again in the same mood, Dr. Sawyer. But I know you are a man of deep sympathies and that we shall be good neighbors."

"That, we must be," replied Sawyer fervently, "and now I shall be going for I am old enough in years to practice regularity. It is my bedtime—a little past the accustomed hour, so I will shake hands and be gone! We must get together soon again."

Then turning toward his fellow guest he bowed stiffly, but made no offer of his hand in parting.

"An ill omen," thought Parkins, as he threw himself into bed an hour later. "Things were not working just right," he admitted to himself, but that his goal should be reached in due time, he promised himself. "The pyramids were not built over night"—were his last muttered words before the cool air crept in from the Sound and sent him into a restless sleep.

Out on a window balcony Drury Villard, thoroughly awake, and protected from the cold by a heavy steamer blanket, sat motionless, with eyes wide open and mind obsessed with the incidents of the evening. Of the Parkins episode he very much desired to rid his mind, for, after all, he most likely stumbled into an awkward position by reason of his too practical nature. On thinking over the past he could not help but give him credit for having earned his promotion to actively head the Villard Company. He had known him as a boy—and he was now the active head of Villard Incorporated—an expert financial man. All through their years together he had been loyal, good natured, and successful in the big part he had undertaken. No higher compliment could have been paid him than that Villard's mantle of authority should fall upon his shoulders. In the light of events the question was whether or not Parkins would be capable of standing up under prosperity and great future prospects. Had an exalted ego taken possession of his once cool, analytical mind? Was he now loyal to all hands in the organization, and to Villard himself? Or had he turned traitor through anxiety to become the master of a great fortune?

After much weighing of the situation Villard decided that the matter warranted certain tests continued over a goodly period of time. He held in reserve a wholesome pity for the man who so lightly esteemed the golden opinion that he had honestly won, and he pledged himself toward leading him back to his normal self. With that in mind as a policy to be pursued, he rang for light inside and wandered his way to bed.

When Drury Villard had laid his head upon his pillow all forebodings passed away, leaving him at peace in mind and body. There was no weariness because of his duties as a host. He owed himself a good night's rest and with every intention to obey the call he shut his eyes and calmed his brain. Almost at the point of complete repose a vague and dreamy impression that some one was calling from far away came into his mind. He seemed to hear his name, and whispered so softly as to be almost inaudible. Apparently it was the voice of Winifred, and the very stillness of the night seemed boisterous by comparison. Her nearness had the effect of tingling the blood in his veins as she breathed his name—and then, with the softness of a leaf falling upon the grass beneath a low hung bough, the voice continued—

"All that is good is saved—the dross goes back to earth to enrich the soil—but the soul is divine! It never dies! Its homeward flight is nature's plan of purification—but once returned it rests, and awaits the call to go forth and serve a new-born babe of corresponding mould. Thus is inclined the congenital tendency of the human strain when mixed, and provides a natural deviation by which no two human beings are exactly alike. All nature adheres to the selfsame principle."

"And we both shall live again, my Winifred?" breathed Villard.

"We shall, but worlds there are without number, and the same universe holds all. What shall be my further progress I do not know. Enough to say of The Great Beyond that it offers rest and requitement to all souls released from the ills and sorrows of earthly habitation. Farewell, my Drury; another Winifred will come into your life ere long. I shall strive to hover near when you need me most. Meanwhile watch thy way and beware of the pitfalls that will beset thy path."

Now, suddenly, Villard raised himself to sitting posture. So intent had been his mind upon the whispered words of his loved one that her spirit had gone its way before he could command his voice to speak. As in a dream he buried his face upon his pillow, thereby to control his pent up emotions, and also to recount and memorize the exact words that she had spoken. This accomplished, he sighed deeply and lapsed into slumber. Later on he became restless and was startled into partial wakefulness. The one word "beware"—was faintly whispered, but drowsiness overcame his effort to understand although he rolled and tossed from side to side.

CHAPTER IV. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE

Drury Villard was not the only one at "Dreamy Hollow," who failed to enjoy a full night of repose. There was William Parkins, guest, and erstwhile trusted friend, whose brain teemed with plans by which he might get control of the Villard estate. A score of times he turned over in bed to escape the penalty of a sleepless night. Somewhere among the small hours approaching the light of a new day he succumbed to fatigue and had fallen into a weary doze. His last thought on going to sleep was the urgency of quick action if his plans were to succeed. His advantage lay in the present mental state of Drury Villard, whose mind, he was convinced, must border upon the edge of insanity. Hence the need of restraint, and no sane judge would dare deny a writ of sequester to a next friend pending a period of isolation while awaiting the final decree of the Court. Villard's great fortune should not be allowed to "dangle" in plain sight of "jack-leg lawyers," while he, Parkins, awaited final results of the proceedings.

During the hours he had given himself over to thoughts concerning the Villard matter Parkins' mind had been cold toward any conscientious scruple. In his judgment Villard's foolish notion that he could communicate with the soul of a dead sweetheart was as good as a free ticket to a sanitarium. Any judge would have to admit that. Nothing less than providential interference could defeat the plan. The first thing to be done was to select a lawyer of reputation and prestige. Until that was decided, no important step could be taken, except to find out how Sawyer would regard the situation. If he balked, naturally complication would ensue, but the lawyer Parkins had in mind would brook nothing in the way of nonsense. He could, if desirable, put Villard in an asylum. As for Sawyer, he would be given to understand that any interference from him would result in an investigation of his own peculiar views, he having practically coincided with Villard's belief that the latter had heard the voice of his dead love.

Dr. Sawyer had intimated plainly that he, too, had heard that voice and understood the warning words about outside influences. He wondered if Jacques, the servant who served the dinner, had witnessed Villard's excitement and understood the cause of it. He decided to find out about that matter on the following day. Meanwhile he would take one more pill—then he would rest—"sleep"—he muttered. "I must be ready for 'big game' hunting to-morrow."

With this determination he closed his eyes and fell into a nervous slumber. But an hour later Parkins found himself sitting upright in bed and screaming with fear at the top of his voice. Several servants and a night watchman soon surrounded him, the watchman holding an electric torch with which he flashed a flood of light into the face of the guest. Santzi, the Japanese attendant, and personal servant to Drury Villard, had awakened his employer, and together they rushed to the chamber occupied by the guest. The latter, wild-eyed and disheveled, stared at his host and moaned. Then wildly, he shouted—

"It was you who planted a spook in this chamber! You have tried to frighten me into your insane belief, but you've missed your guess! You'll pay for this—you'll——"

"There now, William," soothed Villard—"calm yourself, my boy. Your digestion is off—you've had a bad dream! Don't give way to such unworthy thoughts. Don't you see that everything is all right?"

"A put up job—that's what I see! Neither you nor any one else in this world can make a fool out of me! It's you that is crazy—not I. It's you that pretends to talk with dead people! In fact, it was you who put up this scheme to scare me. You wanted to win me over into a looney state of mind like yourself, but it didn't work! Now, sir, I'm done with you!"

Parkins' eyes blazed with a mad light in each and his breath smelled of drugs. In his rage he had thwarted his own plans and now comprehended to the full extent the mess he had made of them. He demanded privacy from the servants that he might clothe himself and be ready to take his leave by first conveyance. He also demanded that Villard remain with him for a conference, which was granted. Once the door was shut against all witnesses, Parkins sat upon the edge of the bed and cried like a child.

"There is nothing I can say to remove the prejudice I must have aroused within you, Drury. Of course you will acquit me of bad intentions. It must have been a nightmare," he whimpered.

The bravado had entirely gone out of the Parkins' voice. Several moments elapsed as Villard eyed him carefully.

"Just what did you see, William? Tell me exactly what caused your fright."

Villard's words were measured. They lacked warmth, a fact that Parkins could not have failed to take into account.

"Some one stood by my bedside—a woman's form—not in the flesh——"

"Yes—go on!"

"It stood there, motionless, and the room became as cold as ice. I tried to shout but my voice refused to respond. All I could do was to gasp for breath!"

"How long did the apparition remain in view?" demanded Villard, his eyes gleaming his disgust toward Parkins.

"A half minute or a minute—seemed like an hour!" he replied, his teeth chattering from sheer fright.

"Did the Spirit talk—say anything at all?"

"Not a word—just held up a hand as if warning me of something——"

"Ah! there I have it," broke in Villard. "You were warned that your plans were known to me. And that is true. You have lost your soul, William, and were you to die without repentance, it would roam through the ages, lost to all chance of redemption."

"But I don't owe repentance to any dam'd spook! I——"

"Enough of that, sir!" snapped Villard wrathfully. "I'll have no nonsense of that sort! Another insult and your baggage will await you at the carriage entrance."

"But, Drury——"

"Hereafter you will address me as Mister Villard. Our intimacy is at an end!" warned the Master of Dreamy Hollow.

His eyes blazed as he glared at the man on whom he had showered his trust and esteem.

"To-morrow morning you will return to New York. By the time you reach there I shall have made up my mind as to your future usefulness to the company."

Having delivered this ultimatum Villard on second thought punched the button for Jerry, a colored servant, long in his employ. He responded at once.

"Send Santzi to me," said he,—"and return with him. I have duties for both of you. Also arouse the housekeeper and tell her to provide tea and toast immediately for a departing guest."

When Santzi, the Japanese body-servant to Drury Villard, presented himself a few moments later he was told to order out the limousine and prepare to accompany Mr. Parkins to New York.

"It is urgent that the trip be made as quickly as possible—but safely," said Villard, and as Santzi started to obey, the master walked along beside him until both were out of hearing of the Parkins suite.

"I want you to sit inside facing this man. He is not well, and should get back into a milder temperature. If he tries to get out of the car just see that he doesn't. His mind is rather upset, because of his illness. Jerry knows where he lives and will drive him straight to his door by early morning."

"I'll attend, sir," replied Santzi.

"Then come back home, and get some sleep—but don't shut your eyes while Mr. Parkins is in your care!"

"I not sleep, 'ntil start back. Must I use jiu-jitsu?"

"If necessary—but be safe. Do him no real harm. See that he harms neither you nor himself—that's all."

As Parkins, in sulky mood, came out of his comfortable quarters into the great hall leading to the porte cochère, Villard walked along beside him, his hand upon his shoulder. Following came several servants, Santzi in advance, Jerry, Jacques, and Mrs. Bond, the housekeeper, who carried a hamper filled with food. Parkins had refused to partake of anything to eat before leaving and as he stepped inside the car the top light illumined his ashen face. He took the handshake offered by his host who smiled reassuringly and wished him safe journey.

"You'll be down again, soon, I hope," said Villard, his voice kindly. "These cold nights get on one's nerves until one becomes used to them. Call me up soon, I'll be glad to know that you have recovered. Don't try to report at the office to-morrow. I will phone up that you are not well, but will be in a few days—meanwhile I'll look in on you at your home. I'll let you know when. Keep your mind clear, and don't worry."

Parkins' last peep into Drury Villard's eyes brought each mind into full understanding. Parkins knew that he must not go near the general offices of the Villard Corporation without invitation from Villard himself. Looking the situation squarely in the teeth he cursed the drugs that had crazed him, and at once resolved to carry out orders. His future depended upon his acceptance of the suggestions offered, which, in fact, were orders. So tense were his nerves at the moment he could have cried out against his absurd folly, but the placid face of Santzi appeared as a full moon with eyes ever alert. The best thing to do was to draw the robe about him and snuggle down to sleep.

The next he knew the big limousine had halted before the entrance of the huge apartment building in Park Avenue. There he maintained a suite of rooms richly furnished and thoroughly equipped for the kind of life he led. Having slept all of the way home he had fairly recovered from his delirium of the night, and after gulping down a full portion of "whiskey sour," he aroused his man-servant and ordered his breakfast.

Then, methodically, he began to repack his suit case, a very large affair with double hand-grips, capable of holding enough clothing for a trip to London. But such a journey was farthest from his thoughts. Patchogue was his destination, and the object of his haste was "the prettiest little country girl on Long Island!" He had promised her a trip to the great city, and her father was to accompany her—"and that makes everything all right," he exclaimed aloud, holding up a kodak picture of a beautiful young woman, plain of dress but graceful of form, and a face of idyllic charm.

"Poor little motherless child," said he, softly—"and what a devilish cur I am growing into!" he growled warningly at his weakness.

Shaking his head soberly as if steadying himself against a great folly, his eye again caught sight of the big black bottle on the sideboard and he rushed toward it and grasped it with trembling hands. This time he took several great swallows, then rushed to the kitchenette for water which he gulped down his throat until its parched surface had been appeased.

"Poor little country maid," he mumbled after recovering from a spell of hiccoughs which suddenly seized him. "I'll send her old man on a bus ride while I show her a good time along the great white way—and then to Zim's place! Poor little motherless girl—never has been to the big town in all her life—and lives only fifty miles away! The old man can drift for himself, after his bus ride. Ye Gods! Long Island holds thousands of them who never have seen lil' ol' n'york—hic! Poor lil' country baby—I love her—no use to marry, she hasn't any money. Love gets cold when you run out o' gold—sounds like a song-hic!"

Parkins now stripped himself for a bath and was soon out of the tub and under the shower. All this had a sobering effect upon him, and by the time he had shaved and dressed he looked the part of a well groomed gentleman. His eyes caught glimpses of the big black bottle now and then, but he stood firm, and turned his back upon it. Once he waved his hand toward it and hoarsely whispered—"never again!"

Then suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed immoderately.

"Never again—hell!" said he, "I'll drink when I want to! Whiskey hasn't anything on me! I can take it or leave it alone," saying which, he stepped over to where the bottle stood and took several swallows just to prove his assertion. Then, calling to his servant, he ordered two full quarts placed in his suit case, and to phone McGonigle's garage for his four seated roadster.

A half hour later he was steering his car amid the traffic of the Williamsburg bridge on his way to a little house in the heart of Patchogue, the home of Alexander Barbour, and his daughter—Winifred.

CHAPTER V. THE HAWK SEEKS ITS PREY

As far back as he could remember, Alexander Barbour had fished for the New York Market in the waters of Great South Bay—likewise his father and grandfather before him. A vast area of fishing ground stood just off Patchogue, then a tiny village, near which flounders were seined in enormous quantities. They were nearest in flavor and delicacy to the famous sole of English waters, and the great restaurants and hotels of the day vied with each other in devising new ways to serve them.

Alexander Barbour, with all of the vim and courage of youth, took the business when his father died and forthwith married the girl of his choice, whose personality and charm made of him a fond and loving husband. His greatest hope was that she might bear him a male child, that the line of succession in the Barbour family should go on through another generation. Unhappily for him the first born was a girl, and before a week had rolled around the mother died—and Barbour, the fisherman, drooped into a physical and mental decline.

Only a winsome baby girl was left to cheer his lonely heart. He strove hard to conceal his disappointment but the habit of brooding increased, for he had prayed for a son, but alas, his prayers had been denied.

Before her death Mrs. Barbour gave to her babe the name of Winifred, and, as the end drew near, a village parson performed a christening service in the presence of weeping neighbors who pledged loyalty to the mother's memory, and to the welfare of her little one, thus comforting the dying woman as she passed on to another world. From the shock of it all Alexander Barbour shrank into a pitiful state, having failed in his attempts at reinstating his prestige. Finally competitors controlling great storage warehouses and banking facilities drove him practically out of the field. The interest on his savings did not suffice to live upon the liberal basis of past years, and as Patchogue grew in population the name of Barbour receded from public concern.

As a babe in arms little Winifred cooed her way, laughed as a child, and as a school girl finally sang herself into her father's good graces. At ten years of age she had mastered the art of housekeeping, and with a wisdom far beyond her years, encouraged her father, as best she could, to keep up his spirits and not give way to despair.

"I know where you can gather some wild cherries," she volunteered to him one day; "they are just thick along the inlet, and everybody is out picking them for the market. They bring a good price in Patchogue."

By the time Winifred reached her fifteenth birthday she had graduated from high school, and in addition to that had "kept the home fires burning" with a knowledge that surprised her friends. But all through those years under the home roof she had maintained the practice of conversing with her dead mother. This she began in her eighth year, as a child would talk with its doll and answer back as its mother. The habit had continued through girlhood into young womanhood, minus the doll, but at the age of eighteen she made the startling claim to her father that she could converse with her dead mother at will. While humoring her belief, he nevertheless was skeptical, and shook his head indicating his doubt.

"But there are certain hours of the night, when the great stillness comes on, that I can hear her voice just as plainly as I can hear yours now," said she, quite convincingly. "Why, I talked with mamma last night!" she declared with girlish vehemence.

"What did she say, Winifred?"

Mr. Barbour allowed himself to appear somewhat convinced by her statement. It would do her no real harm, and she would outgrow the vagary of such dreams as she grew older, according to his belief. Then, too, thoughts about her mother were for the good of the girl—an influence that should be encouraged.

"She told me to study hard and become a teacher—and——"

"Yes, dear—and, what?"

"Well, I've been thinking how to tell you—the last message was about you," said she, smiling up into her father's eyes.

"Are you at liberty to tell me?" he asked, bracing himself against the choking grief which suddenly seized him.

"Yes, indeed—but you mustn't mind her solicitude for your future. She thinks you are aging too rapidly and that you must find a way out of your sorrow. She asked me to give you more companionship, and to lead you into a firm belief of the hereafter. Your lack of sincere belief leaves a gap in the way of your communicating directly with her."

All this was said in a voice of sweet modulation and assuredness, a smile lighting up her face as she spoke. There was no question of her absolute convictions.

"What would you suggest, Winifred?" replied her father, his voice broken, and his eyes filmed with tears.

"I don't know, but mother thinks the waters of South Bay hold the solution. What could she mean by that?"

"I hardly know what to think. Did she suggest any particular reason for that answer?"

"Oh, yes—she said that they would bring you back to the land in time. I am glad I didn't forget that," said Winifred, jubilantly. "Let us think it out some way. Perhaps she meant that you should keep on fishing and sell your catch to the market men. Afterwards buy a farm with your earnings."

In the conversation that followed Winifred took no small part in calculating a plausible solution to her dead mother's advice. The waters of Great South Bay at once suggested fish, oysters—wild ducks in the fall of the year, and in the early spring. These would sell to local buyers for ready cash. But what of the land? They had none! In her own heart she knew that her mother had meant to arouse her father into physical activity.

"Couldn't we rent some ground?" suggested Winifred—"and send our produce to market by boat from Patchogue? Other people do."

"Indeed we could, my dear child," exclaimed Alexander Barbour, straightening his shoulders. "We will do that very thing, with the city of New York to back us in our enterprise. We can sell all we raise, surely, for there is no vegetable trust to squeeze us out of business, as there is in fish and oysters."

"And when I begin teaching school we will put my earnings away, too," echoed Winifred—"and, oh, won't mother be glad when I tell her of our plans?"

With that enthusiastic speech she jumped from her chair and wound her arms about her father's neck. The kisses she showered upon him electrified him, and from that moment his resolve to succeed never waned.

And all went well with the Barbours, father and daughter clinging to each other, avoiding all tendencies toward extravagance, so that within the space of a few months they found themselves in more comfortable circumstances. Throughout the next two years "messages from mother" inspired them and cheered their way, and all of a sudden the village of Patchogue began to grow by leaps and bounds. Substantial hotels sprang up, subdivisions were platted, cottages and villas builded up on every side. Taking advantage of "the boom" the Barbours bought lots and sold them at a profit, and Barbour himself built a refreshment booth on the motor parkway near the beach, and Winifred helped in its management. No longer could she devote her time to household duties, for sales at the booth dropped off when she was away, whereupon a housekeeper was selected and put in charge of the home. Winifred's bright face and unfailing humor had worked wonders financially. People came back to the stand from time to time, mostly automobilists, who always seemed to know where the best could be had, and—never mind the price! One of Winifred's most persistent and profitable customers, Mr. William Parkins of New York, had expressed the same thought in another way.

"We want what we want and we get it," said he, with a jolly laugh, at the young girl in charge. "Better look out, little sister, or some one will come along and steal you!"—and that was the first effrontery Winifred had ever experienced.

Abashed she turned her attention to other customers, but the heightened color in her cheeks showed her indignation. Nevertheless Parkins stood around, picking out this box of candy, and that bag of salted almonds, to say nothing of homemade pies and cakes, each to be wrapped separately, thus to gain her attention as many times as possible.

"I need these out at my fishing hut over on the ocean side," said he smiling into her eyes, but they were cold. "Don't be angry," he pleaded. "I had no intention of being rude—I apologize most sincerely."

Parkins' voice was so kindly and his smile so winning that Winifred's face relaxed into its natural sweetness of expression. But she said nothing and found things to do which kept her busy. Parkins, gay New Yorker, with money galore, was not of the kind who accepted defeat. Here was a dainty little maid and he wanted to know her.

"I'll stay here until you tell me I'm forgiven," he persisted. "Why, little woman, I am the last man on earth to suspect of willful rudeness. I'd rather jump in the bay, and say to myself 'here goes nothing,' than to offend you. Honor bright! Now do please say it's all settled, so I won't go away feeling ashamed of myself."

Unused to familiarity from strangers Winifred remained silent for a time in order to think out the best plan to pursue. She wished her father had been there, then the incident would not have occurred. But he was absent—therefore the necessity of taking care of herself.

"No further apology is necessary, sir," she found herself saying. "I presume you live in New York, and your ways are different from our ways. Our men folk are always respectful to women, and we very naturally cling to the amenities even though we are country folk."

"Of course you do!" exclaimed Parkins, "and that is the right course, always—but this is the holiday end of a busy week of hard grind, and my outing has been so delightful I just feel friendly to everybody. Do you live here?"

"I was born here, and have always lived here. For three generations my people have been settled in this locality," she concluded, as customers were crowding her stand; but when the rush was over she found, to her surprise, that the man she had upbraided still remained.

"I have been coming to Patchogue for several years but I never saw you until to-day. I thought you might be one of the new crowd. The place is having a sort of boom period, lots of new home builders, and all that. Hard work, standing up all day, isn't it?" he suggested, with a little touch of sympathy in his voice.

"Not very, sir—my father relieves me several times during each day, and if there is anything going on at night, he attends to the stand."

"Good money in this business while the season is on, I imagine," persisted Parkins, by way of keeping the conversation going. "Strange I have never seen you until to-day," he reiterated.

"We are new in this business. Heretofore our family has been in the fishing industry. And latterly, truck farming also. We still ship some vegetables to New York by boat, and sometimes by express. But we are practically out of that business now."

"I suppose you run over to New York once in a while," he smiled.

"No, the farthest trip we've made was to Riverhead, and it's beautiful! Such a pretty park—and a tremendous court house! But we've never been off of the Island, none of us—except mother, who was born in Connecticut."

Parkins, a man of quick discernment, caught a sad expression in the eyes of the girl behind the counter of "The Goody Shop," so named on a neat little sign hinged to the eaves of the sheltering overhang.

"I suppose your mother stays at home and takes care of the family?" he suggested, enquiringly.

"Mother is dead," replied the girl, calmly, a far-away expression in her eyes, as she glanced at the sky. "She died when I was a baby."

Now was Parkins' chance to impress the girl with his "sympathetic" nature. He sighed deeply, and for several moments looked at the ground and said nothing. When, finally, he did speak there was pathos in his voice.

"My mother died when I was a child in arms. I have no memory of her whatever, but her photograph seems to speak to me at times," said he, dreamily.

"I talk to my mother every night," replied Winifred, happily. "She sends messages through me to my father, and tells me what to do for him. He isn't very strong, but that comes from grief over her death. Now he is much better. It was such a long time before she could reach us," she confided, artlessly.