"What do you say, boys!" shouted Carver to his "phantom" companions. "Shall we burn the place down? Those in favor will raise their right hands! Unanimous, eh?--then bring the oil can," continued Carver, who shouted-- "We give you one minute to open the door--hush boys!--keep your eyes open, and cover this place. When I say the word put a match to the oil!" Then all became still save the dog in the rear, which strained at its chain and sent up pitiful howls, as if baying at the moon now fading in the early daylight. No answer forthcoming he kicked at the door and it made his blood tingle as it swung back--wide open! Carver jumped to one side and reached for his torch, with that in his left hand he searched the front room. It was a moment when courage had no chance to take counsel. The advantage now lay with the man that he sought. The glare of the torchlight swung into each corner, all over the room, and under the bed, but only a shirt and some clothing lay on top of it. Parkins had been there recently for the imprint of his body showed on the coverlet and an empty bottle rested under the pillow. Next came the bath-kitchenette. One glance into that and the story was told! In his night clothes Parkins lay dead in his bath tub, his legs at the bottom and his dead body floating. His eyes, partly closed, seemed to stare at a picture, an old-fashioned daguerreotype. "From Mother" was printed at the bottom of the cheap little frame. On the floor were empty bottles, and one partly filled, was clutched in the dead man's hand. Evidently he had placed it there within easy reach, as he lay in the water refreshing himself--hours after his escape from Dreamy Hollow. Making careful notation on a sheet from his note book Carver drew a rough plan of the scene to be given to Updyke. In a combination cupboard he found the remainder of a parcel of food, crackers and sausage, and a slice of cold beef. These were fed to the famishing dog, then closing the door he hurried back to Patchogue, where he phoned Dreamy Hollow. "Well--it's all for the best," said Updyke, not without a shade of sorrow at the tragic death of the man. "He was a stormy petrel, as I've often said, and he sacrificed his life upon the altar of booze." "I'm thinking of Winifred," said Carver, huskily. "She----" "Calm your soul on that point--she never loved him. He was thought to be a friend of the family, but she found that he was just an old-fashioned knave. She and I have talked over this whole matter, and I know what I say is true. Shall I phone her the news?" "Yes, if you will. What shall I do about the corpse?" "Just turn the whole matter over to the coroner, and if any questions are asked, refer him to me. There is no longer any chance of publicity. A burial notice among the paid advertisements. That's best for him, and best for all. After you have made your report to the coroner beat it for home and go to bed." "But that wonderful dog--I want him! We already love each other."