"Go get him and take him with you. But don't you ever tell your wife that he once belonged to so and so. Just say that the poor thing seemed to have no master so you picked him up and brought him home. Now that is no lie." "You are a great old bird, Henry. I'll do as you say. No use to talk with Julie, I imagine, except about the booth." "That's all," said Updyke, "go on about your business and I'll pick up the matter just where you left off." "Tell Mary that she may stand a chance to get that quiet little dinner after all," laughed Carver. "What do you know about that?" "I'm a married man and we fellows know everything!" "That will be all from you! I may cut you out of my gold expedition, if you get gay. So long." The death and burial of William Parkins received the exact amount of space that Updyke had indicated to George Carver--four nonpareil lines among the death notices--paid for by the Updyke Agency. Henry Updyke himself wrote the announcement. And then came the search for the stolen funds which were quickly found within a hundred feet of the hut with only a thousand missing. The Quebec Agency was notified quickly and the bank officers were profoundly thankful. They wanted to reward the agent, but that was tabooed by a terse telegram. "We never take money that we do not earn stop we sent the man up in your country to reform him stop we accept the liability as our own and are sending check today for a thousand. For all favors we thank you--signed Updyke." At last came the evening when, without the least "fuss and feathers," Mary Johnson leaned back in Henry Updyke's big car and drank in the ozone of Westchester county. She looked a dream in her light summer furs and stylish coat that concealed her pretty party gown. Twenty miles whizzed by with little in the way of conversation when suddenly the car made a quick turn, and stopped in the shadows of a great boulder. Behind them lay Riverdale, and the black forests of Spuyten Duyvel loomed ahead, just across the East River, five hundred feet below. The moon was now doing its best to light up the mighty Hudson. Nothing like this grandeur had Mary Johnson's eyes beheld. A thrill of ecstasy crept into her heart. A new world was opening before her, and all within the limits of little old Manhattan, where all kinds of worlds exist--pay as you enter and take your choice. "I never dreamed of such splendor!" sighed Mary, her heart filled with emotion, which was just like most women, who cry when they are glad. "Well, little girl, while you go on dreaming I'm going to say something to you," said Updyke, gruffly. "I'm always glad to hear your voice, dear," replied the girl still awed by the scene. "I love you!" exclaimed Updyke, in as harsh a tone as a frightened man of his size could muster. "Say it again," said Mary, snuggling closer. "I meant it the first time, and I never repeat," he fumed uneasily. "Oh, do--just to please me," she whispered.