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