"No one need be afraid of that little thirty-eight. It's harmless," said Updyke. "I've carried it for years and have never shot any one with it--yet. But I am always prepared to use it instantly, as I carry it in a hidden holster just under the left side of my coat. Now I am going to leave it there, in plain view on the table, at present, for I am about to question the witness concerning his intentions toward a certain young woman, on a certain day, not long since. The name of the girl is not to be spoken. Parkins will speak of her as 'the girl,' and the stenographers will write it that way. If Parkins, either by accident or design, speaks her name I'll shoot him the moment he utters it! What I am now saying is a personal matter, and must not go into the record. When I hold up my hands the recorders will proceed." Immediately Updyke raised his hand. "Now then, Parkins, I want nothing but the truth out of you. Lying will be your undoing, if you expect clemency. You remember the day of the accident?" "Yes, sir--I do," replied the witness. "A few days before that you invited the girl, and her father, to take a trip to New York with you in your automobile, did you not?" "I did, sir. They had never been to New York, and being friends of long standing I invited them to go in my car--and the date was set." "Why do you sit there and lie in answer to my first question!" yelled Updyke, his face denoting extreme anger. Parkins grew pale at the sudden fury of his inquisitor. "I meant to tell you the truth," he replied meekly. "Parkins, your habit of lying is constitutional. Maybe you don't know how to speak the truth--even under oath. You said the girl and her father were old friends of yours, didn't you?" "That was a mistake--unintentional," said Parkins, now thoroughly alarmed. "You had known them for about six weeks," snapped Updyke. "No more lying, or there will be some one hung up by the thumbs so he will remember to tell the truth thereafter. Now then--I'll ask you to tell me how and when you got acquainted with her?" "I bought some cakes, and pies, at her stand on the motor parkway at Patchogue," said the witness. "Started in by kidding her, didn't you?" "Perhaps--I don't quite recall," replied Parkins, mystified as to Updyke's source of information. "Yes you do recall--and you also remember apologizing to her for calling her 'little sister'--now don't you? Speak up--say yes or no," growled the big fellow, as he stared the witness out of countenance. "Yes"--replied the witness, his face now almost purple. "You have a so-called hut on the ocean side--did you ever drive her out that way?" "Yes--once." "Showed her all the conveniences, too--didn't you?--the kitchenette and everything?" "I presume I did--that would have been the natural thing," replied Parkins.