"Justice is hell for some and joy for others," said he to himself as he stole his way through to the private door into his office. Updyke's mind was upon the man that had collapsed under his lash and the cruelty of it had left its imprint upon his own heart. A few hours later he was welcomed by the master of Dreamy Hollow. "I've come to stay until the day after to-morrow. I need a day off," said Updyke, as he grasped the welcoming hand of Drury Villard. "I'm all in and I want to go to bed at once." Villard scrutinized him carefully, and decided that his friend and guest knew what was best for himself. "I'd planned for a lively evening--what is the news of the day? Did you----" "Yes--here it is, all typewritten, and will afford you an evening of varying emotions. Show me a room--that's all I ask. To-morrow we will both be fresh, and will talk things over. No food--I snacked in my office," said the master inquisitor. And so it was settled, and a short time thereafter Villard sat alone in his office, reading the testimony of his old-time friend, now a self-confessed pariah, and a conscienceless scoundrel. When he had finished his lips trembled, and his heart cried out against the villainy of his once trusted partner. He now loathed him as he would a viper, and there was nothing left in his bosom but abhorrence. In his present mood, good man that he was, Villard felt that he could have looked on without mercy while the low creature was strung up and tortured. "No wonder Henry left, and went to his bed," he mumbled to himself. "Case hardened as he is to crime and malevolence, his soul has been seared with the events of this day." Villard arose to his feet and slipped quietly out into the night, where his heated brain could be cooled and his senses restored. He hurried on toward the beach as if bewildered, caring naught for the bats that darted in front of him, and the limbs of bushes which swung back and whipped his face. The Parkins' confession stood out as might a picture of Herod cleaving the heads of helpless babes, and watching their writhing bodies as they fell at his feet. What Villard would have done, or where he would have gone in his madness to rid himself of his obsession was a matter of conjecture, but for a terrible coughing spell on the part of some person just ahead of him. It was Alexander Barbour, bundled from head to foot against the chill of the night, who stumbled along the same path, only a few yards in advance. His walk was painful, and his voice hollow and unreal as he cried--"I want to go home to die!" This dismal wail brought Villard back to his senses, and he ran forward in time to catch the man in his arms. For a moment there was a struggle but Barbour was too feeble to resist.