Part 12

There was a flush on the face of Elinor Ilingsworth as she left the office of J. Newton Leech. For the hundred and first time, perhaps, she had crept into the presence of the Assistant District Attorney, trusting that he might have some good news for her. Her father was her only relative; she had no friends in New York; and her money was nearly gone. At first, when she had gone to the Tombs to see her father, the authorities had permitted her to have her talks with him in the counsel room, where Leslie had seen her father, but as the weeks passed into months, things changed, and it ended in Elinor's sitting on the outside of a cell, holding her father's hand between the bars. And as they sat there with bowed heads her father had told her, not once, but a hundred times, that he was guiltless of the murder of Roy Pallister. And Elinor believed and felt that some day the truth would be known. Every hour, therefore, when it was possible she spent in going to and fro, between the offices of Worth Higgins and Assistant District Attorney Leech. Singularly enough, she received more encouragement from the latter than the former; indeed, Higgins gave her but little hope. Nor did he tell her that a wealthy newspaper, for ulterior purposes, was employing him to fight for her father. Enthusiastic always at the crisis of a litigation, Worth Higgins, for some reason or other, had become cool, surly, sharp to Elinor, as time went on. Her visits annoyed him; he rebuffed her as often as he could. Leech, on the other hand, had been by no means chary of his promises to help her through her troubles; on the contrary, he was ever profuse, when the woman in question was pretty, and Elinor Ilingsworth was unquestionably pretty.

"I like to come here after seeing that old bear," Elinor had often said to the Assistant District Attorney. "Mr. Higgins is beginning to hate the sight of me."

"You see that I do not," invariably would be his answer; and, waving her to a seat, he would take one beside her and the two would chat.

Elinor was forced to admit that Leech became nicer as time went on. Always he suggested new hopes, new speculations, for he saw that it took but little to encourage her. He explained to her carefully the quasi-judicial nature of his office, how the District Attorney in theory was neither for nor against the criminal, but was always anxious, ready and willing to learn the truth. Soon he began to note that the girl grew shabbier in appearance day after day; that her face was thinning, and that her eyes were dark and lustrous.

"I'll do what I can," he had told her time and time again, his pulse quickening as he felt the pressure of her hand.

And Elinor would go forth, refreshed and strengthened; while Leech, settling himself comfortably back in his chair, would light a cigar, and fall to wondering when and what the end of it all would be.

"A pretty girl," he often reflected, "a mighty pretty girl. And, oh, such eyes!"

It was upon just such an occasion as this that Elinor went back to the Tombs more than ordinarily encouraged, and sought her father's presence. She sat down beside him and poured out to him her hopes. When she had finished he bent over her slender hand and his mouth quivered while the hot tears dropped from his working face.

"We've lost," he told her, in a voice filled with despair. "I heard it only a few moments ago."

"It can't be true," she replied incredulously, and with just the glimmer of a smile on her face. "Why, I've just left Mr. Leech, and he said nothing of it."

But nevertheless it was true. The old man handed her Higgins' letter, which she read; it verified what her father had told her.

"I've worked so hard," she faltered, leaning her head against the bars and sobbing silently as though her heart would break, "so very, very hard."

Ilingsworth drew a long sigh--a sigh that had behind it the regret of years.

"It's all my fault," he said through the tears that rolled down his cheeks, "for being such a fool as to----"

"As to----" she repeated slowly.

"As to do anything at all," he finished. "Everything, everything I've done," he continued sadly, "has been the act of a fool. And now I'm going to die a fool's death. I wouldn't care if it wasn't for you, child. But you--how are you going to get along? How are you going to get along without money?" he concluded, breaking down completely.

"I have enough," she answered consolingly; "don't mind me."

But in truth Elinor Ilingsworth had only enough money to pay for a sleeping place, and was at her wits' end to obtain sufficient food.

"I'm all right, all right, father," she kept on insisting to her father's upbraiding of himself, now smiling through the tears which with difficulty she kept back, now patting his hand affectionately, always cheering him up.

"You're a brave girl," he told her, when their interview was over, and pressed her hand for a long time to his lips.

As Elinor was about to leave the Tombs, a young woman looking very much embarrassed slowly emerged from a recess in which there was a crowd of waiting visitors, and came towards her, saying:

"You are Miss Ilingsworth?"

Elinor shot a quick, distrustful glance toward the intruder, who, somehow, seemed very queenly to her, although there was nothing expensive about the woman's garments. She was dressed in simple black clothes. Elinor had hear of Tombs' angels, and presently decided that the woman must be one of them.

"Yes," she answered, wondering what she wanted of her.

"You don't know me," went on the woman, "but I have heard of you from--from friends of mine--that is, the Wilkinsons."

"You refer to the Peter V. Wilkinsons, I suppose," returned Elinor, icily; and without waiting for an answer added: "They are no friends of mine, and you must excuse me.... You can't possibly have anything of interest to say to me," she finished, and started to go. But the stranger, advancing in such a way as to bar her passage, pleaded for a hearing.

"I know that," she explained. "But I merely wanted to get your attention, wanted some excuse for my interference. I wanted to help you, if I could. I know more about New York--all about New York. I can assist you in many ways. Won't you let me?" she concluded insistently.

Elinor was all attention.

"You mean that you can help my father?" she inquired.

The woman appeared to hesitate. At length she whispered "Yes."

"But how can you?"

"In many ways. I might be able to find some clue--anyhow, I want to help--him, of course, but particularly you."

Elinor looked dubious; nevertheless she suggested:

"Perhaps you'll come back and talk to him."

Her new acquaintance shook her head.

"Not now. But isn't there something I can do for you? Don't you need----"

"Money?" Elinor said, taking the words out of the other's mouth. "We have money, thank you," and added half hurriedly, half in embarrassment: "Will you excuse me if I leave you. I have an engagement with our lawyer, and I'm late."

The stranger laid her hand on Elinor's sleeve, and persisted:

"But can't I come and see you--won't you tell me where you live?"

There was something in the tone and action of the woman that Elinor resented, though she didn't know just what it was.

"Really, I don't know what to say."

"I'm sorry you're suspicious of me. I wish I could prove to you that I'm sincere. Please tell me where I can see you."

"To-morrow, then, here," was Elinor's answer, and finally tore herself away.

The moment she entered Leech's office, he broke out with:

"You haven't lunched, I know. Come on, Miss Ilingsworth, we'll lunch together."

"I can't do that, Mr. Leech, I've lunched already," she told him. But Leech saw clearly the falsity of this statement in the pallor of the girl's skin, in the hunger in her eyes. And, in the end, as he had planned, she consented to go with him. As they sat at one of Raphael's small tables she confided to him how she had been accosted by a strange woman. At first Leech seemed to regard the incident as not worthy of attention; but on second thoughts he warned Elinor not to see the woman again. And his motive in doing this was by no means a disinterested one, for so clearly and faithfully had Elinor reported the conversation between the stranger and herself, that the Assistant District Attorney could not fail to believe that Elinor had, in reality, found a friend.

"One has got to be so careful here in New York of everybody," he remarked with an admirable assumption of solicitude.

But true to her promise, the woman came to the Tombs the next day. And on seeing Elinor she came quickly toward her with outstretched hand; but the other merely shook her head and passed on inside. She felt independent of any outside aid now; for the attitude of Leech was most encouraging. And there was unusual happiness in her look, an infectious tone in her laugh as she said to her father:

"I know you'll get off somehow."

On the next day and the day after that, Elinor noted the woman still waiting at her post, still hoping, evidently, that Elinor would speak to her; and on each of these days Giles Ilingsworth felt the buoyancy in his daughter's manner.

"You're like a bit of sunshine in this place," he said.

On the third day, at sunset, he sent for the deputy.

"Deputy," said the old man, clutching his coat-sleeve pitifully through the bars, "I--my daughter hasn't been here to-day."

"I know," answered the other. "I've missed her, too."

"She must be ill," the old man said. "Is there any way of finding out? I have some money with me...."

They sent a messenger to Elinor's room; but the messenger returned with the information that she was not in. All that night Ilingsworth paced his narrow cell; but with the morning sun came new hopes.

"She'll be here to-day," he assured himself.

But she didn't come that day either. When his meals were brought to him he refused to eat. And again all that night he paced his cell. He was inconsolable.

Five more days passed without Ilingsworth having received word from his daughter, but then, just when it seemed that he could bear the suspense no longer, the deputy came to him and said:

"There's a lady downstairs who knows your daughter. She's been here every day, came just to see her. She wants to help--wants her address. Shall I give it to her?"

"Yes, yes," exclaimed the old man, eagerly.

In a little while the woman returned and told the deputy that Miss Ilingsworth had moved, had taken all her things, had gone, they didn't know where; and the warden repeated her words to the poor old man before whom lay many nights yet of sleeplessness and agony.

XVI

"I believe I once remarked to you, Mrs. Peter V., that I needed you," said Flomerfelt, his fingers stealthily groping into the depth of his sleeves for his cuffs, and when they were arranged to his satisfaction, he added: "to manage Peter V. It seems that I was mistaken."

"And you don't need me?" asked Mrs. Wilkinson anxiously. For the lady feared Flomerfelt, and realised that he was a dangerous man. In some way or other she considered him responsible for the attempt on her husband's life, which ended in the killing of Roy Pallister. She had never lost confidence in Flomerfelt's ability to win the battle that he and she were waging against her husband. There had been a time, it must be acknowledged, when she had looked up to and admired Wilkinson, but that feeling had long since passed off and had been replaced by one of tolerance and fear. Now she despised the man--despised him the more because she believed that Flomerfelt would circumvent him. A poor judge of character, as she was--a woman whose only end and aim in life was to feed her own desires--she saw nothing save unsuccessful clumsiness in Wilkinson's move at this time, and had naught but admiration for Flomerfelt's promised finesse.

"You do need me?" she asked, taking refuge in tears. And she was rewarded by a sudden half-reluctant change in his manner, for he said soothingly:

"I suppose I do, but not as far as your husband is concerned. Peter V., in or out of prison, is sewed up, done up; he's in our hands. Our fight is with a woman." And even before the last word was spoken he noted that she seemed to be impressing upon herself the possibility of such a contingency. "I suppose you know," he went on, "did Peter V. tell you that Leslie had refused Governor Beekman?"

"The girl's a fool!" exclaimed her step-mother. "If she halts at marrying a governor--I'd marry Beekman--I'd marry any governor in the land! I've been all wrong in thinking that money will do everything in New York! A millionaire's wife is nobody, unless.... Now if I were a statesman's wife, they'd have to recognise me--I'd show them!"

"You don't suppose that she wants _me_, do you?" Flomerfelt said, putting into his voice as much tenderness as he dared.

Mrs. Peter V. shook her head, laughing scornfully in spite of herself.

"Some day, perhaps, we can make her like you, when I'm through liking you myself," she replied.

"You?" scowled Flomerfelt.

The woman shivered at his tone.

"What reason does she give?" she asked, wisely changing the subject.

Then Flomerfelt went on to explain with a grim smile what he thought of the deep-laid plans of Colonel Morehead, the schemes of Wilkinson and how they had all gone for naught, ending with:

"She's a born fighter, that Leslie, and it's she that we're up against, and not Wilkinson. Now the sooner Peter V. wins his fight, the better for us; but this minx is blocking him, though I admire her for it, I must say."

"We'll make her marry Beekman," declared Mrs. Peter V.

The woman's confidence in her own powers brought a sarcastic smile to his lips.

"It isn't a part of my game that she shall marry him," he argued. "The essential thing is that she shall engage herself to him. I say that she will never marry him."

"But Beekman can't be put out of the way as easily as----"

"There has been too much blundering already," said Flomerfelt, gloatingly, for the look of fear in her eyes had not escaped him. For a moment that seemed minutes they were silent. Finally Flomerfelt announced: "The long and short of it is that I don't intend that this Beekman shall marry her, and you've got to help me."

"Of course," said the lady, rejoicing that at last her services would be brought into play. "But how? What would you suggest?"

" ... That you go and see him secretly," he told her, and then proceeded to unfold his plan of what she should say to him.

"You'll go now?" he asked, observing the readiness in which she lent herself to his scheme, "and I'll go with you, that is, part way."

And in no way concerned as to the outcome of her dishonourable action--so confident was she of Flomerfelt's ability to carry out any project that he might undertake--Mrs. Peter V., without the slightest compunction, swept out of the room to make ready for their little excursion to Beekman's apartments. In a surprisingly short space of time she came back arrayed in a long fur motor-coat and a hat perched upon her head with a rakishness that she thought quite smart, but which, in reality, had not the remotest chance of success unless worn by a very young and pretty girl. And notwithstanding the fact that her eyes were over-bright, as were her cheeks, there was no lack of self-satisfaction in the manner in which she carried herself as together they passed out through the entrance door, stepped into her limousine, and were off.

But scarcely had the limousine passed out of sight of the house than Jeffries was summoned to the door once more.

"It's Mr. Beekman back again, Miss Leslie," were the words with which the butler interrupted Wilkinson's insistence that Leslie should listen to his final command; "and he says that he must see you at once."

Wilkinson's eyes gleamed as he snapped out:

"See him again, Leslie, and patch things up. Mind you, if you don't take him, I'll drag you to him and make you."

Frightened lest he should see Beekman before she saw him herself, for she realised that her father was desperate for some unknown reason and quite capable of carrying out his threat, Leslie swept on past Jeffries and into the room where Beekman was waiting, his eyes bright with a new hope.

"Idiot that I was, Leslie," he began breathlessly, "I was half way home before I came to my senses. Then in a flash I saw it all--no, you can't fool me this time. The whole trouble is your father's troubles. Come, confess!"

"But I've already confessed," she said. And so she had, though not in the way she intended, for her eyes told the story.

It was, therefore, with no uncertain tread, but rather with a sudden warmth and force that seemed to take possession of him, body and soul, that he continued:

"Look here, little one, this is a matter between you and me and no one else. You must consider no one, but remember only that I represent to you the one man in all the world for you, as you stand for the only woman in the world for me: for I love you, Leslie, and I know that you love me."

There had been times when Eliot Beekman had stood before and pleaded with reluctant juries and judges whose faces were dead set against him, but his task then had been nothing compared with the one now. And yet so well did he plead his case, that when he had finished it was as he had told her: she forgot her father's sentence, forgot everything, except that she loved him, and that he was the one man in all the world for her.

"I believe you," she confessed to him in a whisper; "I believe you are right. Would to heaven that you had given me the chance to say this to you months ago."

"You've loved me all the time?" he asked, his pulse beating fast.

"Yes," she answered, "and I knew that you loved me."

The next instant he had brought out the ring which she had refused to accept, a little while before, and holding out her hand impulsively Leslie let him put it on.

There was a pause in which she looked first at the ring and then at the man before her, the meaning of it all slowly dawning upon her. And then in some sudden outburst of rapture she let herself be held in his arms as their lips met in one long kiss. In that moment her heart went out to him, and she knew that there could never be anyone else for her. After a time she gently drew herself away from him, and said:

"My senses are coming back, Eliot, and this surrender is only on one condition, which is that there shall be no--no wedding--until, until father is cleared.... Of course, if you will not consent to this," and she toyed with the gem that sparkled on her finger, "then----"

"Hold on there, hold on!" cried Beekman. "I'll consent to anything so long as you're mine...."

"All over, is it, Eliot?" came in a big voice from somewhere behind them.

The pair of lovers sprang apart like two persons caught in the act of concocting some conspiracy. The interloper was the girl's father.

"I thought," went on Wilkinson, more gently now, "that I'd drop in before the news went over the wire. Leslie's been opening up her heart to me--letting me in on her troubles, and I agree with her, though it's your own affair, of course. I'd keep the engagement quiet, for the present."

"That is precisely what I want; in fact I insist upon it," said Leslie, tugging at the ring on her finger.

Beekman watched her struggles in alarm.

"I consent to anything, just so long as I am sure you're mine, that you belong to me," he repeated.

Wilkinson held out his hand, saying:

"I'll make myself scarce and let you make sure in your own way that she does belong to you, Governor Beekman. Clinch the bargain, my boy; strike while the iron's hot; make hay while the sun shines."

A moment more and Wilkinson had ambled off to smoke another black cigar and to pat himself upon the back, while the happy pair, heedful of his advice, in the dim light of the music-room proceeded to make hay while the sun shone, even though without the November storm raged above the Hudson.

It was a night to be marked with a white stone for them, a happy memory in the days to come. For the time was not far distant when the sun for them would cease to shine, when the storm was to rage within these two as it now raged without the big house on the Drive.

XVII

On a bright snappy morning of the following Spring, Governor Beekman, reaching his private room in the Capitol at Albany a little ahead of time, began to pace slowly up and down in front of the open windows. A wonderfully pleasant place the world seemed to him now. However much his ambition might grope forward in the future, the present was eminently satisfactory. All his struggles seemed to lie behind him; before him he saw power, pleasant ways, and Leslie Wilkinson.

His private secretary, on time to the minute, broke in on his thoughts.

"This came in last night, Governor," he said, "after you'd left. I read it over."

"What is it?" asked the Governor, absent-mindedly.

"It's a petition for pardon," said the other casually, handing it to the Governor.

"What's the conviction," asked the latter, glancing at the document.

"Murder in the first degree," was the answer. Beekman frowned. Out of many applications this was the first he had received in a murder case.

"The game of Governor isn't all beer and skittles, is it, Phillips?"

"I'll change with you any time you say, Governor," laughed Phillips; and a moment later he added: "This is the case of Giles Ilingsworth."

"And who is Giles Ilingsworth?"

"Don't you remember that Tri-State Trust Company affair? The vice-president who shot a man named Pallister."

"Of course, Phillips, now I remember it very well. But I never took much interest in his case. Have they sent the record up--the printed case?"

"Yes, and the Hon. Worth Higgins, of New York, is waiting to see you, Governor Beekman. He came up yesterday--was at the Remsen last night."

"So he was. I remember now seeing him this morning, eating breakfast. I thought he looked at me as if something were in the wind. Tell him to come in, Phillips; I'll see him right away."

Bearing underneath his arm a printed book, the Hon. Worth Higgins entered the arena of events with his accustomed energy. He bowed low to the Governor, placed a high silk hat on the Governor's table, and settled down into a seat.

"Have you read my petition?" he asked of the Governor.

"I looked at it," replied the other. "You have a choice assortment of names upon it--looks all right."

"It is all right," declared Higgins, "I can assure you."

"I have just fifteen minutes," said the Governor. "I'll take this matter up with you with pleasure. Give me the printed case. Now point out to me--the evidence must have been brief on the exact point--the testimony relating to the crime. Remember I don't want your own private opinion, I want merely the salient facts of the case." And after glancing quickly over the pages that Higgins selected, he then wandered through the testimony on his own account. At sight of the name of Leslie Wilkinson in the printed index of the witnesses, Governor Beekman was conscious of a shock; nevertheless he turned to her testimony and to that of Wilkinson.

"Seems to have been deliberation all right," he remarked. "But wasn't there a gun store clerk upon the stand? I was in Austria at the time, and I lost track of this case."

Higgins, his countenance falling, pointed out the exact testimony. The Governor solemnly shook his head, as he observed:

"And here, Mr. Higgins, are three witnesses in the crowd who say that they saw him fire the fatal shot. What have you to say to that?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the Hon. Worth Higgins, his spirits rising, "that is just the point. If you will examine the cross-examination, blundering though it be, of my colleague Boggs, you will find that those three witnesses cannot give a correct account of themselves. They were not depositors--that much we showed: they were hangers-on of Mulberry Bend resorts."