Part 7

"What's Morehead doing?" broke in her father, putting her gently from him.

"Turning my stocks and bonds into cash, or getting a surety company bond on them, I don't know which. Isn't it lucky, father, that I had enough--more than enough to help you out? The Colonel says you may have to stay here two or three nights...."

Wilkinson was beside himself.

"I won't--I won't stay here," he raged. "I'll take the risk----"

"What risk?" she asked wonderingly.

Her father sobered.

"Oh, Leslie, I--I don't know what I'm saying. Don't mind me--I'm unnerved, overwrought. Poor Pallister...."

Leslie burst into tears.

"Yes, poor, poor Roy," she murmured. "It was awful--simply awful! I was so fond of him, father. He was always so kind, so thoughtful and considerate, and devoted to your interests, wasn't he, father?"

Wilkinson merely inclined his head, contenting himself with patting her hand and saying:

"There, there, my girl, don't cry."

For, truth to tell, he was much too taken up with a consideration of his own affairs to have any time for other people's troubles, much less mourn over Roy Pallister, though, in his way, he was undoubtedly fond of the little chap. However, after Leslie had calmed down sufficiently to talk connectedly once more, he not only listened, but approved of the girl's suggestion that she offer a reward, a large reward for the discovery of the perpetrator of the dastardly crime.

"Yes, I must know," he said to himself when once more alone in his cell. "Flomerfelt must find out who fired that shot. Flomerfelt will find out.... What would I do without him?"

But the question would surely not have been asked had it been possible for him to have overheard the conversation that took place, later, between Mrs. Peter Wilkinson and his confidential man.

As Flomerfelt entered the house, Mrs. Peter V. Wilkinson was waiting for him.

Flomerfelt was visibly excited. He removed his gloves and fell to pacing lightly up and down the room.

"What's the matter with you?" demanded Mrs. Peter V.

Flomerfelt stopped before her, his white lips drawn tightly against his teeth.

"My, what a chance for an enemy in that big mob; and what a fumble!"

"Were you there?" she asked.

Flomerfelt shrugged his shoulders.

"Trouble is something that I sidestep. I expected trouble and stayed away."

"You expected this?" The woman looked at him incredulously.

"Wilkinson feared it, too, I think."

"Why?"

"The depositors--the mob----"

"Was it one of the depositors who--who killed Pallister?"

"How should I know?" And again he shrugged his shoulders, eyed his coat-sleeves and his lean wrists, for his cuffs, obeying some unwritten law, had crept up and out of sight. He jerked his arms again, and his linen darted once more into view. Again he scrutinised it carefully, first glancing upon his right hand and then upon his left.

Mrs. Peter V. eyed him closely.

"Doesn't anybody know who fired the shot?"

He shook his head.

"Some believe the depositors did it; others a personal enemy. Wilkinson feared treachery, I think. A reward is being offered--a rather large reward, I think--ten thousand dollars."

The question, "By whom?" hung on her lips, but was interrupted by Flomerfelt, who went on with:

"It was Leslie's idea, I understand. She is beside herself--wants to avenge Pallister."

"Sorry about him myself," said Mrs. Peter V., seemingly sincere. It was only when she added, "He certainly knew how to hook up waists," that the shallowness of the woman's mind was evident. And even Flomerfelt recoiled from her when, a moment later, she motioned to him to seat himself by her side.

"Who shot at Wilkinson?" she asked, persistently, drawing him closer to her.

Flomerfelt dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand.

"As we remarked, it makes but little difference now. The shot went wild."

* * * * *

At six o'clock that night, Eliot Beekman dined at the Iroquois Hotel in Buffalo with J. K. Witheridge, cashier of the Bank Le Boeuf.

"You were so successful, Mr. Beekman," said the cashier, when coffee and cigars had arrived, "with that hopeless Cantrell mix-up of ours in New York, that we thought we would give you a harder nut to crack. This time our claim is for $50,000, if it's a cent."

Beekman pricked up his ears. This was worth a hurried trip to Buffalo and no mistake.

"Against whom is your claim?" he asked.

"One reason why we wanted to see you personally," the cashier went on to explain, "is because there seems to be a good deal of secrecy involved in this thing. Our claim is against the Tri-State Trust Company--our funds on deposit there. We want to get them back."

"You stand a small chance ..." quickly spoke up Beekman. "In my opinion, Tri-State won't pay three per cent."

"Admitting all that," conceded the cashier, "it's not the Tri-State Trust Company that I want you to tackle; I want you to find its funds."

"Funds? It hasn't any!"

"Of course it hasn't, but we're satisfied--and other banks are satisfied--that somebody's got its funds. And the fellow that gets in first and right, is going to get his claim paid in full. That's why we sent for you. The man we've got to fight is Peter V. Wilkinson."

"Peter V. Wilkinson!" echoed the other. "And you say he's----"

"We claim he's bagged the spoils."

Beekman laughed outright.

"Why, man, he's smashed--ruined! He hasn't got a dollar to his name. I know him."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. And I'll tell you where I think you're off the track. His daughter has money--money of her own. It came from her mother--Wilkinson's first wife. I have no doubt that all these rumours about Wilkinson's cash,--although this is the first I've heard about it,--come from the fact that his daughter has money."

"Pshaw! She has less than a million dollars--we have the facts on that. We're not thinking about that; we believe Wilkinson has got upwards of fifty millions packed away."

Again Beekman laughed.

"If you were in New York you wouldn't say that. Everybody there knows that Wilkinson is a wreck."

"Nevertheless we have our theory. We're willing to pay the shot," declared Witheridge. "Now, is there any reason why I shouldn't go on--tell you the rest--the confidential details? In other words, Mr. Beekman, is there any reason why you should not take up this case and probe Wilkinson to the finish?"

Beekman thought for a while, weighing carefully the other's words. There was reputation in this thing; moreover, he felt that it would do Wilkinson no harm, for he was convinced of Wilkinson's honesty of purpose. He saw no reason why honest business should be refused. More than that, this Bank Le Boeuf had, in times past, employed him as its counsel, and all through dinner Witheridge had been pouring praises in his ear.

"I hope you can take it," pressed Witheridge, "for to tell you the truth, there's nobody in New York that we'd rather have than you. We've that much confidence in you...."

But Beekman still balked.

"If I take this case, I needn't assure you, Mr. Witheridge, that you may depend on me. The only reason why I hesitate is because I know the man's daughter. But once I decide to take the case...."

At that moment a waiter laid down an evening paper before Beekman; he glanced at it, revolving the proposition the while in his mind. Suddenly he started and cried out:

"Great Scott! The man we're talking about--shot...."

"Killed?" gasped Witheridge.

"No--it's his private secretary that was killed." And with his eyes still on the paper, "No, wait. There's more. Wilkinson is held in three-quarter of a million bail. I heard this morning that he was indicted, but I never expected---- And, Cæsar's ghost! They've locked him up in the Tombs and in default of bail. That's rough!"

"My dear Beekman," grinned Witheridge, "don't you see that it's all a game--all but the killing? Say that you'll take the case, then I can go on--tell you the rest."

But whatever would have been Eliot's decision at that moment, he was not permitted to give it utterance. For just then he heard some one calling out his name; and, glancing up, he saw a boy approaching him with a telegram in his hand.

"Mr. Beekman?" asked the boy.

Beekman took the message, which said:

ELIOT BEEKMAN, ESQ., Hotel Iroquois, Buffalo, N. Y.

You are retained in People vs. Wilkinson as counsel for defence. Take the first train for New York.

MOREHEAD.

After grasping its contents, Beekman quickly passed it over to his host with the one word: "Read." And then he added:

"This is a retainer, Mr. Witheridge, that I cannot very well refuse. You see," he was smiling now, "I know his daughter."

IX

Ten men crowded into the office of Assistant District Attorney Leech, ten men of various sizes and complexions, ten men upon whom sat undoubted respectability, and yet in whose eyes gleamed a gnawing anxiety--a strange excitement.

A deputy assistant district attorney--or a d. a. d. a., as they call them there, received the delegation coldly.

"What in thunder is this mob doing here?" he asked.

The ten men nodded toward their spokesman; he leaned against the d. a. d. a.'s desk.

"Chief clerk sent us here," he said.

"What about?" asked his cross-examiner.

The spokesman drew from his pocket a folded paper and opened it wide for the other to read.

"Ten Thousand Dollars Reward for information leading to the Conviction of the Murderer of Roy Pallister," is what he read, after which the d. a. d. a. looked at it curiously, and added: "Well? What then?"

"Well," said the spokesman, as the ten men crowded closely about him, "we've got information--see?"

"What information?"

For answer he drew forth a weapon--an ugly-looking weapon: a hammerless revolver, with one chamber empty.

The d. a. d. a. sniffed with some excitement.

"Where did you get it?" he demanded. Surreptitiously he nodded to a uniformed attendant, who as surreptitiously shut the door and locked it.

"Picked it up the day young Pallister was killed," went on the spokesman, "picked it up where the man that used it left it lying--when he ran away."

The assistant glanced at him sharply.

"Why didn't you pass it over right away?" he demanded.

The ten men shrugged their shoulders, but it was their spokesman who explained:

"In that crowd," he returned slowly, "there was too much excitement already. These here saw me pick it up, and we talked about it--talked about it slow and cold. We didn't want to be mobbed ourselves, even by the cops; we didn't want to be taken for the murderer--you understand? So we closed in around this gun, y'see, and we kept it close, till now." He grinned sheepishly. "Besides," he added, "our savings has been lost in the Tri-State Trust, and we was kind o' waitin' for somethin' of this kind," he pointed to the advertised reward, "thinking maybe we could even up somehow, y'see."

"I see," returned the assistant, grimly. "I see that you had no right to wait an instant when you got this thing in your fist." He waved his hand. "Never mind that now, but tell me who did the killing. Did you know the man?"

The ten men shook their heads.

"We seen no man," one blurted out, "a hand--that's all I see."

"That's all we see," assented the spokesman, looking to his fellows for affirmance, "a hand and a shot. It was all so quick. We asked everybody; nobody seen anything--just a hand and a shot, that's all."

The assistant frowned.

"Do you suspect who did it?" he interrogated.

Blankly they shook their heads.

The d. a. d. a. shot out a forefinger.

"Tell me about that mass meeting of the savings depositors held the night before the murder?" he demanded, at a venture.

They returned his query with a stare.

"There wasn't any mass meeting that we know of," they said.

He rapped upon the table and nodded to the uniformed attendant.

"You know what to do," he said.

Evidently the attendant did; for after a short space of time he unlocked the door, and six plain-clothesmen pounced upon the spokesman.

"But I didn't do it!" yelled the big man who had handed over the ferocious-looking gun.

"He didn't do it!" cried the other men behind.

"Aw, come on!" said the officer of the law, "we'll lock the whole kit an' boodle of you up as witnesses. What--you won't? Come on--Come on!"

"But don't you forget that we furnished information," called back the spokesman, "that may lead to the conviction of somebody, and when that happens, we want that ten, y'see?"

It was not long before the news of the discovery of the pistol became known. So that when Leslie arrived on a visit to her father, and asked an officer if there had been any developments in regard to her advertisement in the paper, she was answered in the affirmative.

"Father, dear," she cried, excitedly, when they were alone, "listen to me. I can't sleep to-night unless it can be arranged for me to see that pistol that was found. I have a fancy that----" She stopped short.

"A fancy--what?" he demanded suddenly.

"That I may have seen it once before," she continued.

Wilkinson called an officer.

The officer took Leslie across the bridge and into the other part of the building where the pistol was to be seen. Its custodian watched the girl narrowly as she looked upon it; but she gave no sign.

"I don't believe I ever saw that one before," she volunteered.

Back again with her father, she whispered eagerly in his ear:

"Father, oh, father, what am I to do? That gun there is the very gun that Giles Ilingsworth had in our house that day. It's the same--the very same, I'm sure of it. What am I to do?"

Wilkinson uttered an oath under his breath.

"We'll give him up, that's what we'll do! We'll hunt him down!" he said excitedly. "He tried to kill me, and he did kill little Pallister."

He stood there staring at her, his face growing whiter all the time. He was about to speak again when he was interrupted by the entrance of Colonel Morehead.

Through the lawyer's mind, as he looked at Wilkinson and his daughter, a number of impressions were passing. The three days' confinement in a cell had left its traces on the multi-millionaire: a terrible depression was on him, his shoulders were hunched, and his eyes lustreless. With Leslie, of course, there was no such great change, though her lips were trembling, her eyes wide and searching, and her figure seemed shrunken. In other words, the shadow of the Tombs was upon them all. All--the word is used advisedly, for Morehead, himself, was by no means in a normal condition. Veteran, though he unquestionably was, he had shivered as if with dread the moment he had crossed the threshold of the jail. Hundreds of times, it is true, he had passed in and out without let or hinderance, and yet upon every occasion this indescribable sense of dread--the clutch of terror, the stretching out of the cold, clammy hand of penal servitude, the horribly silent eloquence of bolt and bar--was ever present. Custom had not staled it; it bit into him with terrible force.

But whatever he felt, he gave no sign. To-day, as always, he had merely nodded to the doorman as he passed in, strode down the narrow passage-way and pushed through the turn-stile. At that point, however, he had been confronted by the deputy warden of the jail.

"Counsellor," asked big Bill Steen with unaccustomed caution in his tone, "who was you looking for?"

The Counsellor smiled.

"You have only one of my birds shut up in your aviary, Bill. Obviously, he's the man I wish to see."

Big Bill nodded, still with suspicious caution.

"Peter V. Wilkinson, I suppose?"

"Precisely," returned the Colonel, and was starting on.

"One moment, Counsellor," went on the deputy, detaining him. "You an' me is old friends, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. But I have been warned by Murgatroyd. The District Attorney is most particular about this case." And a curious expression crossed his face, as he added: "You must admit, Counsellor, that we don't often have a guy locked up here--worth millions and charged with larceny, forgery and perjury, all at once, and who's waitin' for three-quarters of a million bail."

"No, it isn't an everyday occurrence, I acknowledge. Now, will you bring him down, or shall I go up to him?"

Again the deputy shook his head.

"Counsellor, District Attorney Murgatroyd says be careful, and I got to, even with an old friend like you. If there's any attempt at an escape,--and a man who's said to be worth millions and wants to get out of jail--well, sometimes, locks will turn and bars will break. I don't know that it would take so many millions to----"

Colonel Morehead looked straight into the eyes of big Bill Steen, with that confidential look which had won him many juries.

"Bill," he said, under his breath, "suppose he wasn't worth millions--only a fraction of a million! And suppose he couldn't get bail! How much would you take, Bill, to let him go? How much? A hundred thousand, two hundred, a quarter of a million? Come--say the word."

The deputy indignantly drew away.

"Counsellor," he protested, "you couldn't touch me with ten million. I wouldn't let him off for that."

Morehead's smile was not a pleasant one.

"Steen," he went on severely, "you'll let him off for less. Oh, yes, yes you will; I know all about you, one hour won't pass before you'll be sending a man upstairs to let Wilkinson out. Come, call it a hundred and fifty thousand.... No? Then two ... two and a half----"

"Not on your life!" returned Steen, raising a deprecating hand.

Colonel Morehead fixed his hypnotic eye upon the other, drew himself up to his full height, thrust his hand into his breast-pocket, pulled out a paper, and held it under the nose of Steen.

"Look at that, Bill," he insisted, "and see whether my prophecy comes true."

The deputy warden opened the paper, glanced at it and grinned.

"Quit your kiddin', Counsellor! Why didn't you say all along that you'd given bail?"

"You can send it to your friend Murgatroyd," concluded Morehead, "and make sure it's O. K. I'll go up to Wilkinson."

Colonel Morehead, on leaving the warden, was suddenly conscious of a feeling of disgust. With an effort, however, he shook it off, and there was a semblance, at least, of a smile on his face when he appeared, as has been said, before Wilkinson and his daughter in the counsel room.

"They're going to let you out, Peter," he announced, seating himself at a table and squaring his elbows, "and right away."

"I thought they never would," was Wilkinson's answer. "These three days have seemed more like three years to me.... So you got it through, did you? Surety Company fix it up ...?"

"I got the Court to reduce the bail to half a million; your daughter Leslie and the Surety Company did the rest."

Leslie started.

"I! Why I didn't know that I did anything?"

Colonel Morehead smiled.

"You assigned two-thirds of your own fortune--stocks and bonds--to the surety company to secure them. So if Peter V. skips his bail--runs away,"--he was leering at him now,--"you stand to lose, you see."

"Runs away," repeated Leslie. The words were like music to her ears. "What a splendid idea! It would be the best way out of it, after all. You could take the _Marchioness_," she went on enthusiastically, "and steam to the ends of the earth!"

"Haven't I told you, Colonel, that she was a hard-headed little proposition," said her father, with a good deal of pride. "Not a bad idea, the _Marchioness_. Now, if--if I were guilty, instead of being innocent...."

Colonel Morehead grunted.

"Do you think that your steam yacht the _Marchioness_ is any match for District Attorney Murgatroyd? He'd find you even in uncharted seas, and bring you back."

"It's all O. K., Counsellor," called out Bill Steen, tapping on the door; "you can go now!"

Steen unlocked the door of the dingy little room. And as Peter Wilkinson started to go, Steen intercepted him and held out his hand, hesitated a moment, and finally said:

"It ain't often that we have a man of your standing, Mr. Wilkinson, in our hotel. Would you mind a-shakin' hands before you go?"

Wilkinson shook hands with a will.

"Here's hoping that we may never see you here again," said Steen, cordially.

"You can be sure of that," answered Wilkinson, with just the ghost of a smile on his lips. At the entrance he stood an instant and looked up into the sky. "Free," he breathed, as to himself. Leslie clung to his arm, and pressed her hand against her face. They started down the steps, but Wilkinson drew back.

"The crowds--the crowds--they'll mob me again!" he cried, his huge frame shaking like a leaf.

Morehead caught him firmly by the arm.

"Come, Peter, brace up, take a big grip on yourself!" were his reassuring words. "There's no mob, no one who knows you, anyhow. You don't look so different from a lot of other men."

Wilkinson shook himself and clenched his hands.

"I'm all right now," he declared, "I lost my nerve in there." After a long intake of breath, he added: "That's the last time they'll ever get me in there, the last time, mark my words, Morehead. There were times when I came near biting the bars. Think of me being locked up!" They had reached the corner of the street. He halted. "There was a chap in the cell next to mine," he went on, "who'd been sent up for five years. Think of it! He was waiting to be taken up the river any day--didn't seem to mind it, either. Five years in a place like that----"

"The machine's around on Lafayette Street," interrupted the Colonel. "I thought it better...."

"Right," declared Wilkinson. "But we don't need it yet."

Leslie turned to Colonel Morehead; her eyes were bright, her cheeks red with excitement.

"Why did my father have to stay in there; can you tell me that?" she asked.

"The bail was stupendous. I had arranged for reasonable bail; but this was unusual," the Colonel explained. "But that's not all--the surety companies had been warned."

"Warned! Did you say warned not to give bail when they were secured?" she cried.

"Warned," repeated Morehead, "not to furnish bail without being sure that they were secure."

"Who warned them?" echoed Wilkinson, incredulous.

"The _Morning Mail_," began the Colonel, but was interrupted by Wilkinson:

"Phew! And who owns the _Morning Mail_?"

Morehead smiled.

"Check and countercheck," he grinned. "Ougheltree and his gang have just bought it." Turning to Leslie, he explained that Ougheltree was the President of the Twentieth Century National Bank. "The National Banks have formed in line to fight the Trust Companies," he told her, "because the Trust Companies, having bigger powers, attract more people. And they've opened fire on your father, first, and his string of Trust Companies." And now once more he turned to Wilkinson, and laying his hand on the other's shoulder, he said: "Do you know what I was thinking just this morning? I think you ought to buy a daily paper. I do, indeed! This is a crisis----"

"But I already own a paper," objected Wilkinson.

"I mean a good one. My idea would be to buy--well, say the _Daily Reporter_. It's a crackerjack sheet that's just begun to go down hill. It can be bought cheap, too."

Leslie tightened her grasp on her father's arm.

"Let me buy it for you, father, that is, if there's money enough left to buy it with."

Morehead's attention was directed afresh toward Leslie.