Part 8

"Let me go on, Miss Leslie," he continued. "There were other reasons why haste was inadvisable. The _Morning Mail_, owned by this gang of national bankers, is trying to poison public opinion against your father. If we had instantly snapped a bail bond of three-quarters of a million dollars on the files, the _Mail_ would have charged Peter V. Wilkinson with being a rich man still, having the money of the masses in his coat-tail pocket. It was wise and necessary, too, for me to forestall this. I gave to every newspaper in the city the pedigree of the stocks and bonds that you put up, showing that they were the individual property of your mother, and had come down to you direct. The result is that the _Morning Mail_ had not a word to say. We've got to be mighty careful," he concluded, "about public opinion. For there's a trial waiting for us out there in the future."

There was determination in the girl's voice as she answered excitedly:

"And we'll win it, too!"

Wilkinson snorted.

"Of course we'll win!" he cried.

"We'll win," conceded Morehead, "but only after some shrewd counsellor-at-law--naming no names--has mapped out the campaign."

"That reminds me," said Wilkinson, "that we must put Flomerfelt on to this."

"Never mind Flomerfelt just now," advised Morehead. "Our first step is to buy a live newspaper and start in. And the first thing that's going to be chalked up to the methods of the _Morning Mail_, is the murderous mob that's responsible for the murder of Pallister three days ago."

They had started for Lafayette Street, but Wilkinson held them back.

"Who's going to try my case, Morehead?" he queried. "Which one of Murgatroyd's men?"

Colonel Morehead smiled enigmatically.

"Assistant District Attorney J. Newton Leech is the man. My information is direct--direct from the inside."

Wilkinson literally dragged them across the street.

"Come on," he said, "we'll go in and see Assistant District Attorney Leech right away."

Morehead interposed, and demanded:

"What for?"

"Just to--er--throw a sop to Cerberus," said Wilkinson. "Come, come along with me."

Wilkinson's cringing manner of a little while before had left him. His shoulders once more were straight, his Van Dyke belligerent. He had assumed his position as a leader of men.

"Both you and Leslie come along with me," he repeated. "I'm going to scratch Leech's back, and maybe, one of these days, he'll scratch mine."

They were ushered forthwith into the Assistant District Attorney's outer office. His private door was open, and they could hear his even voice within. His tones were mingled, however, with those of a woman--a pleading, tearful woman, judging from her voice. Wilkinson's card was sent in to Leech; and the instant that the Assistant District Attorney saw it, his straight lips widened into a pleasant smile. He came out to greet the three almost instantly, singled out Morehead and held out his hand.

"Colonel," he said in his sprightly and yet confidential manner, "mighty glad to see you." And now turning his gaze on Wilkinson, he added: "I'm afraid, Mr. Wilkinson, that you won't care to shake hands with me; but I assure you I won't bite--not just yet, at any rate."

Wilkinson shook hands warmly, and haw-hawed in a most approved and business-like manner. Leech now turned swiftly to Leslie, and then stopped, embarrassed.

"Miss Wilkinson," began Colonel Morehead.

"Mr. Leech, this is my daughter, Miss Wilkinson," said Peter V., snatching the words from the Colonel's mouth, and then without giving Leech the opportunity to make the usual acknowledgment, he hurriedly went on in a loud, commanding voice: "Now, Leslie, dear, I want you to tell Assistant District Attorney Leech of the threats that this man Ilingsworth made to you the other day."

"I beg your pardon," said Leech, stepping to the inner door and closing it quietly, for Wilkinson's words had brought an exclamation to the lips of the woman in the adjoining room, that had reached his ears. Leech came back almost instantly and placed chairs for them all.

"Tell him all you know, Leslie," commanded her father.

The girl's breath came quick and short. Her father's words had come as a shock to her, and she looked about her helplessly.

"Father, I'd much prefer not," she protested.

Morehead did not altogether approve of the proceeding, chiefly because he had not been consulted upon it, and he interjected gravely:

"Are we sure, Mr. Wilkinson, that she knows anything of the affair?"

Wilkinson did not deign even to glance at his counsel, and ignoring the girl's protests, and brushing aside or rather pushing his way through her objections, as was his wont, with his shoulders, he repeated:

"Leslie, I want you to tell Assistant District Attorney Leech all that you know about this man Ilingsworth--all--you understand."

Leslie, with difficulty, controlled herself, and cried out:

"Father, this is a--a case of murder. I can't be the accuser.... Don't drag me into it--please...."

A dull red, angry colour crept up over Wilkinson's collar, and his eyes flashed.

"Leslie, don't you understand what this man Ilingsworth has done? He's killed my private secretary Pallister! It's your duty.... How are you going to escape ...?"

Leech tiptoed back to the door of his private office and gently closed the transom, which was open.

"In order to relieve you, Miss Wilkinson," he now said, and his voice was reassuring, "I may as well tell you that we have established, beyond all doubt, proofs of Ilingsworth's guilt. We have people who say they saw him in the crowd; we've found the man who sold him the gun, and we've shown him Ilingsworth's photograph, which he identifies as unquestionably the man."

"But you haven't got Ilingsworth?" quickly interposed Morehead.

"Not yet," and Leech fastened his eyes on Leslie. "Can you have any idea as to where he is?"

The three dissented silently.

"We'll get him yet," smiled Leech. "It is rare that we do not succeed in landing a person when once we start out to," he went on, his glance shifting to Wilkinson, who met it in open and genial defiance.

"You--you have time to hear what my daughter has to say?" asked Wilkinson, and without waiting for an answer, he added: "I think now is the time to take it down--and----"

Leech rose abruptly.

"Miss Wilkinson, you would know this man Ilingsworth, I suppose, if you saw him?"

"Yes," faltered Leslie, "I should know the man. But his pictures in the daily papers--I should never have known him from those."

"Just a moment, until I get his photograph," whispered the Assistant District Attorney, opening the inside door; presently he returned, closing the door again behind him, and advancing towards them he resumed confidingly: "The fact is, I've got Ilingsworth's daughter inside there. I shouldn't be surprised if she knew where the old man is, either, though she insists that she does not, and----"

Wilkinson grunted.

"And you're practising third-degree tactics on her, I suppose," he said.

"Well, not exactly that, but persuasion--polite persuasion, that's all," explained the Assistant District Attorney, smiling. He stepped once more toward the inner door, and Leslie, obeying some hidden impulse, darted quickly to his side.

"Will you let me see her without being seen," she pleaded. "He told me all about her--her name is Elinor."

"Stand here, then," whispered Leech, and opening the door swiftly, he passed over to the window and held the girl within in conversation while he searched among his papers, and in such a manner that three-quarters of her countenance was turned toward Leslie. One glance at the pretty face of the girl was sufficient to satisfy Leslie that Elinor Ilingsworth was in great distress, and taking her place beside her father, she whispered:

"Oh, father, you should see her. She's in great trouble, and yet she looks so--so pretty." Genuine anguish shone from Leslie's eyes as she now turned from her father to Colonel Morehead, and asked:

"Who's going to take care of her? What's to become of her now?"

Leech had returned by this time and was holding before Leslie a half-tone photograph of Giles Ilingsworth.

"That's the man!" cried Leslie, seizing the picture. She turned it over and glanced involuntarily at the inscription on the back. "Taken particularly for my daughter Elinor," it said. "Affectionately her father, G. I. Sept. 190----"

Leslie's eyes reproached Leech.

"You make this girl an instrument in her father's destruction," she said indignantly, little understanding what part she might play later in her own father's affairs.

Leech, who seemed to take a very business-like pleasure in feasting his eyes upon Leslie's face, merely nodded, and after a moment's silence he said:

"You forget, Miss Wilkinson, that we have our duty to perform. A man who murders is not entitled to so very much consideration, after all." He looked at the photograph in her hand. "If you're sure that this is the man you know as Giles Ilingsworth, you might tell me briefly what he said. It is not vital," he went on hastily, "that is, we can make a case without it. But we want--and Mr. Wilkinson is good enough to offer----"

"Mr. Leech," broke in Wilkinson, seeking the Assistant District Attorney's glance, which he held to the end, "let me be understood. This man Ilingsworth killed a man in my employ--to be exact, my private secretary, my friend. I want to put myself on record here and now: Whenever a man tries to do me an injury, whenever a man tries to hound me--hound me, understand, as this man Ilingsworth did,"--he paused for an instant,--"his gun was aimed at me, don't you forget that--why, I camp on that man's trail until I land him. And conversely, if a man does me a favour,"--again there was a pause to let the fact sink home,--"I never forget it. Now, Leslie," he concluded, "you may proceed with the facts, and tell us about the man who tried to kill your father in cold blood."

Leslie's recital consisted of the threats Ilingsworth had made. Wilkinson supplemented it with his statement as to the unwarranted attack on himself by Ilingsworth in front of Wilkinson's house on the Drive on that eventful evening a short while before. Leech took no notes of these statements, but merely tucked away the details to be dictated to his stenographer later in the privacy of his inner room.

"That's all, Mr. Leech," said Wilkinson, rising, and, holding out his hand, the other shook it genially.

"By the way, who's going to try the Ilingsworth case for the People?" inquired Morehead, hoping to take the Assistant District Attorney off his guard.

"Nobody knows yet," snapped the Assistant District Attorney, in a manner to remind the Colonel gently but forcefully that it was nobody's business but the People's.

At the outer door, Leslie held them for a moment.

"If there was any way to," she faltered, "I'd like to know what's going to happen to--to that girl inside. I----"

Wilkinson winked at Morehead.

"Why, girlie," he exclaimed, "Ilingsworth's stolen millions will take care of her!"

Leslie brightened up.

"To be sure," she answered. "I--I never thought of that. I'd forgotten all about the fact that he had money still."

"He reeks with money," added Morehead, returning Wilkinson's wink. "And now, for the machine."

Twenty minutes later Wilkinson stalked into the presence of his wife and Beekman. It was late afternoon, and Beekman was to dine with them that night. Wilkinson bowed ostentatiously to Mrs. Wilkinson, and commented:

"Overpowered, my dear, absolutely overpowered by your attentions to me while I was in the Tombs. I actually felt like a bachelor again."

"How could any man expect a lady to go there?" she asked, glaring at Beekman, and evidently expecting him to come to her aid, but as no comment was forthcoming from that gentleman, she concluded her remark by saying: "Not for the best man alive would I trail down into that dirty, dingy place."

Wilkinson groaned with disgust.

"Nevertheless, there were some women," he reminded her, "who came there, clad in rags, and stood, stood, stood on their tired feet all day long, outside the cells of the men they loved. They were wives, mostly wives, too, for I heard what they had to say...." He, too, appealed to Beekman. "It's worth while, Beekman," he wound up, a trifle sadly, "to be loved for yourself alone, and not for your money, isn't it?"

The mistress of the house lifted up her voice in raucous mirth.

"I don't see, Peter," she returned, "that you have any money to be loved for now."

"Hence," commented her lord and master, while Beekman grew hot and cold by turns at this free and easy bickering, "hence you didn't come down to the Tombs. But," his forefinger shot out and, figuratively speaking, touched her on a vital spot, "you made a big mistake! If you'd been there the artists of the daily press would have had you shown up in forty different poses for Sunday. I had the devil's own time in keeping Leslie's face from getting in. But yours--I could have had it in every hour of the day without its costing me one penny."

The lady leaned forward in genuine eagerness, and asked:

"Is that true, Peter? I thought they had abandoned me--left me on the shelf. But if it's true, I promise to be there every day the next time you're locked up."

Peter V. paled perceptibly.

"There isn't going to be any next time," he laughed. "Eliot Beekman's going to see to that."

Meantime in the Colonial drawing-room, Leslie was enjoying a quiet tête-à-tête with Colonel Morehead.

"It was the nicest thing in the world, Colonel," she was telling him, "your picking out Eliot Beekman for--for father. And I believe you're right. Mr. Beekman is so honest, so earnest, and so convincing. And he looks you in the eye so."

"Um, how does he look you in the eye?" returned the Colonel, meeting her gaze.

But Leslie, flushing, had already fled.

It was hours later, when alone with Beekman, she looked into his eyes squarely, as was her habit, and asked falteringly:

"Do you know, Mr.--Mr. Beekman----"

Beekman stopped her.

"Begin again," he commanded, "you can do better than that."

"Mr.... Mr...." she started in, but again Beekman protested.

"Now look here, I'm only one of six lawyers in your father's case. Every last man of 'em calls you Leslie--even Patrick Durand, and I'm going to call you Leslie, too. It's a part of my duties, as your father's counsel in the case. Therefore, you begin again, and begin it right."

There was a moment's pause in which Leslie averted her face.

"Eliot," she finally whispered, in gentle tones, her eyes coming back to his, "I think it is perfectly fine of you to help father in this way. Don't you know," she went on, "you said that night on the way home from Mrs. Pallet-Searing's, that you wished you could do something for him, help him some way. And now you've buckled on your armour in his defence."

"Hold on there!" called out Beekman, in alarm. "Wait a bit! Is that what you call it-- my helping him? Why, there are just about ten thousand lawyers in the Borough of Manhattan who'd give their eyes to get the job. And, besides, don't laud me yet. Great Heavens, Leslie! Don't you understand that I've got a fat retainer in my pocket for all this?"

The girl laughed in glee.

"So much the better!" she exclaimed. Presently her brow wrinkled and she demanded: "Who paid it to you, Eliot?"

"Colonel Morehead," quickly spoke up Beekman.

"I wonder where he got the money?" she mused, then she laughed once more. "Probably my money," she said. "Wouldn't it be great if I were paying you for this?"

"It would," answered Beekman in mock solemnity, "because, getting this much out of your coffers, I should have hopes in time of depleting your funds to a very large extent, so that some day in the future, having flim-flammed you out of a large proportion of your worldly wealth, I should then stand on that footing of American equality I mentioned to you the other night, and might, in turn, 'with all these worldly goods I thee endow'----"

"Don't you be too sure," she said seriously.

Nor was it given to them to know what the fates had in store for them, that the time was soon to come when Beekman should be on that equal footing, to which he referred, and, what is more, that he was to stand as the one man in the state, the cynosure of all eyes, his name on every lip.

"At any rate," she went on, "it's fine of you to fight.... You're going to fight, aren't you?"

He looked over her head far into the future. It was all hazy there, but in his ambitious purposes Beekman recognised that he held within his grasp the one big opportunity of his career.

"Fight," he echoed, "to the last ditch."

"And so am I," she went on enthusiastically. "We'll all fight, and we'll win; we're bound to win."

"We're bound to win," he repeated, the blood surging through his veins. "And when we win--what then?" He looked deep into her eyes; but she cast them down before him.

"Let's win first," she faltered.

If only there had been a warning hand, a friendly voice to tell him what lay before him in the future! For could he have heard Wilkinson's words, that very afternoon, to the Assistant District Attorney: "The man who does me a favour I never forget; the man who injures me I never forgive,"--he might have thought twice before replying:

"It's a go. You're quite right. We'll win first."

X

"You ought to have been there, Patrick! By jinks, you had ...!" exclaimed Wilkinson some months later as he watched the rings of smoke from his cigar float upwards to the ceiling of the Millionaires' Club. "I fixed him, didn't I, Colonel?"

Colonel Morehead thought a moment before replying:

"I shouldn't wonder if you did, Peter. You furnished the evidence of deliberation--that essential element in a murder case--the lying in wait. Yes, your admirable efforts in that direction will probably land Ilingsworth in the chair."

"Probably! Oh, thunder," put in Patrick Durand, one of the cleverest criminal lawyers in the city, "that man Ilingsworth is dead already!"

Colonel Morehead placed the finger-tips of one hand against those of the other as he made answer:

"If he'd been merely one of a crowd of maddened depositors, acting in the heat of passion, it would have been second degree, without a doubt. And yet,"--and the Colonel darted sharp glances first at Durand and then toward his client,--"in my opinion, the star witness of the prosecution was your daughter Leslie. The jury believed every word that she said."

And indeed such had been the case at Ilingsworth's trial. Assistant District Attorney Leech had made no mistake in the order of summoning his witnesses. After her father, bluff, arrogant and eager--and over-willingness is a bad virtue in a witness--had finished his testimony, Leslie had taken the stand and had wholly removed the bad impression Wilkinson had made on the jury through his evident desire that Ilingsworth should be convicted. Moreover, Leech had trained the girl, as he did all his witnesses, to answer the essential facts, and nothing else. And to make his task all the easier, Ilingsworth's lawyer, a hanger-on of the criminal courts--for Ilingsworth had had no funds to employ first-class counsel, and a prisoner without money is a doomed man in New York--had wallowed through the trial without a glimmering of common sense. From the first, as might have been expected, he had played directly into the hands of the People. But his blundering had not been without its interesting side--interesting, at least, to a few of his hearers. For despite the Assistant District Attorney's strenuous objections, the Court had overruled his contention that the entire conversation between Giles Ilingsworth and Leslie that memorable afternoon was irrelevant and immaterial, and in consequence the good-for-nothing lawyer had led Leslie on to tell in detail all of Ilingsworth's grave charges against her father. And it was at that point, and barely before the girl had uttered two hundred words, that a reporter of the _Morning Mail_ had succeeded in wriggling his way through the lawyers inside the rail, and had not crept back into his place and resumed the taking of copious notes until the court stenographer to whom he had whispered: "Say, old man, I want all this, word for word, by two o'clock, at any price," had nodded his willingness to accept the fifty-dollar bill that he was sure the _Morning Mail_ must vouchsafe him for this hurry job.

And so it happened that an hour later the _Morning Mail_ man was telling Mr. Ougheltree of the Twentieth Century Bank and head of the bankers clique that owned the _Mail_, that he had to stand by this man Ilingsworth from start to finish. And as a result of this interview the few spectators at the afternoon session of the court had heard the celebrated Worth Higgins inform the Court that he had been retained to conduct the case for the defence, as well as the Court's complimentary remarks in reply.

But Worth Higgins had been of little service to the defendant, though he had drawn from his witnesses, especially Ilingsworth, all that they knew or suspected about Wilkinson's management of the seventeen bankrupt trust companies--a feat which, as will readily be imagined, was all that the _Morning Mail_ required of him. In truth, Higgins had done Ilingsworth more harm than good. The defendant had deliberately purchased a gun; had lain in wait; had shot a man down in cold blood. Not the man he had aimed at, it is true, but the principle was the same.

"Will the defendant deny that he did the shooting?" had been Higgins' query to Boggs.

"Of course he will," had been his fellow-counsel's answer. "He's as innocent as a new-born babe."

And with that Higgins had put the defendant on the stand and heard him deny it--a weak, wabbling denial it was, in reality merely a recital of his wrongs.

"That's all," Higgins said, when the testimony was over, and then he had added in an aside to his junior: "His goose is cooked."

Nevertheless, at the suggestion of the _Morning Mail_ man, he had taken all the exceptions possible, remarking to that gentleman's intimation that the case was going up for an appeal: "A good thing it is, for it's a gone case here."

And Higgins had been quite right. For, a short time after this the jury had filed back and pronounced the one word of doom.