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.

"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."