It was three o'clock in the morning when Eliot Beekman reached his club in Forty-fourth Street.

"There's a telegram for you, Mr. Beekman," called out a sleepy employÉ, from the office. "It was left here by your clerk to-night."

In his room Beekman switched on the light and read:

Eliot Beekman, Esq.,

32 Nassau St., N. Y.

Meet us at Hotel Iroquois, Buffalo, to-morrow six P. M.
Important letter follows. Wire answer. Do not fail.

Bank Le Boeuf,
J. K. W., Cashier.

"The Bank Le Boeuf of Buffalo! Sounds good; I hope it is good," mused Beekman. "If so, another big client added to my growing list."

Without hesitation he wrote an answering telegram, stating that he would be at the Hotel Iroquois at 6 P. M. the following night, took it downstairs, and left it in the office with instructions to send it as soon as possible.

And it was not until fifteen minutes later, in the midst of his speculations as to the nature of this business sent to him by the Bank Le Boeuf, that the thought of Leslie's yachting-party came to him.

"Confound it!" he muttered to himself. "I clean forgot all about it. What am I going to do?"

Yet Beekman was so consistent that he recognised at once that there was nothing to do save what he had done. He had built up his practice without pull, influence or money; and he had done it by religiously conserving the interests of his clients. He knew, therefore, that he must obey this summons. So, assuring himself that Leslie would understand it when he told her in the morning, he removed his evening dress, swathed himself in a dressing—gown, stepped into his library and began to work. An unfinished job lay upon his table—a job that, he knew, would take past dawn to finish, and early in the evening he had determined not to go to bed. So he started in.

There was a neat supply of law books in his rooms—a good working library, an average lawyer would call it. And from the hour that he donned his dressing—gown, Beekman nosed among these tan-coloured volumes, taking down one from its shelf, scanning the headnotes of a given case, reading the opinion, slapping the book together and replacing it. A hundred times, at least, he did this. Finally, weary of his search, and hopelessly downcast, for so far his search had been in vain, he found on the highest shelf a slender volume and opened it. And now, as he started to read, his eye brightened and he quickly seized pen and paper.

"Eureka!" he exclaimed. "On all fours—just in point. By George, this—this wins the trick!"

Half an hour was spent in jotting down the salient portions of the opinion of the Court of Appeals. Then, restoring the book to its accustomed place, he folded up his memorandum neatly and thrust it into a heavy brown envelope, labelled: Turner vs. Cooper. And now with considerable complacency he leaned back, saying to himself:

"I thought sure I was licked. But I've got 'em! I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that Jameson & Bowers never even heard of that decision! Now," he stretched out his arms, "I'm ready for Leslie Wilkinson and the Marchioness—or, no," he corrected himself, "I mean I'm ready for the Empire State Express."

A moment more and he had turned on the faucet, filled the tub to the brim, and had plunged in—holding his head under the cold water for half a minute at a time. Completely refreshed, he dressed carefully, ascertained from the appearance of the heavens that it was likely to be clear, then quietly left his room and started down the stairs and left the club. At the Grand Central Station he checked his grip. He had lots of time, even for the preliminary little journey that he proposed to take.

After getting some breakfast he strolled back to the West Side and sauntered up Sixth Avenue. The stores were all closed. One, however, as Beekman passed, opened up. From the door its proprietor, a little wizened Jew, nodded sleepily to Beekman. Returning the nod, the latter looked again at the store, and retracing his steps, entered.

"Ready for business?" inquired the lawyer.

The proprietor nodded.

"Always," he replied.

"This is a gun store?" queried Beekman.

The Jew yawned.

"Loogs like id," he conceded. "Did you vant to buy a gun?"

"I want ten cents' worth of shot," his customer replied, pointing out the size he wanted; and, after the storekeeper had weighed out the quantity and it had been dropped into his pockets, he started on his way rejoicing, making a bee line for Wilkinson's. It was getting-up time now, but not for people on the Drive. There silence reigned supreme.

But Beekman felt very wide awake. His conversation with Leslie the night before in the Pallet-Searing cosy-corner, and his successful night's work had gone to his head like wine. And it was this condition that led him to purchase a handful of shot; and now, regardless of the fact that he was operating on the residence that had cost ten million dollars, more or less, and, in fact, regardless of consequences, he took his station in the middle of the Drive and selecting half a dozen missiles from his pocket, he flung them lightly through the air, aiming for a wide window-pane on the third story of the house. Three times he did this. The fourth time he was stopped by a voice calling out:

"Hi, there!"

Turning quickly Beekman found himself confronted with the majesty of the law.

"What're you trying to do?" demanded the officer. "Isn't it a bit early in the morning, or a bit late in the evening, to be out on a drunk? What's doin', anyway?"

Beekman grinned, desisting, nevertheless.

"A bit of old-time romance," he explained; "trying to wake her up, that's all."

"Is her name Norah?" demanded the blue-coat, threateningly.

Beekman glanced aloft; then he plucked the officer by the sleeve.

"Look for yourself," he rejoined, "and see.... Is that Norah up there?"

While the officer scanned the housetop, Beekman gazed innocently out over the Hudson.

"It is—not," he assented joyfully. "And so long as it is not, I have nought to say, except," the policeman's voice trailed off into a whisper, "except, sir, that the lady is waving to you. Look now, and see."

Beekman looked. There she was, indeed.

"I've been up an hour!" she cried. "Wait until I come down."

In the music-room, she greeted him with:

"Have you had your breakfast?"

"Yes. I came to tell you...."

"Then you got my telegram all right?"

Beekman shook his head.

"You're not the Bank Le Boeuf of Buffalo?"

"I didn't phone you," she went on, ignoring his question, "because I couldn't, don't you know. But I sent a wire so you'd get it the first thing this morning—at your club."

"Crowd there too sleepy to get it to me, I suppose," he said, puzzled. "What was in it?" But without waiting for an answer, he went on: "I came to tell you about my telegram," and with that he passed it over to her. "Business before pleasure," he remarked tritely, and yet in a manner that he knew she would understand. "I can't go on the Marchioness, you see."

"The Marchioness," she responded, "is not going after all. That's why I wired you. But I'm glad you came, because, somehow, I wanted you to know—before it appeared in the papers——" She paused, and then added, with much feeling: "The Grand Jury has indicted my father—late yesterday afternoon. As yet no one knows it; but everybody will know it by nine o'clock this morning. It may be in the papers now, though they tried to keep it out. It's a terrible thing—a thing like that! I can't see how, or why, they indicted him! Can you?"

Beekman looked his sympathy. Presently he asked:

"Do you mind my asking just what they charge him with?"