Despite the efforts of his counsel to pacify him, it was fully half an hour before Peter V. Wilkinson recovered from his fright. Over and over again he wailed in the lawyer's ears, "But they tried to do it, Morehead. They tried to kill me, didn't they?" And when, at last, the replies to this question were not forthcoming, he asked, between little fits of shivering, what plans had been made to get him away, since the police would probably be powerless to drive away the crowd which every moment, he was positive, was increasing because of the excitement and their knowledge now that he was in the building. In a measure, however, he was soon reassured. For after a loud rap on the railing, the Court came in, and glancing commiseratingly at Colonel Morehead, as if apologising for an act of violence, he shot out a stern forefinger towards the officers and cried out in a sonorous tone:

"Clear the court-room at once! Next thing you know we'll have violence here."

This proceeding took some little time, for the court-room was crowded. When at last it was cleared the Court, bowing respectfully to Colonel Morehead, announced:

"If you're ready, Colonel Morehead, we'll have the indictments read."

The Colonel made a grimace.

"We've been reading them all night, your Honour; I know them all by heart; I think we can waive having them read."

"Put the waiver on the record," said the Assistant District Attorney to the stenographer. He nodded toward the Court. "The District Attorney is most particular about this case."

"How do you plead to the first, Colonel?" asked the Court.

"The larceny indictment?"

"Yes."

"Not guilty."

"Forgery—eight counts there, Colonel."

"Not guilty."

"Perjury—these banking reports—how about it?"

"Not guilty," repeated Morehead laconically. "And now, your Honour," he went on, adopting a casual tone, "about bail?"

The Court inclined his head toward the Assistant District Attorney.

"Any suggestions?"

"I move, your Honour," said the assistant, "that bail in these cases,—under the new rule laid down in the Mitchell case,—be fixed at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on each charge."

Colonel Morehead stiffened as with a sudden shock.

"Your Honour," he protested, "this is preposterous! Every defendant is entitled to have bail fixed at a reasonable sum."

"Then," went on the assistant with asperity, "if Colonel Morehead makes a fuss about it, I move, your Honour, to hold this defendant in the Tombs, and without bail, if your Honour please. It is, in this case, discretionary with your Honour. People vs. Mitchell, 193 New York."

His Honour nodded impartially to Colonel Morehead and the Assistant District Attorney.

For a while he gazed into space; finally he said:

"Colonel Morehead, I think that I must fix the bail suggested, if I fix any bail at all."

"This is barbarous, prohibitive, unconstitutional," groaned Morehead. "Why, your Honour, it is a notorious fact that my client is a broken man, financially. Where can he get three-quarters of a million bail?"

The Court's eyes sought the rear wall. He had often dined with Wilkinson, had been entertained at his house, but this made no difference to the Court.

"I think, Colonel," he repeated, this time with a shade more emphasis, "that I must fix the bail suggested, if I am to fix any bail at all."

Wilkinson, the present calamity fresh upon him, was trembling; and pressing against Colonel Morehead, whispered loudly in his ear:

"Let it go at three-quarters of a million, Colonel; we can raise that easy enough."

The Colonel turned white with rage. He looked at the Assistant District Attorney to see if that gentleman had heard the remark. Then, satisfied that he had not, he turned swiftly and ostentatiously upon his client, protesting:

"Mr. Wilkinson, I am managing this case, not you. Be good enough to let me manage it alone." Before proceeding, he wiped his glasses and blinked his eyes. "Your Honour," he said with considerable pathos in his tone, "to fix this bail means that my client must be incarcerated in the Tombs. Who among all his friends will come forward to-day and furnish three-quarters of a million dollars bail? Who, indeed?" He shook his head. "Blessed are they that hath, for to them shall be given. But to him that hath not, shall be taken away, even that he hath. Does your Honour still persist?"

"Colonel Morehead," said the Court, "I shall cheerfully hold this man without bail at all, if you still persist."

Morehead bowed.

"We shall try ..." and his voice rang with the wail of a funeral bell, "we shall try to get bail, your Honour."

"You can't furnish it now?" asked the Court.

"You might as well ask for the moon," returned Wilkinson's counsel, looking the picture of grim despair.

The Court's eyelids never fluttered as he ordered:

"Take the prisoner to the Tombs in default of bail."

"I'll go with you, Wilkinson," declared Morehead, with a peculiar smile.

As they crossed the Bridge of Sighs, they could hear the cries of the crowd below—a crowd frenzied both by the horror of the crime and the escape of Wilkinson.

"Don't be frightened, Wilkinson, this is all right," said Morehead soothingly. "You're going to stay in the Tombs until I get you bail."

"I can put it up in half an hour, you fool!" insisted Wilkinson.

"But you won't," returned his counsel. "Not if I know it. If you put up bail in half an hour, they'll find out where it comes from; and if they find that out, they'll find out all the rest."

Wilkinson dropped his eyes.

"Perhaps you're right, Colonel," he conceded. "Do with me as you will."

"Yes, you must do as I say, or I'll drop this case," warned the Colonel. "And while you're in here, you're not to talk—not a word to anyone—do you understand me?"

"But how long will I be in here? They won't lock me up, will they?"

"Of course they will."

"Not behind the bars—not in a cell?"

Morehead nodded.

"I won't stand for it!" blustered the millionaire.

Morehead caught him by the arm and looked him in the eye.

"You've got to do as I say to the letter, or it means ruin, ruin, do you understand? I know what I'm talking about. You go into a cell without a murmur. The newspapers—all New York will talk about it; everybody will know that Colonel Morehead is gnashing his teeth at the injustice shown you. Morehead is taking an appeal, they will say; but as for you, you'll keep quiet in your cage until I let you out. It won't be long; wait and see."

They passed into the Tombs. A deputy warden nodded to Wilkinson.

"That was a narrow escape you had, Mr. Wilkinson," he said, referring to the tragedy of an hour or so before.

"I—I should think so," faltered Wilkinson, the cold sweat running down his face. "Poor Pallister! Have they got the murderer?"

"No," said the warden, "and I doubt if they'll ever get him, either. Still, you never can tell...."

"If they should find out, you'll let me know at once, won't you?" urged Wilkinson.

The warden promised. The lawyer and his client parted: Colonel Morehead went his way; Wilkinson was shown into a cell.

At one o'clock that day, one of the officials unlocked the door of his cell and took him down into a counsel room. Sitting there at a table was a woman with her face in her hands.

"Oh, father, I couldn't stay away!" she cried, springing to her feet and smiling bravely.

"Leslie—you here—you!" And the next moment he had gathered her in his arms and was patting the head that rested on his shoulders.

"I'm so glad to see you, that you're alive and well," she went on affectionately. "Colonel Morehead told me——"

"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."