In common with most men who have attained their ambition to be money-kings, Peter V. Wilkinson regarded the legal profession solely in the light of the ability of its members to provide processes for him by means of which the law could be evaded. Failing in that or in their promises of immunity from imprisonment,—which is much more to the point in this case,—their usefulness, naturally, ceased. Accordingly, from time to time, one after another of his superfluous counsel had been dropped, even Patrick Durand, able criminal lawyer as he was acknowledged to be, being forced to content himself with a handsome souvenir of his connection with the case, to the exclusion of any further interest in the expected spoils. Obviously, the old Colonel was retained, but even this field marshal of a hundred campaigns, when he arrived at the Wilkinson suite in the Remsen at Albany in response to Wilkinson's imperative summons, had to acknowledge that the battle of his life—the last battle of what he called the running fight—was on, and likely, so at least it looked at the present time, to be his Waterloo.

It was but little wonder that, witnessing the burst of rage with which Wilkinson had told him of the Governor's refusal to pardon, not to speak of the pitiful state of collapse in which he found Leslie, that thwarted and disappointed as he was, Colonel Morehead came to feel that there was little likelihood of anything being immediately done towards the forming of a new campaign. Practically, the Wilkinson advisory committee had dwindled down to three—a triumvirate now, as it were—for Flomerfelt, doubtless for reasons of his own, had returned to New York; and Morehead at once set himself the task of forcing the intellects of father and daughter to resume their functions. With the girl it did not prove difficult. Womanlike, and despite her horror of the inevitable, she flung aside her own personal troubles at the call of the Colonel for a consultation, and entered the conclave intent on helping her father in his last great struggle with an energy that she determined would be boundless.

"Colonel Morehead, why can't father go away?" suddenly said the girl.

"Why not, Morehead?" asked Wilkinson, fairly jumping at her words.

But the Colonel was still sullen. He was beaten, or thought he was, which is very much the same thing. Wilkinson, on the contrary, seemed to find new life in the moroseness of the other. And for the first time in the struggle Wilkinson seemed to feel that the whole fight rested on his own shoulders, and Wilkinson was one who dearly loved to fight alone and single-handed.

"Why not run away, Morehead?" he repeated.

"How?" demanded the Colonel with little interest.

"The Marchioness ..." suggested Leslie.

"And forfeit a million dollars bail?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Don't make any mistake," declared Wilkinson, "they'll never get me behind the bars again! Never! Not even if I have to——" A new strange note had forced itself into his tone. Leslie, feeling suddenly cold, crept closer to him.

"Don't, don't talk that way, father!" she cried. "It shall never come to that."

Morehead, even, was alarmed.

"Peter, you don't mean——" he began.

"I mean," repeated the other, looking sturdily at him, "that if they ever put me behind the bars, it will be after life has left my body."

Leslie uttered a half-strangled cry and buried her face in her hands. But Wilkinson only braced himself.

"We haven't got to that yet, Colonel," he observed. There was a pause, after which he repeated his question: "Why not run away, eh?"

The Colonel thought a moment. Then, taking both Wilkinson and Leslie by the arm marched them to the window and drew back the curtain.

"Do you see that Italian fruit-vender over there selling figs to the swell? They're Murgatroyd's men, both of them. Murgatroyd's got you surrounded, sewed up, tied in. One of the elevator boys in the Remsen here is a New York County man; the chambermaid of this suite is a detective. Murgatroyd has sworn that you won't get away. It may cost the County of New York a million dollars, but you know Murgatroyd! And, besides, behind him stand the National Banks. How much will they put up to break you, eh? Murgatroyd will put you behind the bars as sure as guns—unless——" He stopped, his eyes were half shut.

"Unless——" repeated father and daughter, leaning forward.

Morehead did not answer at once. His mind was working fast; he was evidently feeling his way clear before committing himself. Suddenly he said:

"Peter, how long have you worn a beard?"

The question seemed so irrelevant that the millionaire started.

"Why, nearly all my life," he answered. "I've—I've never shaved. But——"

"It was so bristly," explained the Colonel, "that I thought it might be the result of shaving; but everything about you bristles, so I guess it's nature and not art. When you first saw it coming, you let it grow, didn't you—and you've had it ever since?"

Peter V. did not like the turn the conversation was taking, and merely nodded.

The Colonel uncrossed his legs and sat on the edge of the table, facing them.

"How do you look without a beard?" he asked.

Leslie laughed aloud in sheer delight. The problem seemed to be solving itself, but how or in what way she could not see.

"Blamed if I know," answered Wilkinson. "I don't even remember how I used to look without a beard, and as for photographs, well, in former days those luxuries were not for me, you know."

Colonel Morehead stuck his hands into his armpits and rested his chin upon his shirt front. Presently he went on:

"Peter, you know this is Murgatroyd's pet case. It's his first in his series of raids upon the iniquitous rich. He means to see to it that you serve ten years—less good behaviour. From the time you put up your million-dollar bail bond he has had you watched. Of course his task is a tremendous one. You and I know that time and time again we have eluded the vigilance of his men; and we know that we can do it again for a time; but that doesn't alter the situation. If you should disappear, every hotel, every train, every steamship would be thronged with plainclothes men. You can't get out of the United States, and you can't get out of the State, unless—you can't, in fact, elude Murgatroyd for any time at all, unless——" Again he stopped, and again Leslie and her father chimed in insistently:

"Unless——"

"Unless you follow my directions."

"What are they?" quickly asked the others.

"You've got to leave your beard and your name and all your worldly goods——" went on the Colonel, but he checked himself in time.

"My worldly possessions being minus anyway," sighed Wilkinson, helping the Colonel out.

"You've got to leave, even Mrs. Peter V.," smiled Morehead.

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Wilkinson with mock solemnity; then he added: "I can leave the lady with eminent complacency."

"And also," went on Morehead, mercilessly, "you must leave your daughter."

There was a sharp cry from Leslie, but Wilkinson gave no sign. He merely sniffed hopefully, for he smelled freedom in all this.

"Go on!" he commanded, ignoring the quivering palm that Leslie laid upon his hand.

"You've got to leave them all and never come back to them," continued the Colonel; and bending closer and lowering his voice to a whisper, he added: "Leave everything that you've got in the world, you understand?"

Wilkinson muttered an oath under his breath, for next to liberty his wealth was dear to him. In fact, he now arranged in his mind the relative importance of things: first, liberty—he must have that at any cost; second, the millions that he had stowed away; third, his daughter Leslie.

"Why have I got to leave them all?" he demanded, "and why never come back at all?"

"Because," said his counsel, "if you so much as plank down a ten-dollar bill for a railroad ticket after you disappear, you will be suspected. The county men, the police in other cities will be on the look-out for a man with money; they will not search the lodging-houses. You must not be caught. It takes nerve, but you've got to do it. You've got to say good-bye to everything."

There was a moment's silence; then Wilkinson answered:

"Where could I go?"

"Anywhere you like. Disappear. But don't buy a railroad ticket if you can help it. Don't try to leave the country, for if you do they'll get you. Don't do anything that a man with a roll of bills might do. Play the part of a tramp."

For a time they pondered the situation. The Colonel was the first to break the ruminating silence, and said:

"Of course your bail would be forfeited, and that would leave your daughter penniless."

This remark was for Leslie's benefit. Nevertheless he knew that after Wilkinson had gone, some way could be found in which his huge fortune might gradually be used for her.

"I don't care at all about being penniless!" cried Leslie, springing to her feet. "All I care for, is—but can't I go with father?"

"That's out of the question—they'd get me in an hour if you did." There was nothing paternal in Wilkinson's voice, for the primal principle had him in its clutch. Leslie was hurt by this seeming indifference to her; it was not given to her to comprehend fully that her father was making, in actuality, a fight for his life.

"You must understand, Leslie, that this means an absolute loss of identity, or ten years behind the bars for your father," explained Colonel Morehead.

Wilkinson rose, and walking to the window glanced down at the fruit man on the other side of the street, and then came back.

"How long time have I, Colonel, before——"

"There'll be no trouble about time," was the Colonel's reply. "I can still string it on for months. Summer is coming on—the long vacation——"

Wilkinson rewarded him with a crafty, exultant smile. He saw in this plan nothing save success. Firmly he believed that there was some way after all by which, whether he was in Paris, San Francisco or some other place, he could draw back his millions, even if it had to be accomplished in the slow way that formerly he had drawn them from his depositors.

"Liberty first, then——" he said half-aloud; and turning to his daughter, whose presence for the moment he had forgotten, he added: "Isn't it more than bedtime, child? You must be mighty tired, little girl. You're a mighty loyal one, anyhow."

Leslie held out her hand to Colonel Morehead.

"Don't worry, my girl," said the Colonel, kindly, "it's going to come out all right. I feel it, somehow, and I know you do, too. Good-night!"

But the Colonel's words did not banish the look of worriment on Leslie's face; and going over to her father, now, she clung to him insistently, pressing her flushed face against his breast, saying:

"Father, you're not going to leave me to-night?"

"Not for many nights," he answered, patting her head; and a moment after, Leslie withdrew.

For a brief ten minutes the client and his attorney waited in silence. Suddenly, then, Morehead stepped to a door and opened it, and a man came in.

It cannot be said that the newcomer was wanting in self-possession, and his bow to Morehead was one of respect. But that he stood in awe of Wilkinson, his manner while awaiting orders gave ample evidence.

"Sit down, Phillips," said Wilkinson. "Have a cigar?"

Governor Beekman's secretary helped himself to a cigar, and in fact, made himself quite at home.

"Now then, what are we going to do with this man Beekman?" asked the millionaire, his face flushed, his mouth hardening. "He's got to get his—and get it right away."

Morehead held up his hand.

"Peter V., do you think it advisable to——. Why not let Beekman alone until...."

"I'll do nothing of the kind!" snapped back Wilkinson. "Do you think I'm not going to hit him back? I don't want that kind of advice from you, Colonel. What I do want, is for you to tell me the quickest way...."

The Colonel swung about and closed his eyes, puffing unconcernedly at his cigar.

"I think," he remarked mildly, "that you'd better leave me out of this. Vengeance is not in my line. I'll have to leave that part to you and Mr. Phillips here."

"What do you say, Phillips?" demanded Wilkinson.

"Impeachment," answered Phillips.

"Can it be done?"

"Easy as rolling off a log."

"Good—good as far as it goes; but it don't go far enough. We want to be as hard as we can."

"I think that can be arranged without trouble, too."

"How will we get him?"

"Suppose you leave that to me. You'll back me up?"

Wilkinson clenched his fist.

"Go the limit, Phillips—I'll back you up. The traitor! And to think that this man Beekman might have had anything he wanted."

"The Reporter and the Star will back me, too?"

"To the limit."

"We'll need public opinion with us, don't forget that, Mr. Wilkinson."

"Pshaw, I'll take care of that."

"How long are you going to stay in Albany?"

Wilkinson raised his hand high in the air, as one about to take an oath.

"Until I've done up this man Beekman," was the magnate's answer to the Governor's private secretary.

Two days later charges of corruption against Governor Beekman had been presented to the legislature. A petition for his impeachment had been handed up; and a committee of three appointed to investigate the charges and to report. What the charges were was not quite clear upon the first news of the affair; but that they were serious seemed to be conceded.

Upon the evening of the very day of the appointment of the committee of three, a woman stepped into the lobby of the Remsen in Albany and exhibited a letter to the clerk. The letter was written upon the private letter-head of Governor Beekman and was addressed to a woman.

The clerk raised his eyebrows imperceptibly, and calling a boy ordered him to take the lady to the Governor's suite.

At the Governor's suite the woman was met by a maid, who unhesitatingly admitted her and escorted her into the Governor's den—a small room fitted with window-seats and couches galore.

"Are you sure this is all right?" asked the woman, somewhat alarmed at the effusive way in which she was made so suddenly at home.

The maid insisted that it was; that Governor Beekman was on his way up from New York; and that he was expected at any moment. The maid left, locking the door behind her.

Alone in this room the woman settled herself comfortably back to wait for the Governor. She had not long to wait, however, for presently the door opened and three men entered the reception-room. From where she sat she could see them, but they could not see her; and except for their being perhaps a bit unkempt, she noted that they were of the ordinary type of business men.

"I suppose this is all right," she heard one of the men saying.

"Of course it is," said another. "We've got a search warrant from the House, and anyway, we haven't broken in. I'd like to know how you're going to keep a legislative committee out of any place. We've got our rights, you know."

The woman shrank into a corner, fearing that any moment they might find her there. But they merely waited in the outer room, expectantly.

"Wonder what he'll have to say for himself?" queried one.

A second man laughed.

"There's nothing to it," he returned, "we're on a wild goose chase. Bribery? Nonsense! Beekman's as straight as a die."

"Suppose," said the third, "that we wait until we find out all about it. Suppose——" He broke off abruptly, for someone was knocking at the door; and looking up he saw that two people had entered the room.

When the woman in the inner room perceived who had entered, she could not suppress an exclamation, which, fortunately, however, did not reach the ears of Leslie and her father, who were now bowing to the three committee-men.

"I beg your pardon," said Wilkinson, "but can you tell me when the Governor is likely to return? We——" he smiled awkwardly, "we were summoned by him to meet him here at this hour."

One of the Assemblymen, a New York man, leaned over to his neighbour, and said: "That's Wilkinson." Whereupon, the others rose and bowed, and answered:

"We were told that he'd be here any minute now." And as if in confirmation of his words, the door suddenly opened, and Governor Beekman, with a light but hurried step, came into the room.

"I beg your pardon," he said, when he saw who was standing before him.

Leslie turned to him involuntarily, and half acknowledged his bow; then remembering, she quickly turned away, and looked at her father, fixedly.

The three men pressed forward at once, the chairman speaking.

"Governor," he said, "you understand why we're here. You've had a copy of the impeachment charges."

Beekman flushed.

"I received them in New York and came up as fast as I could," he answered, a little brusquely. "What can I do for you?"

"I beg your pardon, Governor Beekman, but I received this note from you and have obeyed it. Can you see us first?" asked Wilkinson.

The Governor took the note, which was written on his heavy, private letter-head, and read it. It ran:

Dear Mr. Wilkinson:

Will you and your daughter, Miss Wilkinson, kindly call at my suite in the Remsen this evening at eight o'clock. I desire to see you at that time.

Very truly yours,

Eliot Beekman.

For a moment Beekman was nonplussed and looked from the note to its bearer.

"I didn't write this letter," presently he said. He paled perceptibly; his confusion, whatever it may have meant, was not lost on the three committee-men.

"You didn't write it," queried Wilkinson, coldly, "but isn't that your signature?"

"It looks like my signature," admitted the Governor, after scanning the writing closely.

"But I can't for the life of me think what I wanted to see you about." And turning now to the three men, he added: "You'll excuse us, please."

Leaving the three Assemblymen he ushered his guests into the next room.

"Comfortable quarters, Governor," commented Wilkinson; "almost comes up to mine at home." And switching on more lights, Peter V. strayed boldly into the inner room. "Hello, hello, who's here?" he suddenly called out.

The woman who had been sitting on a couch came forth. She was plainly agitated at the sight of the two men and the woman who now stood facing her, for Leslie, unconsciously, had pressed to her father's side. In the background, too, were the three committee-men.

"Governor, it's all my fault," said Wilkinson, somewhat contritely. "I beg your pardon for intruding on your—your privacy."

The moment was a tense one, the Governor not daring to glance at Leslie.

"There must be some mistake," he stammered out; and then advancing towards the woman, he demanded angrily: "How did you——" but stopped suddenly in amazement. "Why, Miss Braine—how do you come to be here?"

Madeline Braine drew from her bosom a crumpled note.

"I—I don't know," she faltered, "that is, I received this note from you and I came. I supposed it was about the—the Ilingsworth case...."

Wilkinson threw a significant glance over his shoulder toward the three committee-men.

"The Ilingsworth case," he repeated scornfully, meaningly.

"They—the maid—ushered me in here," went on the woman.

"What maid?" demanded the Governor, puzzled. "I have no maid. And, what's more, I didn't write this letter—it's something that I cannot understand."

"It's something that we do not wish to understand," said Wilkinson, suggestively.

"I told you I would come whenever you wanted me," murmured Madeline Braine, waving the note, in her agitation, toward the Governor, "and I came."

Wilkinson chuckled inwardly. In an instant he turned to his daughter and whispered in a voice that could be heard all over the room:

"Leslie, clearly this is no place for you. A Governor who turns his apartments into.... Come, dear!" And he made a hurried movement to go. But the Governor was too quick for him and blocked his path. His face had gone white with anger; he cried out:

"What do you mean, sir?"

Wilkinson sneered.

"Do you want me to say it here?"

"You've got to say it here," returned the other.

Wilkinson waved his hand toward Miss Braine.

"Then please explain her presence in your apartments,—your private, apartments, if you can!"

"I will not!" responded Beekman, looking at everybody save Leslie. "I will not, because I cannot. Nor will she, because neither can she."

"A complete misunderstanding all around," laughed Wilkinson. "Nevertheless, I prefer to take my daughter to her rooms." And again he made a movement to go.

"You won't take your daughter to her rooms until you give me a good reason why you're here, and why you choose to make these remarks," said Beekman, belligerently.

"I'll answer the last part of your question first because it's easier. I choose to make these remarks because you're Governor of the State of New York, and as a citizen of the State, I have a right to object to a woman of her reputation...."

"A woman of my reputation, did you say?" said Madeline Braine quietly, and so marvellously well did she succeed in keeping her anger out of her voice that not for one moment did Wilkinson suspect the action that was to follow. In a trice she had seized him by the throat with the whole strength of her woman's hands and was pinning him up against the wall.

"Peter Wilkinson," she cried, "I'll teach you not to speak ill of a woman!"

But scarcely had these words fallen from her lips when she loosened her hands and threw herself into a chair, sobbing. With merely a glance at the woman who had assaulted him in this fashion, Wilkinson quickly hurried to his daughter's side, who seemed on the point of fainting. It was only a short time, however, before the woman had become calm, and Beekman, turning to Wilkinson, demanded:

"What is the meaning of this? So you know Miss Braine?"

Again the worst in Wilkinson's nature asserted itself; he answered the Governor's question with a question.

"Do you know this woman's history, Governor Beekman?"

The woman had gathered herself together and stood motionless with downcast eyes, silent, inert.

In his turn the Governor ignored the man's question and demanded:

"Miss Braine, do you know this man?"

The woman hesitated, while her eyes slowly wandered across the room and rested on Leslie, standing with her hand in that of her father. A moment more and Madeline Braine had answered firmly:

"No, except through this Ilingsworth case."

"The Ilingsworth case!" exclaimed Wilkinson; "always the Ilingsworth case! Some day, Governor, the Ilingsworth case will be your undoing. Some day——"

Again there was an interruption. The private secretary pushed his way into the group. He was received by the Governor, with:

"Phillips, I'm delighted you've come. There's the biggest mix-up here you ever saw. I don't understand it—nobody understands anything."

He stopped short, for Phillips stood facing him with a curious expression on his countenance, and holding out a folded letter.

"My resignation as your private secretary, Governor Beekman."

"Resignation!"

"My reasons are obvious, but they are nevertheless stated in that letter, and they will appear in the columns of the press to-morrow. It is quite beyond me to remain upon the staff of a man who ..." Phillips' voice quivered. He turned to the committee of three, and addressing them, said:

"Gentlemen, much as I dislike to follow your instructions, I have, nevertheless, obeyed your subpoena duces tecum. In obedience thereto I hand you the papers that you came here to find. I found them, not here, but in the Governor's room at the Capitol. I think this is all you want of me."

The chairman of the committee took the papers in question and read them, his associates looking over his shoulder; and when they had finished reading them they looked at each other with an expression on their faces, the meaning of which could easily be interpreted without the exclamatory assurance given by one of them: "By George! we've got the goods," highly illustrative of the situation as was that gentleman's phraseology.

"Well?" The Governor was speaking now.

For answer they handed him two letters, one of which read:

My dear Beekman:

I now concede that the inducement offered in our interview of yesterday was insufficient to justify you in acting in the suggested manner. Let me now say, however, that the situation has lifted itself out of the Ilingsworth case—we are fast climbing to a higher plane. The legislature will pass our Trust Company law, abolishing trust companies. I shall see to that. You must sign the bill—you must see to that. There is a step beyond. We need National legislation extending the power of National Banks—we need good men in the Senate. Let me be clear—these are the things we want: Wilkinson must be smashed. The first step toward that is the pardon of Ilingsworth, for the Ilingsworth case gets us public opinion—you can see that. Wilkinson has got to serve his term, otherwise he is a dangerous element. Pardon Ilingsworth, refuse to pardon Wilkinson, sign the Trust Company Bill—all this you can do for us. We can do much for you—beyond you lies the United States Senatorship, and beyond that, who knows.... A good New York man is in line for many things—if he's got the backing. You will have ours. Better burn this letter.

Yours, etc.,

Ougheltree.

The Governor read this letter silently, unmoved, and proceeded with the other, which was not an original letter, but a carbon copy. It was addressed to Ougheltree and was signed by Beekman.

"Dear Sir," it ran, "I am in receipt of your communication with reference to the Ilingsworth petition for pardon. I note everything you say and have considered it carefully. I shall do my best to decide this case upon its merits, and will advise you of the result.

"Very truly,

"Eliot Beekman.

"This letter," said the Governor, handing the letters back and referring to the carbon copy, "is a copy of my letter to Ougheltree; the other letter I never saw."

"But isn't it strange," asked the chairman, "that yours is an answer to the other. Besides, his letter is dated one day, yours the next."

The Governor took the letters again and looked them over still more carefully. Finally he ordered Phillips to go to his, Beekman's, private room and fetch Ougheltree's letter of that date.

"This is his letter of that date," returned Phillips, referring to the one already read.

"Ougheltree did write me a letter of that date, gentlemen," conceded the Governor, eyeing the other sternly. Whereupon Wilkinson winked broadly at the committee, and the chairman took notes upon a little pad. "But this is not the letter."

The chairman smiled.

"It's very strange," he said, meaningly.

The committee returned to the reception-room and took seats round the table.

"You understand, Governor," said the chairman, "that we are commissioned to report on these charges. We came here partly to get evidence, partly to get your statement. You understand that the Ilingsworth case is the pivot on which this turns."

"I understand that, Mr. Chairman," said the Governor.

"Do you mind telling us just why you pardoned this man Ilingsworth?" inquired the other.

Leslie leaned forward, drinking in every word. Even the lingering respect that she had for Beekman was fast leaving her. Her father had seen to that. Beekman was already sinking beneath the surface. Wilkinson intended that he should go down into ignominy shunned by all.

Beekman still addressed the men of the committee, but now he looked at Leslie.

"Everybody knows why I pardoned Ilingsworth," he said. "Ilingsworth didn't commit the crime."

The chairman poised his pencil.

"So it was a matter not susceptible of proof, wholly within your own knowledge and the knowledge of no one else?"

"Yes, that is true."

"Come, Leslie," said her father, drawing her away; and turning to Beekman he eyed him severely, and added "The price must have been big! Too thin, Governor—that's too thin!"

The next day the Star and the Reporter took up the hue and cry against him. "Too thin" was the Star's headline, while the Reporter denounced Beekman in scathing language; contended that in pardoning such a man as Ilingsworth the Governor had deliberately let loose on the community a murderer and an anarchist; and assured its readers that in refusing clemency to Wilkinson the Governor had in cowardice yielded to the popular clamour that someone should be made to suffer for the iniquitous methods of the great financiers of the present day.

"The present incumbent at Albany is a blot on the escutcheon of the Empire State," the editorial concluded. "The sooner the blot is wiped out the better."

The next day public opinion was swinging strongly against the Governor. And, on his own motion, Beekman was suspended from office until the charges against him had been tried.

The next day Ougheltree's denial was ridiculed. What is more, the Morning Mail, Ougheltree's paper, did not dare to take up the cudgels in the Governor's behalf: it could no longer defend a man who was charged with being implicated with its chief, since to do so would be to admit its owner's part in the conspiracy. And yet Ougheltree was as innocent as a new-born babe of having written the incriminating letter.

In short, Beekman was doomed. He had climbed the hill and for an instant had stood in the glory of the sunlight, only to find himself suddenly dashed down to the bottom at break-neck pace.

But not even this satisfied Wilkinson. Closeted later with Flomerfelt in the big house on the Drive he ground his heel into the rug of his den, exclaiming:

"Never until he wallows in the mud, Flomerfelt, will I let up on him!"

And in all this what of Leslie?

Irrefutable evidence had been presented to her of the Governor's unworthiness, and little wonder, then, that she had ranged herself upon her father's side. Nevertheless, there were times when she would shudder in silence. For out in the future it was certain that one of three things must happen to her father, and she dreaded any one of them.