"I believe I once remarked to you, Mrs. Peter V., that I needed you," said Flomerfelt, his fingers stealthily groping into the depth of his sleeves for his cuffs, and when they were arranged to his satisfaction, he added: "to manage Peter V. It seems that I was mistaken."

"And you don't need me?" asked Mrs. Wilkinson anxiously. For the lady feared Flomerfelt, and realised that he was a dangerous man. In some way or other she considered him responsible for the attempt on her husband's life, which ended in the killing of Roy Pallister. She had never lost confidence in Flomerfelt's ability to win the battle that he and she were waging against her husband. There had been a time, it must be acknowledged, when she had looked up to and admired Wilkinson, but that feeling had long since passed off and had been replaced by one of tolerance and fear. Now she despised the man—despised him the more because she believed that Flomerfelt would circumvent him. A poor judge of character, as she was—a woman whose only end and aim in life was to feed her own desires—she saw nothing save unsuccessful clumsiness in Wilkinson's move at this time, and had naught but admiration for Flomerfelt's promised finesse.

"You do need me?" she asked, taking refuge in tears. And she was rewarded by a sudden half-reluctant change in his manner, for he said soothingly:

"I suppose I do, but not as far as your husband is concerned. Peter V., in or out of prison, is sewed up, done up; he's in our hands. Our fight is with a woman." And even before the last word was spoken he noted that she seemed to be impressing upon herself the possibility of such a contingency. "I suppose you know," he went on, "did Peter V. tell you that Leslie had refused Governor Beekman?"

"The girl's a fool!" exclaimed her step-mother. "If she halts at marrying a governor—I'd marry Beekman—I'd marry any governor in the land! I've been all wrong in thinking that money will do everything in New York! A millionaire's wife is nobody, unless.... Now if I were a statesman's wife, they'd have to recognise me—I'd show them!"

"You don't suppose that she wants me, do you?" Flomerfelt said, putting into his voice as much tenderness as he dared.

Mrs. Peter V. shook her head, laughing scornfully in spite of herself.

"Some day, perhaps, we can make her like you, when I'm through liking you myself," she replied.

"You?" scowled Flomerfelt.

The woman shivered at his tone.

"What reason does she give?" she asked, wisely changing the subject.

Then Flomerfelt went on to explain with a grim smile what he thought of the deep-laid plans of Colonel Morehead, the schemes of Wilkinson and how they had all gone for naught, ending with:

"She's a born fighter, that Leslie, and it's she that we're up against, and not Wilkinson. Now the sooner Peter V. wins his fight, the better for us; but this minx is blocking him, though I admire her for it, I must say."

"We'll make her marry Beekman," declared Mrs. Peter V.

The woman's confidence in her own powers brought a sarcastic smile to his lips.

"It isn't a part of my game that she shall marry him," he argued. "The essential thing is that she shall engage herself to him. I say that she will never marry him."

"But Beekman can't be put out of the way as easily as——"

"There has been too much blundering already," said Flomerfelt, gloatingly, for the look of fear in her eyes had not escaped him. For a moment that seemed minutes they were silent. Finally Flomerfelt announced: "The long and short of it is that I don't intend that this Beekman shall marry her, and you've got to help me."

"Of course," said the lady, rejoicing that at last her services would be brought into play. "But how? What would you suggest?"

" ... That you go and see him secretly," he told her, and then proceeded to unfold his plan of what she should say to him.

"You'll go now?" he asked, observing the readiness in which she lent herself to his scheme, "and I'll go with you, that is, part way."

And in no way concerned as to the outcome of her dishonourable action—so confident was she of Flomerfelt's ability to carry out any project that he might undertake—Mrs. Peter V., without the slightest compunction, swept out of the room to make ready for their little excursion to Beekman's apartments. In a surprisingly short space of time she came back arrayed in a long fur motor-coat and a hat perched upon her head with a rakishness that she thought quite smart, but which, in reality, had not the remotest chance of success unless worn by a very young and pretty girl. And notwithstanding the fact that her eyes were over-bright, as were her cheeks, there was no lack of self-satisfaction in the manner in which she carried herself as together they passed out through the entrance door, stepped into her limousine, and were off.

But scarcely had the limousine passed out of sight of the house than Jeffries was summoned to the door once more.

"It's Mr. Beekman back again, Miss Leslie," were the words with which the butler interrupted Wilkinson's insistence that Leslie should listen to his final command; "and he says that he must see you at once."

Wilkinson's eyes gleamed as he snapped out:

"See him again, Leslie, and patch things up. Mind you, if you don't take him, I'll drag you to him and make you."

Frightened lest he should see Beekman before she saw him herself, for she realised that her father was desperate for some unknown reason and quite capable of carrying out his threat, Leslie swept on past Jeffries and into the room where Beekman was waiting, his eyes bright with a new hope.

"Idiot that I was, Leslie," he began breathlessly, "I was half way home before I came to my senses. Then in a flash I saw it all—no, you can't fool me this time. The whole trouble is your father's troubles. Come, confess!"

"But I've already confessed," she said. And so she had, though not in the way she intended, for her eyes told the story.

It was, therefore, with no uncertain tread, but rather with a sudden warmth and force that seemed to take possession of him, body and soul, that he continued:

"Look here, little one, this is a matter between you and me and no one else. You must consider no one, but remember only that I represent to you the one man in all the world for you, as you stand for the only woman in the world for me: for I love you, Leslie, and I know that you love me."

There had been times when Eliot Beekman had stood before and pleaded with reluctant juries and judges whose faces were dead set against him, but his task then had been nothing compared with the one now. And yet so well did he plead his case, that when he had finished it was as he had told her: she forgot her father's sentence, forgot everything, except that she loved him, and that he was the one man in all the world for her.

"I believe you," she confessed to him in a whisper; "I believe you are right. Would to heaven that you had given me the chance to say this to you months ago."

"You've loved me all the time?" he asked, his pulse beating fast.

"Yes," she answered, "and I knew that you loved me."

The next instant he had brought out the ring which she had refused to accept, a little while before, and holding out her hand impulsively Leslie let him put it on.

There was a pause in which she looked first at the ring and then at the man before her, the meaning of it all slowly dawning upon her. And then in some sudden outburst of rapture she let herself be held in his arms as their lips met in one long kiss. In that moment her heart went out to him, and she knew that there could never be anyone else for her. After a time she gently drew herself away from him, and said:

"My senses are coming back, Eliot, and this surrender is only on one condition, which is that there shall be no—no wedding—until, until father is cleared.... Of course, if you will not consent to this," and she toyed with the gem that sparkled on her finger, "then——"

"Hold on there, hold on!" cried Beekman. "I'll consent to anything so long as you're mine...."

"All over, is it, Eliot?" came in a big voice from somewhere behind them.

The pair of lovers sprang apart like two persons caught in the act of concocting some conspiracy. The interloper was the girl's father.

"I thought," went on Wilkinson, more gently now, "that I'd drop in before the news went over the wire. Leslie's been opening up her heart to me—letting me in on her troubles, and I agree with her, though it's your own affair, of course. I'd keep the engagement quiet, for the present."

"That is precisely what I want; in fact I insist upon it," said Leslie, tugging at the ring on her finger.

Beekman watched her struggles in alarm.

"I consent to anything, just so long as I am sure you're mine, that you belong to me," he repeated.

Wilkinson held out his hand, saying:

"I'll make myself scarce and let you make sure in your own way that she does belong to you, Governor Beekman. Clinch the bargain, my boy; strike while the iron's hot; make hay while the sun shines."

A moment more and Wilkinson had ambled off to smoke another black cigar and to pat himself upon the back, while the happy pair, heedful of his advice, in the dim light of the music-room proceeded to make hay while the sun shone, even though without the November storm raged above the Hudson.

It was a night to be marked with a white stone for them, a happy memory in the days to come. For the time was not far distant when the sun for them would cease to shine, when the storm was to rage within these two as it now raged without the big house on the Drive.