On a bright snappy morning of the following Spring, Governor Beekman, reaching his private room in the Capitol at Albany a little ahead of time, began to pace slowly up and down in front of the open windows. A wonderfully pleasant place the world seemed to him now. However much his ambition might grope forward in the future, the present was eminently satisfactory. All his struggles seemed to lie behind him; before him he saw power, pleasant ways, and Leslie Wilkinson.

His private secretary, on time to the minute, broke in on his thoughts.

"This came in last night, Governor," he said, "after you'd left. I read it over."

"What is it?" asked the Governor, absent-mindedly.

"It's a petition for pardon," said the other casually, handing it to the Governor.

"What's the conviction," asked the latter, glancing at the document.

"Murder in the first degree," was the answer. Beekman frowned. Out of many applications this was the first he had received in a murder case.

"The game of Governor isn't all beer and skittles, is it, Phillips?"

"I'll change with you any time you say, Governor," laughed Phillips; and a moment later he added: "This is the case of Giles Ilingsworth."

"And who is Giles Ilingsworth?"

"Don't you remember that Tri-State Trust Company affair? The vice-president who shot a man named Pallister."

"Of course, Phillips, now I remember it very well. But I never took much interest in his case. Have they sent the record up—the printed case?"

"Yes, and the Hon. Worth Higgins, of New York, is waiting to see you, Governor Beekman. He came up yesterday—was at the Remsen last night."

"So he was. I remember now seeing him this morning, eating breakfast. I thought he looked at me as if something were in the wind. Tell him to come in, Phillips; I'll see him right away."

Bearing underneath his arm a printed book, the Hon. Worth Higgins entered the arena of events with his accustomed energy. He bowed low to the Governor, placed a high silk hat on the Governor's table, and settled down into a seat.

"Have you read my petition?" he asked of the Governor.

"I looked at it," replied the other. "You have a choice assortment of names upon it—looks all right."

"It is all right," declared Higgins, "I can assure you."

"I have just fifteen minutes," said the Governor. "I'll take this matter up with you with pleasure. Give me the printed case. Now point out to me—the evidence must have been brief on the exact point—the testimony relating to the crime. Remember I don't want your own private opinion, I want merely the salient facts of the case." And after glancing quickly over the pages that Higgins selected, he then wandered through the testimony on his own account. At sight of the name of Leslie Wilkinson in the printed index of the witnesses, Governor Beekman was conscious of a shock; nevertheless he turned to her testimony and to that of Wilkinson.

"Seems to have been deliberation all right," he remarked. "But wasn't there a gun store clerk upon the stand? I was in Austria at the time, and I lost track of this case."

Higgins, his countenance falling, pointed out the exact testimony. The Governor solemnly shook his head, as he observed:

"And here, Mr. Higgins, are three witnesses in the crowd who say that they saw him fire the fatal shot. What have you to say to that?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the Hon. Worth Higgins, his spirits rising, "that is just the point. If you will examine the cross-examination, blundering though it be, of my colleague Boggs, you will find that those three witnesses cannot give a correct account of themselves. They were not depositors—that much we showed: they were hangers-on of Mulberry Bend resorts."

"These three men," returned the Governor, "do not stand impeached by Boggs, that much is sure; and, besides, this was Ilingsworth's gun. How do you get away from that?"

Now Higgins, be it known, was not secretly in sympathy with this errand of his. He knew instinctively that his mission would fail. He preferred successful missions, and consequently he had balked. But he had outlined a plan whereby he would sit down before the Governor and make his plea, and then retire, leaving the rest to fate. So that he had not come prepared to answer vital questions, and they annoyed him. Besides, he knew and felt that Ilingsworth had been convicted on the merits of the case. Appeals had failed; this petition to the Governor was a last resort. Nevertheless, he started in to tell the Governor the story his petition set forth—a story of the wrongs of Ilingsworth.

Governor Beekman listened patiently to him for a few minutes, then he said:

"But this man Ilingsworth ran away, too, didn't he? In my mind that refutes even this question of quasi-insanity that you set up. You were beaten on insanity, beaten on everything."

Once more the Governor took up the petition and glanced at the names subscribed on it. When he came to the name of Nathan Ougheltree of the National Banks, he smiled and said: "He heads the list." And running his finger further down the long line of names, he added sardonically: "Instead of being People vs. Ilingsworth, it looks like Ougheltree against Wilkinson—the National Banks against the Trust Companies. At least it does to me, Mr. Higgins; how does it look to you?"

The Hon. Worth Higgins flushed to his eyelids.

"My dear Governor," he said reprovingly, "a man's life is at stake."

"I understand that, Counsellor," returned the Governor. "I'm just trying to figure out just how much you and Ougheltree care about the man's life, that's all. I'll take your papers," he went on, "and have no fear, I'll go over this thing carefully, give the man the benefit of every reasonable doubt, and that's the best I can do."

"You'll pardon him, Governor Beekman," said Higgins, placing his silk hat upon his head, and lighting a cigar. "You'll pardon him, I predict. Good-day!"

Higgins's head was held high in the air until he left the room, but once outside he conversed dejectedly with his own inner consciousness.

"What the devil did Ougheltree send me on this fool errand for!" he protested. "Ilingsworth's done for; anyhow, he's served our purpose. The Morning Mail has had him for a weapon against Wilkinson long enough."

On Church Street he stepped into a telephone booth and called up Ougheltree in Manhattan.

"What luck?" queried the National Bank man.

At his end of the line Higgins chuckled.

"You can lay this unction to your soul," he replied. "There's no hope. Besides," unconsciously lowering his voice, "this man B. is Wilkinson's man from top to toe. I did what I could."

"Nobody could do more," conceded Ougheltree at the other end; "let it go at that."

No sooner was the interview between Higgins and the Governor at an end than the latter's private secretary tiptoed his way back into the room, and remarked:

"You're not through with that Ilingsworth case yet. Somebody else wants to see you—a woman, this time."

"His wife, I suppose," said the Governor, wearily.

Phillips shook his head.

"Ilingsworth was a widower," he explained.

"It must be his daughter, then—he has a daughter, so it seems," he said, tapping the printed case. "Doesn't she give her name? No? Well, tell her to come in, then."

The private secretary went out as directed, and a moment later the new visitor entered.

In a glance the Governor saw that although she was simply and poorly clad, she was a woman of great beauty; and presently he said:

"You are Miss Ilingsworth?"

The woman turned her lustrous dark blue eyes full upon him—eyes full of sorrow, full of appeal; they troubled the Governor.

"I am not Miss Ilingsworth," she returned in a strong, rich, full voice, vibrant with pathos. "I have no card. My name is Madeline Braine. I'm a saleswoman in Satterthwaite's department store in New York."

The Governor looked at her questioningly.

"I was informed that you had received the Ilingsworth papers," she began, going right to the point, "and that Mr. Higgins had been here to see you. I have come about it, too."

The Governor drew a chair forward for her; and the young woman leaning across a table, her figure half-resting lightly upon it, her slender arm stretching toward him, continued:

"Yes, I have come to plead for Giles Ilingsworth, to save him from——" She stopped suddenly, and for an instant her eyes held the other's glance.

"Who sent you here?" presently asked the Governor.

"I came of my own accord, sir."

"You are not allied with the Ougheltree crowd?" he asked, and his eyes narrowed.

Madeline Braine opened hers wide.

"What Ougheltree crowd?" she queried in return.

"Come, come," he said a bit impatiently, "you must know what I mean. I've heard all about this Ilingsworth case. It's been a handle in the hands of a lot of people for the purpose of hounding Peter V. Wilkinson."

"Peter V. Wilkinson," she breathed, a sharp note of enmity in her tone that the Governor recognised for the thing it was.

"Ah, you know something of what I say?" he said.

"I have heard," she began.

"Then why do you come here?" he interrupted testily.

Madeline Braine leaned toward him a bit closer, persisting:

"Because I know that this man Ilingsworth isn't guilty."

"How do you know it?" he asked.

"I just know," she replied with feminine logic.

"You think he was insane? That seems to be the chief argument of his friends."

"He isn't guilty of the murder, that's all," she declared, her eyes glittering for an instant.

"I wish you'd tell me how you know this?" asked the Governor, firmly. He was fast getting out of patience with her.

"Because I've heard him tell his story, and I know it's true," she insisted stubbornly.

"But twelve men heard his story," went on the Governor, disturbed out of his gubernatorial dignity by her evident distress, "and they felt it wasn't true."

"They didn't hear it as I heard it," she declared with great earnestness. "You ought to hear it from him—not read it. Just hear the sound of his voice, see his face, his eyes! You'd believe him—you'd know it was true."

The Governor was interested, not only at her words, but at her forceful manner; moreover, he was attracted not a little by the young woman's great beauty. Presently he asked:

"You were in the crowd the day of the murder? Or perhaps you know someone who was?" But both these questions she answered negatively.

The Governor was puzzled. Dealing with the Honourable Worth Higgins had been an easy matter compared to this. Nevertheless, there was a wonderfully convincing stubbornness about the woman that disturbed him.

"You think he had a fair trial?" he asked, flirting the leaves of the printed case. "It seems to me he had."

"No," she answered, "he did not...." And then she went on to give her reasons why she thought this, ending with: "The three witnesses out of the crowd—the three men who were procured by the police, and who swore they saw Ilingsworth fire the shot—those men lied."

The Governor started.

"Isn't it rather queer that Counsellor Higgins should have harped on that very thing! You've talked to Higgins this morning, or perhaps some other time, about this case, haven't you?"

"I have talked to no one," was her answer, and, somehow, the Governor felt that she spoke the truth.

"Leaving out the question of those three men," he went on, "there's enough proof—the gun, the threats—to have convicted him on circumstantial evidence."

"Another reason is," she continued, heedless of his remark, "that the influence of Peter V. Wilkinson, and especially," she hesitated for an instant, "the testimony of Miss Leslie Wilkinson were too strong in the case—too much importance was attached to them."

At the mention of Leslie's name the Governor winced. Not so much because of her connection with the case, but he blamed himself for permitting his thoughts, for one instant, to rest on this woman to the exclusion of the other.

"Their testimony," he argued, "was entitled to weight. It was true; and it established these threats ... I can't see...."

But there was such genuine distress and anguish on her face, and she seemed to be advocating such a losing cause that he pitied her, and was wondering just how he could assist her, when suddenly she leaned closer to him, her breast swelling, heaving against the polished surface of the table; and placing her ungloved hand upon his, while with the other she pushed towards him a closely-written memorandum, she said in soft, swelling tones:

"Governor Beekman, I know this man is innocent. See what I have done: This is a list of men who have been sent to death by juries, courts of appeals, in times past—innocent men, like Ilingsworth, condemned by the world, while living, and acquitted only when it was too late. This man Ilingsworth is not guilty, I say," she concluded, tightening her grasp on his arm, while her gaze held his.

The Governor's frame thrilled at her touch.

"I would not say this, Governor Beekman," she resumed, still holding his glance, "if I were not desperate, but if there is anything I can do for you, if there's anything in my power to give, I'll do it if you will set this man free."

The Governor felt the warmth of her hand through his sleeve, yet there was nothing of the temptress in her touch, but rather she had become a desperate woman, the apotheosis of self-sacrifice, a Monna Vanna, stopping at nothing to gain her virtuous object.

"I don't know you," she went on softly, with downcast eyes, "but if there's anything about me—do with me——"

Suddenly she stopped. The door had opened, and a girl stood framed in the doorway. But although the Governor paled perceptibly, he did not move. After a moment the woman removed her hand from his arm, quietly rose and stood facing the girl who had entered.

"Governor Beekman," she said, now turning to him, her face still appealing in its pathos, her arms half stretched toward him, "I'm coming here every day, whether you will see me or not. I'm coming until you consent to see this man Ilingsworth and hear from him the truth. You must see him, you must hear his story from his lips," she concluded, holding out her hand.

"I will say to you precisely what I told Mr. Higgins," he replied, taking her hand and bowing gravely over it. "I shall consider this matter fully and faithfully, and shall give Giles Ilingsworth the benefit of every reasonable doubt."

When the woman had finally gone, Leslie came forward laughing, but with just enough nervousness showing in her laugh to startle Beekman, and remarked:

"Take care, take care, Eliot, some of them will get you if you don't watch out!"

By this time the Governor had thrown off the subtle influence of the woman, and smiling, too, he answered:

"Let me tell you all about it, Leslie," and proceeded to do so, despite her protests that she didn't care to hear it. During his recital, however, she broke in with:

"She's awfully attractive, Eliot, to say the least!"

"To tell you the truth, Leslie," he laughed, "I'm not quite sure how far her influence upon me is going to go."

"Surely you don't mean——" began Leslie, but Beekman joined in quickly, soberly, honestly saying:

"Just this: that if she persists, it may result in my seeing Giles Ilingsworth."

"Oh!" The interjection plainly showing her relief. But a moment more and she had recalled Colonel Morehead's warnings that under no circumstances was Beekman to be permitted to hear Ilingsworth's story from his own lips.

Immediately, therefore, to Beekman's surprise, the reserve that had marked her manner dissolved, and she cried:

"Eliot, don't see him! Please don't see him, Eliot!"

"But why not?" he inquired, smiling.

"Because I don't want you to," she told him.

"Leslie! Surely you're not trying to pit your influence against hers? What?" he said, his smile changing to an expression of slight annoyance.

"No, indeed," she replied. "It's something else."

"Why, then?"

"That's the trouble—I don't know. Only, he was, is still, my father's enemy. Oh, I have seen his fury—he meant murder—he did murder...."

"It is because the case is a murder case," explained the Governor, "that it troubles me. It's the first murder case since my election, and really, I don't know—I can't promise anything now."

Madeline Braine lived up to her promises. Day after day for a week she had waited persistently in the Governor's ante-room, buoyed up with the hope that eventually he would accede to her wishes. At last her patience was rewarded: for the Governor, passing through the room where she waited, suddenly announced to his private secretary that he would consent to an interview with Ilingsworth the following day at noon. And turning to the woman, he added:

"I want you here, Miss Braine, too."

Phillips, the Governor's private secretary, frowned to himself. Unknown to the Governor, he was one of Wilkinson's most faithful men—placed at the Governor's side apparently by the Governor's untrammelled choice—but actually forced upon him without his own knowledge.

"I don't like this a little bit," thought Phillips to himself. "It looks bad, bad...."

The following day punctually at noon, in obedience to the mandate of the Governor, three men marched into the waiting-room at the Capitol. Two were men in uniform; one in civilian's dress.

"You can go right in," said the secretary, nodding to them. And passing into the Governor's private office they found him at his desk, signing some papers. In a corner sat Miss Madeline Braine. One of the uniformed officers stood at attention, waiting until the Governor should look up.

"This is Giles Ilingsworth, sir," he said at length.

Instantly the Governor raised his eyes and looked at the prisoner—a man whose hair was turning grey, whose aspect was pathetically hopeless. And steeling himself against the sight—for it was within the range of possibility that all murderers looked this way, guilty or not,—he ordered him to sit down, and pointing to a seat, he added:

"Mr. Ilingsworth, take this chair, please."

The chair had been placed so that the light shone full upon the face of the condemned man. And the instant that Ilingsworth had seated himself, some new expression crossed the face of the Governor as unconsciously he placed his hand against his forehead. In an instant, however, he had removed it, and his glance went from Ilingsworth to the young woman sitting in the corner, at the same time motioning to her to come forward.

"Mr. Ilingsworth," he began gently, "the fact that I have consented to see you is due to your friend, Miss Madeline Braine."

The prisoner turned an expressionless countenance toward the girl.

"My friend, Miss Madeline Braine!" he exclaimed, his hand, too, creeping along his own forehead. "I have no friend of the name Braine."

"You may not know her by that name, but this is the lady," said the Governor.

Giles Ilingsworth stared hard at her; the next instant he announced:

"I don't know this lady, sir."

The Governor was startled afresh.

"You don't know her? Why, she's been pleading for you for days."

Ilingsworth smiled gratefully, murmuring:

"Some young newspaper woman, I suppose. I thank her for it."

The Governor shook his head.

"She's not a newspaper woman—I know that," he returned. "I mistook her for your daughter."

Giles Ilingsworth struggled wildly to his feet, and brushing his hair roughly from his forehead as he leaned over the Governor's desk and looked him full in the eye, he cried:

"My daughter! My daughter——"

"Stop!" ordered the Governor in commanding tones, the puzzled look on his face giving way to one of recognition, relief.

"I've placed you now—yes, by Jove, I'm right—I know you!" He laughed with the surprise of it all.

Ilingsworth continued to stare vacantly into space.

"'And the rest by the names underneath,'" quoted the Governor, touching him on the arm, as though to arouse him.

"Eh?" exclaimed the prisoner, working his fingers convulsively through his hair. "Listen to this!" And the Governor recited with almost boyish glee:

"Don't you remember it?" he added, when he had finished the verse.

Ilingsworth's face lighted up.

"Why, sir," he cried, "it's my favourite. Where did you hear it?"

"From your own lips," replied the Governor. "And at the same time you showed me that,"—and he pointed with his finger to the spot where the old man had brushed away his hair from his forehead—"the Heidelberg scar upon your head. And you were reading Dante at the time."

Ilingsworth pulled a thumb-worn volume out of his pocket.

"I've that copy of the Inferno yet," he murmured sadly. "It keeps reminding me.... My daughter"—he peered uncertainly at the Governor. "I'm curious to know, sir, when I met you. I can't seem to place you."

"But I remember you very well indeed," rejoined the Governor. "I rode with you all day long to Buffalo, some months ago. We were on the Empire State Express together."

"Buffalo?" said Ilingsworth. "I never went to Buffalo."

"Oh, yes, you did," persisted the Governor; and drawing from his breast-pocket a diary he turned over the leaves rapidly until he came to a certain page. "Yes, you went to Buffalo on the 27th day of April, 190—that's the date."

"I can't seem to remember it," was all that Ilingsworth said; but at that moment a figure sprang towards the Governor, and a voice cried in his ear:

"The date—what was that date? The twenty-seventh day of what?"

"April."

"Please repeat it."

The Governor repeated it.

"Are you absolutely sure?" she cried.

"Of course," he answered. "Why?"

"And you say you took the Empire State Express?" demanded Madeline Braine, almost beside herself with excitement. "What time does it leave in the morning?"

"It leaves always at the same time—eight-thirty in the morning."

"It was an all-day ride?"

"Yes."

"And Giles Ilingsworth was near you all the way? You're sure that you were with him on the Empire State Express at eleven o'clock—eleven in the morning that day?"

"Surely I was."

Madeline Braine offered up a silent prayer.

"I knew, I knew," she cried, "that there must be some way out of this! Giles Ilingsworth was miles away at the time when Pallister was killed! The murder took place on April 27th at eleven o'clock in the morning, at the very instant when you and he were riding to Buffalo as fast as steam could carry you! You——"

She sank into her chair and covered her face with her hands.

"I told you he was innocent," she said, smiling through her tears.

There was a tense moment in which Governor Beekman, the prisoner and the two officers stood staring at each other in speechless amazement.

"Can it be possible ...!" exclaimed the Governor at length, and again he consulted his diary. All of a sudden something else on the page that he was looking at caught his eye, and he cried out:

"It was at six o'clock that evening in the Iroquois that I read the murder in the papers. It was that day—it was...." And a moment later he was at his desk rapidly leafing over the printed case for the date of the commission of the crime.

There was no mistake about it. Every witness had it pat. Repeatedly in his opening address and in his summing up the District Attorney had referred to it; three times it appeared in the Court's charge to the jury.

"Phillips," he directed, when his secretary appeared, "call up my office in New York; call up the District Attorney's office in New York; and call up the Bank Le Boeuf in Buffalo. Get them right away, please."

The calls were answered quickly. Once the people at the other end knew the Governor of New York was on the wire, everything was put aside to do his bidding; and at the end of an hour the Governor sank back into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

"There is not the slightest doubt about it," he told them. "At the very time the shot was fired in Lafayette Street, New York, this man was with me miles away from the spot." He looked at the officers significantly. "When was he to be——" He broke off, shuddering at the thought of the man's narrow escape.

"Next week Thursday," came from the officers.

Beekman thought for some time. Finally he said:

"I'll grant him a reprieve for a month. It may take a week to verify the facts."

When the prisoner had been led away, the Governor turned to Madeline Braine, and said with great feeling:

"Miss Braine, I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay. If it hadn't been for you I would have sent this man to his doom—and one of these days, when it was too late, I would have found it out, and then...." His finger-nails bit into his palms. "You've saved me from the Inferno that he harps upon."

But much to the Governor's surprise, the woman before him seemed to receive this remark listlessly. An unaccountable depression was upon her; there was no fire in her eyes; and the hand that she gave to him was cold as ice. Yet, instinctively he felt that she must be grateful.

"If I can ever be of service"—she murmured. But Beekman interrupted her.

"Pardon me, it is I who wish to be of some service to you. But will you tell me," he asked, another thought coming into his mind, "how it was that you didn't know Ilingsworth, and that he didn't know you? How do you account for it, Miss Braine?"

"I think this day has taught us that there are many unaccountable things in life, hasn't it, Governor?"

And the Governor, when once more seated alone at his desk, was forced to acknowledge to himself that it had.

Governor Beekman was still at his desk going over some papers when Phillips, some time later, came in and handed him a telegram, saying:

"It's in cipher, sir."

"Cipher!" said the other. "Why cipher? I have no code with anybody. Can you read it?"

"It says 'Coal gone to $6.50 retail.'" And passing it over, added: "It's signed, M. X. Y. Z."

"And you say that's a cipher?" asked the Governor.

"Yes. The X. Y. Z. means the X. Y. Z. Code, apparently," explained Phillips, glibly. "I have the A. B. C. and the X. Y. Z. in my desk. I translated it while you were busy. It means this: 'Court has affirmed Wilkinson conviction. Morehead.'"

Governor Beekman started with genuine anxiety.

"The deuce you say! I'm sorry, very sorry, to hear that," he said; but Phillips only smiled—a smile that the Governor did not see. "I can't understand why they affirm that conviction, I can't—I can't ..." he kept saying to himself. Then aloud to his secretary: "Get me a copy of that opinion, will you, Phillips? I want to see it, word for word."

And it was with considerable satisfaction that the private secretary observed, as he left the room, that the Governor was nervously pacing to and fro.