In Colonel Morehead's office at 120 Broadway, Peter V. Wilkinson sat at the window reading a typewritten document of considerable length. He was white and rigid; while Leslie, standing beside him, rested her arm upon his shoulder. As he read he stirred uneasily, even his daughter's hand felt heavy upon him, and he shrugged it off.

"By all the gods!" he groaned from time to time; "those chaps have nerve to say such things about me!"

"They seem to have the right," said the Colonel, suppressing a chuckle, "and I suppose we can't complain."

When Peter V. had finished reading the opinion, he wiped his face with his kerchief—the perspiration had started from every pore.

"That's the last crack, I suppose, Morehead," he ventured.

Morehead did not immediately answer, but turned to Leslie and said:

"There's a new Inness in the next room that I picked up at a bargain. Would you like——" And without waiting for her answer the Colonel led the way to an adjoining room, where he pointed out briefly to her the artistic features of his new acquisition, and leaving her to admire it, he came back, closing the door behind him.

"Peter," he said softly, "how much money have you squandered on this business in the last year—since you were indicted, convicted and so forth. I mean outside of what you haven't paid me and of what I know about?"

Wilkinson grunted in disgust.

"Ten, I should say."

"Millions?"

His client fumed and nodded.

Morehead made a gesture of impatience which included the other.

"Didn't I warn you, Peter, that it would be of no use? That at the end of the race you'd find yourself with a ten-years' sentence staring you in the face. You might have saved your money, or given it to me, preferably the latter course."

"Oh, come, Morehead, what's the use of these post mortems of yours! Let's get to work. How much time have we got?"

"I can get a few certificates of reasonable doubt—that part's all right—run it along for months yet. We've got to concede, however, that they shoved it along mighty quick. What I'm trying to figure out is whether we hadn't better apply to Beekman now—strike while the iron's hot. For that opinion will make him mad, and if so, now is our time...."

"Sure it's our time, Colonel; let's do it right away."

Morehead slipped into the next room and adjusted the window-shade.

"The light is a little better, now, Miss Leslie. I want you to like that picture. If you like it well enough, maybe I'll give it to you one of these days...."

Leslie smiled her gratitude, glancing anxiously at the same time into the next room.

"Can I go back to father now?" she asked.

"Of course, I came to get you," said Colonel Morehead; and when they were back in the room in which her father waited, the Colonel, lounging easily in his seat, went on to confide to her the fact that her father was at last in desperate straits; that this opinion constituted his last chance with the courts.

"Your father and I have been talking it over," he said in a tone of finality; "and the hand of the National Banks sticks up like a sore finger all through the case. It's an outrage! We've decided that this is the proper time and the proper case to present to Governor Beekman for pardon. What do you think ...?"

At first, while Morehead was explaining, as well as he knew how, the unpleasant situation that her father was in, Leslie had half-risen in her chair, her face growing white; but at the lawyer's concluding words her colour came back.

"Why, I—I never thought of that!" she cried out, her troubles slipping from her suddenly.

Colonel Morehead smiled at her until she lowered her eyes in confusion. Afterwards he deigned to explain that neither had they until just now.

"Providence," put in Wilkinson, winking at Colonel Morehead, "seems to be on our side—the appellate courts to the contrary notwithstanding."

"The right shall prevail," quoth Morehead, unblushingly.

"Isn't it funny," exclaimed Leslie, "that none of us ever thought of this before!"

Leslie thought of it a good deal afterwards, however, and the very next day in the Mastodon car she canvassed in person practically every house upon the Drive and over on Fifth Avenue to get the list of signatures that the Colonel wished her to obtain.

"This has got to be done right, Miss Leslie," he impressed upon her. "For when Eliot pardons your father, remember that he's got to show why he does it, and upon whose petition."

"You mean"—she faltered, "that he may be criticised?"

"It's quite possible, my dear. The Morning Mail, for instance, will doubtless roast him from here to Gehenna and back again."

Leslie's smile of girlish confidence returned.

"Eliot won't mind," she said. "I don't believe he cares much about anything except me. He'll do right by us no matter what happens, I feel sure of that."

"And I think," suggested the Colonel, "that when we hand in our petitions, we'll all go up together."

Leslie laughed in sheer delight.

"Of course we'll all go up together," she returned. "Our march to victory."

"That man Ilingsworth is here again," Phillips told the Governor, somewhat reluctantly; "and he wants to see you."

"Show him in," briskly returned his chief. "I'll be delighted to see him."

Ilingsworth came in slowly, dejectedly, alone. No guard was with him; the air he breathed was free air, and yet there were no signs of contentment.

"I didn't come exactly to thank you, Governor," he said uneasily. "I did that in my letter when they told me of my pardon. I came to you because in all my life you are the only man who ever really helped me—for it seems to have been the mission of other men to drag me down. I have come for help once more."

"I want to help you, Mr. Ilingsworth," volunteered the Governor. "What's the trouble? Is it—money?"

Ilingsworth slowly shook his head.

"No, it is not money...." He paused and looked about him uncertainly, murmuring to himself: "What is it that I want?"

Beekman touched him kindly.

"You seem to lose yourself at times," he remarked. "For instance, you didn't remember that trip to Buffalo."

"That's the only time I ever lost myself, I guess," was his answer. "If I hadn't lost myself then, I suppose I could have proved an alibi. I couldn't account for myself upon my trial, and nobody who knew me had seen me for a few days. I must have knocked about Buffalo and come back."

"You were looking for a farm."

"Yes, you told me that. It comes back to me now. And there was a farm, but it's all very vague—a farm some years ago somewhere up there. I had the notion to find it and to live on it—just myself and——" he broke off abruptly, and there was a new light in his eyes and a world of pathos in the voice that said: "It's my daughter that I want to see you about. I want to find her. Can't you help me to find her?"

"Don't you know where she is?"

"I haven't seen her for, oh, so long—so long. When they put me away she would come to the Tombs—twice she came up the River to see me. But the last time there was something in her face I couldn't understand, then she never came again, and I knew they'd got her. For she had to get along, somehow, and she didn't dare to face me. Poor girl, there was no one to care for her—see to her!" And then all of a sudden flaring up out of his downcast demeanour, he cried:

"Curse them! Curse that man Wilkinson—all of them! First they robbed me of my money, then they got me, and now they've got her!"

The Governor's eyes narrowed.

"What has Wilkinson to do with it?" he demanded.

"Why, don't you know?" Ilingsworth burst out excitedly. "Doesn't everybody know? Didn't you read my testimony at the trial?"

"Only hurriedly," acknowledged the Governor. "What I wanted to read first was the case made against you. I read your own denial—but as for the rest, well, you were rambling, somewhat incoherent. I didn't understand it—in fact I hardly read it all."

Ilingsworth dragged up a chair.

"Will you let me tell you, sir, all about it?"

Governor Beekman let him tell his story. And scarcely had the last words of Ilingsworth's recital of his wrongs left his lips than Phillips, entering, announced:

"Colonel Morehead and some friends to see you, sir!"

"Bring them right in!" exclaimed the Governor, at once rising and going with a smile to meet them. Suddenly he remembered Ilingsworth and started to escort that gentleman out of another entrance.

"But my daughter," mumbled Ilingsworth as with bowed head he followed the Governor. "If I can't have her back again, why, what's the good of a pardon? I must have help to find her." At the door something impelled him to pause, and looking back he found himself face to face with Peter V. Wilkinson.

"That's the man—there—the man that got my money—that's got my daughter! No matter where she is, he's responsible! Look at him! Look at his face! I don't have to tell you...."

But the Governor, startled by this outburst and intent upon getting rid of his visitor, did not turn, and consequently he did not see the face of Wilkinson blanch and twitch under the accusing forefinger of his old vice-president, Giles Ilingsworth.

"I'll help you find your daughter, sir," the Governor promised, taking the man by the arm; "I'll help you all I can."

"Poor chap," said he, returning, and shaking hands with his guests, "seems to have it in for you, Mr. Wilkinson."

"I don't blame him having it in for somebody," spoke up Leslie. "It is not his innocence or guilt that interests me, but his daughter. I saw her picture once—saw her twice," she went on wistfully. "How I wish that I might help him...."

Colonel Morehead, tucking the Ilingsworth incident into the back of his head for future use, laid down a batch of papers and his printed case upon the Governor's desk.

"Governor—Eliot," he remarked jovially, "the New York Reporter and the Star call you the pardoning Governor."

"Yes. They rapped me hard, didn't they," he said, all unconscious that they were Wilkinson's own papers. "But what could I do? The man Ilingsworth was innocent—I knew he was innocent."

"Oh, they didn't hit you very hard—just a little dig in the short ribs—friendly little scrap, don't you know," said Morehead, soothingly. "But the Morning Mail made up for it, my boy. They'll stick to you through thick and thin, and don't you forget it. It won't hurt you. Ougheltree's backing is not to be sneezed at by any man. But what I started in to say, Eliot, was, that since you're the pardoning Governor, so-called, why, we've got a little bone to pick with you—a petition—or petitions, rather, in the case of the People versus Wilkinson."

Colonel Morehead handed up his bunch of papers, Leslie following suit, as she said with a little smile:

"My contribution, Governor."

"A bit stiff, that U. S. Supreme decision," said the Governor, taking them, and looking at Wilkinson. "It seemed to me unnecessarily rough."

Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders.

"With the National Banks against me, how can the U. S. courts be for me—that's what I'd like to know?" he asked.

"Will you hear me now, Governor," interposed Morehead.

For an instant the Governor hesitated. Then he replied that he would send for him when he was ready; that he had to read the case all through, ending with:

"I've forgotten half of it. I'll read it and then I'll set a day...."

But that day was long forthcoming. For it was not until three weeks later that Colonel Morehead heard anything relating to their visit to the Governor in Albany. And then, one morning to his surprise, Governor Beekman presented himself at his office in Broadway, and handing him a personal memorandum, he said:

"I was down here and thought we'd clean these up first. I'm going to Murgatroyd's to look at the original exhibits when I'm through here—or he'll probably send them to my office."

The Colonel gave the man before him one long searching glance. He noted that the Governor's face was unnaturally flushed; there were deep lines on it; he had the appearance of an over-worked man.

"Must have burned some midnight oil on this thing, Eliot?" said Morehead.

The Governor wearily drew his hand across his face.

"I have," he answered shortly.

"The first memo.," went on the Governor, referring to the printed case, "relates to page 121."

Morehead found page 121 and his face reddened perceptibly. The Governor had touched a sore spot: page 121 contained the first bit of damning documentary evidence against Wilkinson. Morehead ran through the other pages indicated on the memorandum; and closing his eyes for a few seconds, he pressed his hands against them and thought hard. The Governor had burnt midnight oil to some purpose: he had located every weak place in Wilkinson's armour—and Morehead knew it.

"I merely want to find out what Wilkinson's explanation of all these things is," remarked the Governor, grimly.

"I'll tell you," said the Colonel, glibly; "that's easy, Eliot. Or, perhaps," he suggested in order to gain time, "we might get Wilkinson down here, and have him go over these things with you and me." Already his hand was on the telephone; but the Governor stayed it.

"Your explanation will do, Colonel."

For two hours the Governor listened to Morehead's explanation. At the end of that time the Governor was still leaning forward studying every expression in the other's face; but the lines were deeper in his own face, while on the Colonel's lean countenance small beads of perspiration stood forth.

"That's the explanation of it, is it, Colonel?" asked the Governor.

"That's the whole thing in a nut-shell," returned Morehead.

Hurriedly the Governor took his departure. He was nervous, anxious, worried.

"It seems to be the kind of an explanation that doesn't explain ..." he told himself. Now he went back to his old office on Nassau Street and telephoned to Murgatroyd for the original exhibits. At the Barristers' Club, behind locked doors, he examined the documents for hours. All night long he studied them; then he rose and gazed out into the grey dawn.

"Wilkinson is guilty!" he cried out; "damnably guilty! Why didn't I see it all before?"

There was a reason: Colonel Morehead had been right when he told Wilkinson that Beekman was partisan. And so long as his duty lay that way, Beekman was partisan. But now he was Governor; his duty in this case had become judicial; he saw with impartial eyes; and what he saw and what he read was not the mere testimony of witnesses, not evidence that depended on veracity, but documents whose genuineness was undisputed, and whose significance had strangely escaped him until now. In his own words, over his own signature, Wilkinson had convicted himself over and over again.

"Damnably guilty," he repeated to himself.

One evening some days later Colonel Morehead betook himself into the presence of Peter V. Wilkinson and his daughter Leslie. He had with him, he said, a note which had come from the Governor's private chambers, which he wished to read to them. It ran:

My dear Colonel:

I have examined with great care the petitions for pardon in the People vs. Wilkinson. Also the printed record. There seem to be undisputed facts which are totally inconsistent with innocence. The verdict seems to have been justified, the decisions on appeal correct. There are no extenuating circumstances known to me which require executive interference.

Very truly,
Eliot Beekman.

"What the devil does he want?" growled Wilkinson, taking the letter from Morehead, and tossing it to Leslie. "Is it money or political preferment? Haven't I given him enough?" his anger increasing as he went on. "I made him——"

"Stop!" cried Morehead, alarmed lest he should betray to her their political secret.

"I mean I gave him my daughter," corrected the father, "everything I had."

Morehead stared at them a moment from under knitted brows. Presently he said:

"Peter, I'd send Leslie to him. This letter is only tentative."

"It's a refusal," gasped Wilkinson, hopelessly.

"It's a denial to me," explained Colonel Morehead. "But wait until he sees her! He'll have something different to say to her, I know."

And so it happened that the following day Leslie Wilkinson arrived at Albany to interview her betrothed on her father's behalf.

"I came to talk to you, Eliot, about my father," she began.

Beekman swayed in his chair. His eyes seemed sunken in his head, and his head ached from weariness and lack of sleep.

"Yes, Leslie," he said.

"Colonel Morehead didn't—couldn't understand what your letter meant, so I came to see."

"It means that I can't pardon your father, Leslie," he told her with great difficulty.

"Why not?"

"Because your father is guilty——"

"Eliot!" she cried, leaping back with flashing eyes.

"But I must speak the truth, Leslie," said the Governor, "and that's the truth."

There was a silence that lapsed into minutes. Beekman was the first to break it.

"Unfortunately for us all," he said, "I'm sworn to do my duty—I don't know that it makes much difference about my being sworn—I'd have to do it anyway."

"You defended him," she said with sudden spirit. "You believed him innocent then—you said so a thousand times."

"I defended him below," he returned, "because it was my duty to defend him. I had never seen any other side of the case then; but now I know I was wrong. He's guilty, deliberately guilty, wofully guilty...."

"Eliot, must I remind you that you are speaking of my father! Have I no right, no influence, no claim upon you?" she rattled on breathlessly.

"Yes, you have a claim upon me," he said, eyeing her sternly. "Your influence is of the best, Leslie, and it is your right, your duty to claim, to demand of me that I shall do my duty in this as in all things. If I were false in this, I would be false to you."

But Leslie could not see things in his light, bent as she was on obtaining her father's pardon.

"You pardoned Giles Ilingsworth?" she went on; "and now you won't...."

"Yes, I pardoned Giles Ilingsworth," he admitted.

"A murderer!" she blazed forth.

"I pardoned him because he was innocent," he insisted.

"And you can't pardon my father?"

Eliot Beekman did not answer at once, but hung his head under the girl's scrutinising gaze. She looked very beautiful, irresistibly beautiful to him pleading there, and for a moment he came perilously near to wavering in his purpose. He would have liked to have taken her in his arms, to have uttered the one word of all others that she wished to hear and to have sent her home happy. But, hard as it was to deny her, he knew from the first that it was impossible to grant her request.

"No, Leslie, I can't," he told her at last.

"Look at me!" she cried, now changing her tactics. "I haven't slept, I haven't eaten! Have you no pity for me—if not for him?"

"But, Leslie, you're asking me to commit a crime!"

"Just a stroke of the pen, dear, and my father will be free," she went on, half sobbing, half smiling. "It's his last chance—my last chance—surely you can't, you won't refuse me this."

Then followed a scene that lived in Beekman's memory for ever after—the memory of a woman, the woman he loved, crawling after him on her knees, pleading, almost writhing in agony, imploring him to do this impossible thing—a thing that, were it not for his conscience, was so ridiculously easy: merely the exercising of the authority vested in him, and solely in him, and thus save the father of the woman he loved from serving a term of ten years at hard labour in the State's Prison.

"Why was I ever Governor!" burst out Beekman.

"I'll tell you why," said Wilkinson, striding suddenly into the room. "It's because I made you Governor, that's why! I—I bought you the job—I——"

"You?" ejaculated Beekman.

"Yes, it is true," said Flomerfelt, gliding also into the scene. "You owe it all to Peter V."

"Now you've got to do it!" exclaimed Leslie, staggering to her feet.

Beekman eyed them all with growing determination. He was beginning to see things clearly now.

"I even gave you my daughter, confound you!" went on Wilkinson.

Beekman turned back to his desk and stood there, calm now, desperately calm.

"So you made me Governor just to get this pardon?"

Flomerfelt started to speak, but Wilkinson was before him.

"Yes," snarled Wilkinson, "just to get this pardon. Do you think for an instant that you were put here for any other reason? Or that you had any qualifications for the office?"

Leslie laughed a discordant laugh, and Flomerfelt, seeing at once that the girl was in complete sympathy with her father, stepped back behind them.

"There are many good reasons, Mr. Wilkinson," said the Governor, grimly, "Why you should not be pardoned. Needless to say you know what they are. But," he added fiercely, for he knew that he had been tricked, "if there were no other reason, the fact that you had put me here to secure your pardon would make it impossible for me to act." He stopped and stared at Leslie, his eyes unconsciously seeking hers for sympathy, but something there shocked him beyond measure, and before he was aware of what he was saying, he blurted out:

"Did you give me your daughter for the same season? Did you, Leslie——"

There was a deep silence in which the attention of all was focussed on the girl.

"Mr. Beekman," she said, in a cold, hard voice, though her eyes were softly eager, "will you tell me once for all whether you're going to pardon my father?"

"I certainly am not going to pardon him," declared Beekman.

Leslie favoured him with a little stinging laugh.

"Then you'd better know the rest. Yes, it is true that my father gave me to you—I gave myself to you for that very reason, and no other.... I made a big mistake; so did he. We should have made our bargain before we took that step. It would have been better." She paused to take breath, and presently went on in a voice that rankled: "You talked once to me of equals—and when you got this office you thought, at last, that you were my equal. I know better; you're my inferior. And I want you to know and to understand—and understand it clearly—that the Wilkinsons do not mate with cowards." And with that she drew off her ring and placed it before him, crying: "There!"

An instant later, Leslie, strangling a sob that threatened to escape, hurriedly fled from the room, her father and Flomerfelt following closely on her heels.