Some few weeks after his visit to Colonel Morehead at the Barristers' Club, Peter V. Wilkinson presented himself at the Riverside Drive house. He had waited until he had grown a stubbly beard once more before introducing himself to his family, and then one morning, feeling very much as he looked, he had come in straggling, half-dazed, tired, bedraggled, a sad object to behold, but in spite of all he was received, like the proverbial prodigal, with open arms.

Then followed days of explanation and secret conferences. His family physician had diagnosed his case as one of loss of memory; Murgatroyd had thrown up his hat in glee; the county force at once became active; the newspapers chattered in cold type like magpies; and what is more, the final stay obtained by Colonel Morehead was drawing to a close.

But all the time that Murgatroyd felt that he had at last landed Wilkinson, Leech kept his own counsel, and secretly he was very happy. For did he not hold within his grasp the governorship, wealth, and in his arms, almost, the daughter of Peter V. Wilkinson?

They were sitting in Leslie's room at the top of the house one morning, Wilkinson and his daughter. The father was puffing away at a big black cigar, and looking very much out-of-place in the dainty apartment with its poppy-covered walls and chintz furnishings, the girl wearing a far more cheerful look than had been on her face for many moons, was luxuriating in a silken-covered chair.

"It's coming out all right, isn't it, father? How many nights have I prayed that you would get away—even if I never saw you again. And now it's coming out all right." She smiled a sad little smile; presently she added: "You've got a man that the National Banks can't buy...."

Her tone was the least bit cautious and reserved—as one who withholds judgment. This did not escape Wilkinson. But he pressed his point.

"You're sure you want Leech?" he asked. "I don't want to force you, but he's a loyal friend of ours. He's run the National conspiracy to earth, is brave enough to face fire for me—he's a true friend, girlie."

Leslie's eyes glowed. She caught her father about the neck, and hiding her face against his shoulder, she whispered:

"Of course I want him, father. I—I would not have anybody else...."

"I'm glad of that," answered her father, nodding. "He's head over heels in love with you, dear—and he seems, somehow, to make it a condition of——"

"Father," she interrupted, "I knew long, long ago that he admired me. I could tell—why, I'm so glad, so glad...."

Nevertheless the girl was very tired, was keyed up to the highest pitch. Her father had but three short weeks of respite, Morehead could do no more, and the legislature was ready to appoint its man in the place that Morehead with some desperate instinct had held vacant for so long. It was still a race, a running fight with Leslie, and she revelled in the fight. It was all a part of a desperate game, with her father for the stakes; and she played it with all her might and main.

"You will grant a pardon to my father?" she had implored of Leech, struggling feebly in his warm embrace.

"Yes," he had answered, drawing her still closer; and Leslie had submitted, persuading herself into the belief that this man was the one man for her.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Ten days later he resigned his office as Assistant District Attorney of New York; and two weeks later he was lifted into the high place by the legislature. One day after he took his oath of office the petition for the pardon of Peter V. Wilkinson was handed to him; and faithful to his promise, he signed it on the spot.

For what did it matter to him or to Wilkinson, either, that there was a storm of protest—the storm of protest coming chiefly from the office of Murgatroyd? What did it matter to Leech that his name henceforth would be upon the black list at the Criminal Courts Building? He had made good and had won his reward—or almost. At any rate, for one thing, he was Governor....

The Morning Mail made but a feeble protest, for the Star and the Reporter had become bitter and exultant adversaries and gave harder than they took.

To Leslie the whole thing was a triumph.

"And yet it's a funny thing," she thought to herself, "that Eliot Beekman, who defended father, wouldn't pardon him, and here is Newton Leech, who persecuted him, now lets him go."

It was in the Den a few days later that Leslie found upon the leather lounging seat two fat volumes of the printed case of her father's trial. She picked them up listlessly and started in to read them. But she had not gotten very far when voices forced themselves upon her ear. One was Leech's—he had come down from Albany. For some unaccountable reason she did not want to see him just at this time. There was a wedding day to be set—he had pressed her on this subject —and she was not ready to set it. She slipped temporarily behind the thick curtains that hung suspended by the wall, just as Leech and her father stepped into the Den.

Leech's attitude toward the head of the family, as time went on, had been growing more and more insolent; and to-day he was worse than ever.

"Mr. Wilkinson," he said, "I've done my part and I've been well roasted for it."

"That's immaterial to me," gurgled Wilkinson, who had become a different man. The lines had faded from his face, he was rounding out once more, he slept nights and ate with regularity, within him all was peace and happiness. The shadow of the prison had slipped from him like a noose—he was free. He looked at the other tantalisingly for a moment, and then asked: "Well, what do you want ...?"

"Just what you promised me," said Governor Leech, "for setting you free. I want my million dollars, to begin with."

"Come now," grumbled Wilkinson, lighting a cigar, "you've got the governorship—that's enough for any man, my boy."

"It's not enough for me," insisted Leech, alarmed. "I want two things right away—two things you promised me: A million dollars and your daughter Leslie; and the sooner she can marry me, the better."

Wilkinson laughed until he was red in the face, then he said:

"Look here, Leech, I'll compromise with you. You take half a million...."

"Not in a hundred years!" exclaimed Leech, threateningly.

Wilkinson continued to chuckle.

" ... a half million," he repeated, "and I'll let the old lady, my wife, get a divorce, and you can have her. But Leslie...."

Leech gripped the table with both hands.

"Wilkinson," he said firmly, "the girl will marry me, never fear! She likes me, loves me, and she's promised to be my wife. But you've promised to cough up a million to me, and I want it."

"What if I don't?" growled the other.

"If you don't," cried Leech, "I'll let the whole world know that you've got a hundred million or so salted away in your daughter Leslie's name, and then you'll have a hornet's nest about your head."

"Never thought of that," returned Wilkinson, paling slightly. "By the way," he mused, "after Leslie marries you I'll have to find some other dummy to hold those stocks and bonds for me, otherwise, you'll get your hooks on them." He laughed. "Cleverest scheme in the world, boy—Flomerfelt and I concocted it. Why, look here, I've been joking, nothing else. I'm not going to give you a million."

"You're not!" cried Leech, growing white.

"No!" roared Wilkinson. "Hang it all, I'm going to give you two...."

"That's better," assented Leech, sinking back into his seat. "But when?"

"Leslie's got to sign."

"Can you close this to-day?"

"As soon as I can get her. Come on—she's probably upstairs."

Wilkinson and Leech left the room, and Leslie, her face flushed with the knowledge of what she had heard, crept from the room and through the hall back to the postern stair. There, in an empty room she crouched down until she heard them coming down again, then made a dash for her boudoir and locked herself in. After a while a servant rapped on her door and informed her that he had been looking all over for her.

"Who wants me?" she inquired.

"Your father, Miss, and Mr. Leech," he told her.

"Tell my father to come up," said Leslie.

Presently her father, with a document in his hand, entered the room, and smilingly announced:

"Just wanted you to sign this, girlie."

Leslie glanced at it cursorily, saw that it was what she believed it to be—a means of payment to Leech, and signing, passed it over without looking at her father. He stood for an instant at the door.

"Newton has come up to see you," he said. "The Governor is getting kind of lonely up in Albany—he can hardly wait to get a Mrs. Governor up there."

Leslie drew her hand across her face.

"Please tell Mr. Leech," she answered, "that I'm ill. I can't possibly see him to-day—no," she persisted, "don't ask me—not to-day." She pushed her father playfully from the room and once more locked the door. Then she went back to the window and read the printed case of the People versus Peter V. Wilkinson until the shadows deepened into darkness.

"It's all so clear now," she sighed. "How could they have acquitted him? How could Eliot Beekman have pardoned him, even if he had wanted to? Oh, he's guilty, guilty, guilty!"

Completely exhausted, Leslie laid down the volume and threw herself upon the bed, where she lay until the early morning sunlight peered in through the windows. Throughout the long night she had not closed her eyes, but lay there thinking, planning, some way out of it all. The morning found her resolved upon one point: She would never marry the man her father wanted her to marry.

And so it happened that some weeks later Governor Leech, looking down upon her, his face suddenly gone pale, his breath coming short, protested:

"But, Leslie, you can't mean it. Don't you know that I've held you in my arms, that my kisses are on your lips! Those made you mine. You've promised, your eyes have answered mine, you belong to me just as much as though—by heaven! if you don't belong to me for any other reason, you belong to me because I've earned you! Look what I did for your father—what I did for you!"

"You've been paid enough," she answered stubbornly. "I've paid you out of the money in my hands. Oh, don't stare! I know—I know...." She paused a moment, her face flushing, her breath coming fast. "Governor Leech," she resumed, "while my father was in danger I could think of nothing but to save him; but now that strain, that terrific strain is over, and I have come to my senses. I can't even think of you, much less marry you with this taint on you. Yes, I broke my promise to you, it is true, but I had to, don't you see?" She lifted her head proudly, and then added: "I had to for the reason that I am just beginning to find out that I'm a woman, and that you, Governor—you are not—a man."

The following evening while Leslie waited in a small waiting-room near the entrance to the house a man was ushered in—a man with grey hair and bowed shoulders, a man enveloped in a long cloak—for the mist was heavy and the night was wet without. Leaping to her feet, Leslie grasped him by the hand, and said:

"It was good of you to come, Mr. Ilingsworth, and you've found him, I can see by your eyes. Oh, how can I thank you enough! I was to help you, and here you're helping me."

"I'm helping him," said Giles Ilingsworth, steadily, but kindly. He straightened up, and went on: "I haven't seen him, but I've located him—I know the floor he lives on. He—he's always in evenings. They say he has a job with some labourers on the new subway."

"Come!" she cried, seizing his arm.

"Wait," he said, "why don't you send for him?"

Leslie shook her head.

"He would never come. I've got to go to him to-night. I can't wait another minute—not another minute."

In the open doorway while she drew her cloak tight about her, they stood and peered out into the Drive.

"We'll get a cab," she said, taking his arm; but Ilingsworth was adamant.

"There's one thing that I forgot to tell you," he went on, hesitatingly. "I—it's only what they tell me down there—they say Beekman does not live alone. I thought you ought to know...."

Leslie flushed for an instant and drew back, and then pressed on again.

"I know," she said, "that is, I suppose—but never mind that. I've wronged this man and I won't let another day pass over my head without trying to right the wrong—if it ever can be righted." She tightened her grasp on the man's arm. "How can a wrong like that ever be righted?" she asked.

But Ilingsworth himself knew something about wrongs, and muttered half-aloud as he glanced at the darkened heavens:

"Are my wrongs ever to be righted?"