If only he had dared ... he would have drawn
the dainty head of Leslie Wilkinson down on
his shoulder and would have kissed her then
and there, 76
"We've got a long fight ahead, Leslie--a running
fight, as Colonel Morehead calls it, but I'm
ready", 370
I
Once, twice, thrice,--failing miserably in his attempt to appear
unconcerned,--Ilingsworth paced back and forth in front of Peter V.
Wilkinson's big house in Riverside Drive. There it stood: a massive,
forbidding, modern pile of limestone, wholly unlike anything in its
vicinity. And yet, now that the time had come, Ilingsworth's face wore
a confused, half-fearful look, a sense of uncertainty possessed him,
which was all the more maddening because so far, at least, there had
been no obstacles or delays in this brief, turbulent journey of his; on
the contrary, all had gone well with him, and like a falcon in pursuit
of its prey he had sped on the straightest of straight lines towards a
person of the name of Leslie Wilkinson, and this person, so Ilingsworth
assured himself, would soon feel his claws.
From a distance, it is true, Wilkinson's imposing structure had
differed little from that which his imagination had led him to expect.
It was like the pictures he had seen of it many times in the papers;
so like, in fact, that even now in his extremity he could feel the
strange, exultant pride he had experienced but a few short months ago
when exhibiting to Elinor a counterfeit presentment of it in a monthly
magazine. And, certainly, he had every right to be proud, at least, so
he thought then,--for was not he, Elinor's father, Giles Ilingsworth of
Morristown, a close business associate of Peter V. Wilkinson, the great
financier? His business associate! Ugh! The very thought of it now made
him shiver, tortured him. Indeed, to such an extent that, on nearing
the place, his vengeful purpose was kindled anew, and his right hand
took a fresh grip on an object of sinister shape hidden in his pocket.
At that moment Ilingsworth had but one idea: to get it over with as
soon as possible.
But once actually in front of the Wilkinson mansion, when his eyes
sweeping upward had failed to catch the point of view of the press
photographers, a feeling akin to panic had come over him; and he had
passed and repassed, unable to force himself to the point of making
an inquiry of a passerby. And yet, what could he do to make certain?
And then, as if in answer to his half-smothered cries of "Is this
Wilkinson's? There must be no mistake ..." there fell on his ears the
raucous squeal of a megaphone, and, turning whence came the sound,
he beheld a crowded tourists' sight-seeing car rolling slowly and
laboriously along the Drive, its interlocutor busily engaged in the
practice of his genteel profession.
"We now perceive the palatial residence of Peter V. Wilkinson, the
multi-millionaire--the ten-million-dollar steal trust--so-called from
the habit of its owner in stealing trust companies."
This exceptionally brilliant play upon words was instantly rewarded by
a titter from some of the occupants of the car, and the perpetrator,
encouraged, proceeded:
"This house contains no less than eighty-four rooms; has twenty-four
bathrooms, not to speak of the Turkish bath; has paintings worth a
million or two; the rugs cost half a million, at least; and nearly a
million pounds of bronze has been used in its construction. Wilkinson's
second wife--Maggie Lane, when he married her, now Mrs. Margaret Lane
Wilkinson,--is said to be the handsomest woman in the block." He paused
to heighten the effect of what was to follow; then trumpeted: "That
is, on this end of the block. Peter V. Wilkinson owns seventeen trust
companies in the City of New York. He is president of the famous, and
now notorious, Interstate Trust Company which closed its doors last
week. Also president of the Tri-State Trust--the largest trust company
in the world, now toppling on the brink of the precipice...."
So the voice droned on, the car laboured on, and the passengers,
already sufficiently gorged with Wilkinson's affairs, would have been
spared any further enlightenment had not the eye of this dispenser
of metropolitan information lighted upon Ilingsworth as the latter,
trying to escape attention, stepped into the low-arched doorway of the
Wilkinson home. The opportunity was too good to be lost.
"The gentleman," proceeded the privileged lecturer, "now entering
this impressive imperial mansion, is not Peter V. Wilkinson. Note
the sinister expression of the back of his head and the peculiar
attitude of his right arm!" The megaphone turned itself directly upon
Ilingsworth, and kept on: "He looks like a disgruntled depositor of the
Interstate Trust Company--what if he be making a call for the purpose
of putting a pill into the proprietor? What?"
Ilingsworth turned an involuntary, startled glance toward the car.
Despite a desperate effort at self-control, he was visibly alarmed,
and jerked his hand swiftly from the confines of his pocket. Amidst a
chorus of laughter at his action the car rolled on. Ilingsworth turned
back to the entrance of the house, muttering to himself:
"They little know, they little know...."
Presently he pulled himself together and pressed the button with that
same right hand, then squared his shoulders, once more dropping both
hands at his side. There was a short interval of waiting, during which
he kept repeating to himself, as though conning some essential lesson:
"Leslie Wilkinson--Leslie Wilkinson, that's the man I want to see."
Suddenly a heavy door was swung open inward and a butler stood before
him, bowing.
"Leslie Wilkinson," demanded Ilingsworth somewhat explosively. There
was no prefix to the name--Ilingsworth was not considering the
conventionalities. He had come fresh from the confidential reports of
Wall Street detectives. Those two words had seared themselves into his
brain.
The butler looked surprised, shocked, that is, so far as his rigid
training would permit.
"Leslie Wilkinson," he repeated doubtfully, as though already
hypnotised into the other's trend of thought.
"Leslie Wilkinson," said Ilingsworth, "and right away."
The servant bowed.
"Who shall I say, sir?"
Ilingsworth smiled. It was all too easy, so it seemed. He felt as
though the fates were with him, as though before him lay the path
to victory. His breath came short and fast as he thought of the
possibilities: for if he should succeed, Elinor forever would be
safe--could take her rightful place in society.
"There's my card," he said, drawing forth his wallet.
Instantly the butler became obsequious, for not only did he perceive
that the visitor bore himself as a gentleman, but he recognised the
card as an open-sesame to his master. He handled it with infinite
respect. It read: