The Llandegraff
----th Street and
the Drive.
"Not the governor's ...?"
"The same."
"What's she doing here?"
For answer the footman merely shrugged his shoulders.
"When did she come?" asked the butler.
"Ten minutes or so ago."
"But I didn't see her come."
"I let her in; you were downstairs."
The butler came as near to a whistle as any butler on duty ever came.
What is more, in his agitation at this new and unexpected crisis, he
quite forgot the presence of Giles Ilingsworth, vice-president of the
largest trust company in the world.
"There'll be the devil to pay if the missus sees her! Did she ask
for----"
"She came to see the governor," interrupted the footman, shaking his
head; "and what's more, she says she's going to wait until he comes."
The butler knitted his brows.
"You were a fool to let her in! Is that her car outside?"
"Don't you know it when you see it?"
The mention of the car forced the butler's thoughts back to
Ilingsworth. He started toward the financier of the Tri-State Company
with abundant apology upon his lips.
"I beg your pardon, sir ..." he began, and then stopped. For as he
passed the door of the reception-room he was able to peer into it, and
by some servant's trick to sweep every corner of it with his glance. It
was a room void of hangings, almost bare in its rich simplicity--one of
those triumphs of interior decoration. The butler's face was pale as he
retraced his steps and once more faced his fellow-servant.
"There's not a soul in there--see for yourself."
The other did see for himself, and he, too, looked bewildered.
"But I put her in there, and I put her there to stay. I didn't leave
her for more than half a second. Where's she gone?"
Instantly the butler took charge of the situation, and in commanding
sotto voce directed the other to look in the library, the music-room,
the Louis XIV. room, even in the grand salon.
The search was conducted quietly and with decorum, and it is only due
to these two past-masters of the art of footmanship to say that this
dialogue had taken an almost infinitesimal space of time, that its
utterance had been practically inaudible, and that Ilingsworth, the
guest to whom these two had owed a very present duty, had not yet
begun to realise that his interests were in any wise neglected.
But the footman came back disgruntled, disturbed, and wailing that she
was not to be found. And then it was that the butler stepped once more
to the side of Giles Ilingsworth and said somewhat contritely:
"Beg your pardon, sir, but would you mind stepping into 'the Den,'" all
the while showing the way. "It's Mr. Wilkinson's favourite place, his
private room, sir, for seeing all his friends--business and otherwise,
sir--yes, sir."
Ilingsworth followed where the butler led. And then, turning sharply
upon him, he repeated:
"I'm waiting to see Leslie Wilkinson. Do you understand?"
"Very good, sir."
Alone in "the Den" Ilingsworth smiled as he looked about him. Fate
was surely favouring him. The Den was a quasi-business office and
smoking-room, a room where anybody might be interviewed by anybody
of the household. It was in this room that Tiffany's man displayed
his biggest, newest jewels to Mrs. Peter V.; it was in this room that
Mrs. Peter V.'s women friends would drop in evenings for a chat with
Peter V. as he smoked a black cigar; it was the comfortable place of
the whole, big house. But to Ilingsworth it was something more: it
was the place best fitted for the arena of events as events had shaped
themselves. "The Den" had but one window--a high window that ran along
one side of the wall just underneath the black-beamed ceiling and
just above a long, comfortable, leather seat that ran along the wall.
The window was above the head of an ordinary man, and was composed of
leaded glass. It gave but little light, and afforded no view at all of
the world without. For the rest, there was a big, flat-topped desk,
heavy, leather-covered lounging-chairs, and heavy, dark red curtains
everywhere about the walls. And but a single door.
"The place I've dreamed about," Ilingsworth thought to himself. For an
instant he stood drinking in all of its details in some sort of gleeful
ecstasy--the ecstasy of a man who feels the end of the journey near.
And then, suddenly, he became all action. He stepped to the desk upon
which stood a desk-telephone upon a standard, and a small mahogany
tablet with two push-buttons on its surface.
"I can't understand why it's all so easy," he told himself; and the
next moment he drew from his left coat-pocket a pair of wire-cutters,
and with two sudden, jerky twists of his right wrist he clipped the
flexible green-covered wires that connected the push-buttons and the
telephone, and twisted the unconnected ends down and out of sight.
It was his first advent in this house of Wilkinson, and yet he had
rehearsed the scene in his waking hours and in his sleep so many, many
times, that he did it without nervousness and without fear. So that
he was not surprised to find himself more than practise-perfect. He
glanced about the room for evidences of other wires, buttons, bells and
speaking tubes, and then swooped down upon the door.
"If only it has a key!" he thought; and the next moment he almost cried
out joyfully, for he found that it had not only a key, but that it
might be bolted from the inside.
"And when it's bolted," he assured himself, "What sound can penetrate
beyond its walls?"
Beyond its walls! The phrase, somehow, kept ringing in his ears; to him
there was music in it. He never thought of the walls themselves; nor
had he ever asked himself whether behind those rich and heavy hanging
curtains there might not be other means of exit.
He took his place behind the open door.
"Now for the crisis," he said calmly to himself.
And plunging his hand once more into his coat-pocket he produced
a gun--a modern, hammerless revolver that he had selected with
considerable care, after consulting the advertisements in the
magazines, and after reading the booklets of their makers. This gun
he had selected, not only on account of its particular efficiency,
but also because of its remarkably repulsive look. It bore the same
formidable appearance compared with the large family of fire-arms as
the bull-dog does to his canine race. It was a weapon of peculiarly
terrifying appearance--and that was what he wanted. For the rest, it
was a .32 calibre, and upon its handle it bore the maker's name and
a number--a number that belonged to this particular weapon and to no
other weapon of this make in the whole wide world.
Suddenly the sound of footsteps in the hall without reached his ears.
Every nerve tingled with his purpose; every muscle became rigid and
alert.
"Now!" he exclaimed.
" ... Wilkinson," said the voice.
It was a mumbled announcement of some sort which came from the butler.
Ilingsworth waited until he had retreated, and only when he was certain
that but one figure had entered the room, was looking about in wonder
at its apparent emptiness, did he slowly, swiftly close the door, lock
it, bolt it, and finally place his back against it. Then, levelling the
weapon, he extended it toward the person who had entered.
"Seat yourself at that desk," he commanded, a dangerous note in his
voice; "and don't make any outcry, or I'll----"
He stopped short and lowered his weapon.
"Why--I----" he stammered, growing red-faced as he spoke.
It was a mere wisp of a girl who confronted him--a girl full-throated
and full-bosomed, and upon whom the gods had conferred that dazzling of
all dazzling charms: light hair and dark brown eyes. Fascinating she
was even to Ilingsworth, bewildering, too, as she gazed upon him in
sudden fear, her eyes widening, her lips parted.
"I--I beg your pardon," he stammered, consternation making it difficult
for him to speak. "I was expecting quite another person--Leslie
Wilkinson."
Too frightened to reply the girl merely stood and gazed at him. For a
moment she remained thus, and then, with the shudder of one who shakes
from her some horrible nightmare, she found her voice and said:
"Why, I'm Miss Wilkinson--Leslie Wilkinson!"
Ilingsworth could hardly believe his ears.
"You--you are Leslie Wilkinson!" he broke out. "Surely there must be
some mistake. Leslie is a man's name, isn't it?"
[Illustration: It was a mere wisp of a girl who confronted him]
The girl struggled to regain her composure. Dumbfounded and confused
though he was, Ilingsworth saw this, and with a hasty movement
thrust the revolver behind his back. And still facing her, he retreated
to a small table at the far corner of the room, and leaned against it,
thus concealing the weapon. In a measure this action of his reassured
the girl. Her countenance broke into a tremulous smile, though her
breast rose and fell tumultuously and her breath came in gasps.
"Yes," she replied in an endeavour to gain time, "Leslie is a man's
name except when it happens to be a girl's name, too. My name is
Leslie--I'm a girl--you see."
But again terror seized her. The man before her was undoubtedly insane,
she thought, and she glanced widely about the room for some avenue of
escape. There was only the door, and like some startled, wild thing,
she broke into a run toward it. But half way across the room she
halted, throwing over her shoulder a glance of fear toward Ilingsworth,
and then slowly retreated to her position at the desk.
"Please don't shoot!" she pleaded. "I promise you I won't try to get
away!"
Slowly, cautiously, Ilingsworth stretched forth his left hand. It was
evident that he did not wish to frighten the girl.
"Don't be afraid," he assured her, and so quietly and courteously now
that it seemed to the girl as if another man was speaking. "I'm not
going to shoot--I shall stay right where I am, don't fear. If you wish
you may go now." But as she started to go he leaned forward and said:
"You're free to go,"--there was a pathetic note in his voice now,--"but
I would like to tell you something--to explain my presence here. I
came here looking for Leslie Wilkinson--the son of Peter V. Wilkinson,
and----"
"But," she interrupted, in a puzzled way, "but my father has no
son--I'm his only child."
Ilingsworth bowed his head.
"I know that now," he answered, "but I didn't know it before. I was
looking for a conspirator of Peter V. Wilkinson's, and I thought I had
run him down. I thought I had, indeed.... You must not be frightened,"
he went on hastily, "and don't think me crazy. I'm only horribly
nervous. I've been desperate for weeks. I wouldn't harm you for the
world--I have a daughter of my own. But you must hear me out--I've got
to tell this to somebody--somebody who believes me, or I'll go mad. No,
no," he pleaded, for she seemed about to leave him. "My name is--why,
here's my card--I'm----"
"Oh, to be sure, Mr. Giles Ilingsworth, Vice-President of the
Tri-State," she said smilingly, giving a hasty look at the card in
his hand. "I remember, now, a quarter of an hour ago I wondered what
you might want with me. You see I dressed all up for you," and she
flashed a glance of coquetry toward him that was meant to captivate
and appease, for she was still under the impression that she was
dealing with an insane man: not for one moment did she believe that the
Vice-President of the Tri-State stood before her.
Ilingsworth turned pale as he watched her. Although apparently
indifferent to her words, her marvellous self-possession and witchery
were by no means lost on him. With something of a pang he realised
that it was easily explainable. She was Wilkinson's daughter; she had
her share of his wonderful steadiness of nerve. He sighed. How many
times had he given thanks that Elinor was all woman, all heart, gentle,
yielding. And yet, how much better for her if she had some of the
qualities that Wilkinson seemed to have infused into his offspring.
Little did he know that Elinor was fashioned in his own mould; that
the dark-eyed, warm-faced girl that he had left at home had inherited
his impulsiveness, for he had been denied the even balance accorded to
other business men. Compared with the caressing tenderness of his girl
Elinor, this girl who faced him seemed, perhaps, too well-balanced. But
though he did not know it, he was mistaken: Leslie Wilkinson, though of
a different type, was fully as feminine.
"Elinor," he groaned half to himself.
"Mr. Ilingsworth," Leslie began, breaking in on his musings, "may I ask
what you want with Leslie Wilkinson?"
Her question roused him. The blood forced itself into his temples until
the veins stood out like whipcords on his skull; desperation furrowed
his brow and lined his face.
"I want nothing of Leslie Wilkinson except my own," he answered
sullenly. "There's a quarter of a million dollars that belongs to
me--a quarter of a million dollars--every dollar that I've got in this
world--every dollar that I ever had."
"But," protested the girl, "I haven't your money."
Ilingsworth raised his eyebrows. It was plain that he doubted her,
though she spoke with every indication of honesty and frankness.
"You haven't any money, any stocks, bonds, deeds, or anything of the
kind?"
"I have what my mother left me," was her quiet answer. "She died some
time ago."
"How much was it?" he persisted.
"Why do you ask?" she returned, annoyed.
Ilingsworth made a gesture of impatience and again he asked:
"How much was it?"
"Less--than a million," the girl faltered. "About three-quarters, I
should say. I have the figures somewheres--but what is it to you?"
The man brushed away her answer as though the three-quarters of a
million were a mere dross.
"Tell me the truth!" he cried. "For heaven's sake don't lie to me! I'm
a broken man! You've got fifty million dollars, possibly a hundred
million standing in your name. What do you suppose I've spent my
last few thousands for but to get information that was reliable and
positive. I know Peter V. Wilkinson--and I'm the only one, I'll wager,
who knows the truth. Next week, next year, the world will say that
Wilkinson is bankrupt--without a dollar in the world. But I know--I've
found out. There is not another man in the world who could do the
thing he's done--strip a million people of their savings and hide it
so successfully. That's Wilkinson! Now whom could he trust--but you?
You've got it all!"
The girl was pale, but there was a new light in her eyes. She began to
perceive that the man who confronted her was not a mere overwrought
specimen of mankind. However much he might be mistaken this time, he
was talking with the force of business habit.
"You know as well as I, Mr. Ilingsworth, that I can't very well
discuss these matters with you," she said frankly. "My father is
ruined--I don't believe he will come out of this with a dollar. Who
is responsible for his ruin, I do not know." Little wrinkles creased
her forehead; she stopped uncertain how to continue. "It's the panic,
I suppose," she went on presently, "and he's gone down under it like
other Wall Street men. Only the blow--he suffered, perhaps, more than
the others."
Ilingsworth's lip curled.
"I know," he began emphatically, "I know that Peter V. Wilkinson is
still worth from fifty to a hundred million dollars--money sucked like
life-blood from the populace. I know that and more--his entire fortune
stands, in a manner and by a method that no one ever will suspect, in
your name. Your name, of course--whom else could he trust? Surely not
his second wife, with all that money? You know that well enough."
"Mr. Ilingsworth, I----"
"And because you had these millions," went on Ilingsworth hurriedly,
excitedly, "among them my quarter of a million, not mine, but
Elinor's,--do you know what that means to her?"
Leslie was strangely affected. She felt her consciousness vacillating
between a sense of danger and a sense of pity. Surreptitiously, during
the first part of the interview, she had pressed the button for
assistance, and had discovered, later, the disconnection of the wires.
Just what to do she did not know. Above all, she realised that she
must propitiate this man--this man with the grievance, real or fancied,
whose statements, if true, gave her the desire to hear more; if untrue,
rendered him all the more a man of danger. Impulsively she held out her
hand, and said softly:
"Do tell me about your daughter--Elinor--Mr. Ilingsworth."
Immediately Ilingsworth dropped his air of aggressiveness. He advanced
slowly toward her, his right hand still in his coat-pocket, but, as
he approached her, he drew forth that hand, and with it, a small
photograph.
"That's Elinor,"--he said, his face lighting up wonderfully,--"as she
was about a year ago--about the time I met your father. If I had known
that you existed, I should have wished that she could know you."
Leslie took the picture from his hand and looked long and intently at
it. To her surprise she saw that this was no ordinary face. The girl
was evidently petite, with an expression on her face that seemed to ask
for the world's fond protection as well as its admiration; a girl with
her soul in her eyes, at any rate, so it seemed to Leslie.
"Oh, she's pretty!" she exclaimed. "But someone must always take care
of her--always, always."
"You've said it, though I never even thought it!" he cried. "And you,
a stranger, see it--that appeal for protection, that wistfulness,
that----" Abruptly he stopped and glanced quickly toward the heavy
hangings on the wall toward the right--a strange, startled glance it
was.
Leslie followed the direction of his gaze wonderingly.
"I had a feeling, somehow," he said, fastening his steely grey eyes
suspiciously on her, "that we were not alone."
And indeed Ilingsworth would have been all the more startled had he
known that his fancy embodied the truth. For behind the dull red
curtains breathed a mortal who had heard, had seen, everything.