II

However successful Ilingsworth believed he had been in his effort

to persuade himself that his intuitive faculties had been at fault,

when they warned him of some alien presence in the room, it must be

acknowledged that he continued to look a little tentatively. At length,

however, his uneasiness wore off, and his manner, while again holding

out the picture for Leslie to look upon, softened so perceptibly that

it would have given one the impression that his visit there was more

in the nature of a social call than the tempestuous errand of business

vengeance that it was.

"I wish you had known her," Ilingsworth said; "and I'm rather surprised

that you don't. We're Morristown people, you know, and Elinor, well,

Elinor's friends are all very nice people. Even in New York, she----"

Leslie's eyes sought the ground.

"We go out very little here," she said. "Of course I have my friends,

and there was a time.... But since my father married a second time,

why----" This girlish confidence trailed off into uncertainty. She

handed back the photograph. "But I should like to know her," she

declared with sincerity.

"I wish you did," he began, and then added, "even in the light of

present things, I wish you did."

In the silence that followed Leslie fell to wondering about the man

before her, and it did not take her long to decide that she liked him.

He was not, it is true, of the same shrewd, practical mould as her

father. But she recognised that he had the high-strung temperament, so

often a characteristic of the aristocrat. The sense of fear was fast

leaving her.

"I--I'm going to apologise," he began at length, "for the fright I've

given you, though my purpose hasn't flagged. And if I had a man to deal

with--if I had met Peter V. Wilkinson, face to face again, who knows

but the demon in me would come once more to the fore. You say you can't

understand. Let me explain to you how it was: Up to thirteen months ago

we, Elinor and I, had a quarter of a million dollars--that means nearly

fifteen thousand dollars a year. And fifteen thousand in Morristown

means decent living--even here in New York it would mean that. Then I

met Wilkinson." His face grew livid, his hand clenched. "May heaven

forgive me, why didn't I understand it was my quarter of a million that

this vampire----"

The girl drew herself up and quickly interrupted him.

"Mr. Ilingsworth, I must remind you that you are speaking of my father."

There was no mistaking her anger. Her eyes blazed, and it seemed to

rouse the tiger in him.

"Yes, I'm speaking of your father!" he cried. "And if you've never

heard the truth before, you will hear it now. Moreover, if I am any

judge of human nature, you'll know whether I am stating facts or

otherwise. Thirteen months ago Peter V. Wilkinson sought me out. I

thought I was seeking him,"--he laughed bitterly,--"but I was wrong.

He sought me out and placed me high up in his companies. I was

successful--which meant that he had succeeded in his scheme. I did not

see it then; but now I know that the man who is willing to stoop low

enough to rope in the pennies of the Bridgets, the Michaels, the Lenas,

and the Gustaves, of this world, is a man who would spend his time and

money to get my quarter of a million--mine and Elinor's--in his grasp.

But then I was flattered. It meant big salary and big dividends for me,

at least, so I was assured."

He faltered for an instant, and then went on:

"I was a fool--a fool, not to see it all before. The result is that now

I haven't got a dollar--we're penniless."

"My father," returned the girl, calmly enough, "will have less than

that, when all is said and done. This house, though it's in the name

of Mrs. Wilkinson, will have to be sold, I presume. I don't see why you

make a fuss over it--it was the panic, wasn't it? Everybody went down

before it. That is, a great many Wall Street men are bankrupt. So, why

do you complain?"

"I complain because your father has got my quarter of a million--either

he's got it, or you have."

"I told you before that I have none of my father's money. I have my

mother's money only--less than a million, that's all."

"The panic!" went on Ilingsworth bitterly, ignoring her protest. "Yes,

that's just like Wilkinson to lay it to the panic! That's what they all

do! I tell you the panic was not the cause; it was the excuse. I wonder

if you have ever stopped to realise what a trust company is for?"

"Why, to save people's money, of course," was the girl's ready answer.

"Just like a bank, isn't it?"

Ilingsworth almost snorted. It was a strange colloquy, this

conversation between the man of middle age and the girl. It had a

curious interest that neither could have defined. The girl, on her

part, felt that Ilingsworth represented, somehow, the criticism and

abuse that the world was heaping on Peter V. Wilkinson. She wanted to

estimate its full force, to weigh its import, and then to defend her

father with every fibre of her being; Ilingsworth, on the other hand,

felt the need of a confidant who would understand, for Elinor of the

wistful eyes could only sympathise. This young woman knew what he was

talking about.

"Miss Wilkinson," he burst out now, "you surprise me! I thought you

were more of a business woman than I am a business man. But I find

you're not. Let me explain it to you. Jones wants to run a factory;

Smith wants to speculate in real estate; Robinson wants to buck the

Wall Street game. Now they haven't got a dollar, so what do they do?

They buy a trust company."

The girl opened her eyes wide.

"That's nonsense!" she exclaimed. "How can anyone buy a trust company

without a dollar!"

Ilingsworth's smile was full of meaning.

"It's the kind of nonsense your own father has been dealing in for

years," he returned, placing his hand upon her arm. "They buy the

trust company, and put up its own stock as security for the purchase

price--then they go ahead. Jones runs his factory; Smith buys and sells

real estate; Robinson bucks the game upon the Street...."

"And without money?" reiterated the girl, still incredulous.

"_With money_," corrected Ilingsworth, his voice even and unexcited

now, "with the money of Mike and Bridget and Carl and Sophy, depositors

who put their hard-earned dollars in to get a few cents interest--two

per cent., to be exact--while Jones and his crowd are making two

hundred per cent. on the money. But Jones isn't through--he wants more.

So he and his crowd buy another trust company, put up the stock of the

first as collateral, or any way you please,--there's no end to the

game,--and this crowd go on with their speculation, using the people's

money, and gathering in the cream. They never stop; and just so long as

everything is prosperous, so long are the trust companies sound. Then,

in the fulness of time, comes the panic,"--and with his clenched hands

he smote the top of the desk,--"smash!"

The girl showed that she had been following him closely when she

maintained:

"Still, that's only your point of view. At any rate, it was a venture,

and when the panic came--everybody goes under. These people don't

create the panic."

Ilingsworth gritted his teeth.

"I haven't finished!" he cried. "Out of all this crowd of Jones, Smith

and Robinson, there is always one man who understands the game.

He owns seventeen trust companies; he's milked them dry. He's been

_waiting_ for a panic; the panic comes. Now he throws up his hands,

tells the people he's been a fool with the rest, and shows up worthless

stock--waste-paper by the ton that he has bought for just nothing a

pound. But he's got _all_ that the people haven't got, and he's salted

it away. And that man's name is Peter V. Wilkinson."

Leslie's face paled.

"Mr. Ilingsworth," she cried sharply, "do you really believe all that

you've been telling me?"

Ilingsworth stared her wearily in the face.

"The Norahs and the Ludwigs, perhaps, don't mind losing their few

dollars," he replied vaguely; "but I want to tell you that when I--when

Elinor and I lose fifteen thousand a year--and how many years there are

ahead of us--it's killing! Killing! And you ask do I believe all that

I've been telling you?" He roused himself to sudden energy. "Believe?

Why, heavens and earth, I know, I know...."

There was a pause in which Ilingsworth's eyes sought the floor.

Presently he looked up and held out his hand.

"Miss Wilkinson," he said contritely, "for what I've done, or tried

to do this afternoon, I suppose you could have me put in jail--in an

asylum. If I had only myself to think of, I shouldn't mind. However,

I beg you to keep it to yourself, if you feel you can. I see things

clearer now...."

Leslie took the offered hand.

"But you weren't going to shoot Leslie Wilkinson, if he'd been a man?"

Ilingsworth shook his head.

"To tell the truth, Miss Wilkinson, I wasn't. My intention was to

frighten him...."

"You succeeded admirably," she answered, with a frank laugh. Then she

added: "What were you going to frighten him into doing?"

Ilingsworth's hand strayed to his forehead.

"I was going to compel him to sign a check, turn over stock, restore to

me my quarter of a million, somehow."

The girl smiled as she asked:

"But how could he do it in this room? Surely you didn't expect him to

have any stocks or money here? And if he gave a check, you know payment

on it could be stopped the instant you had left. And, anyway, how could

you get out unscathed? I can't just see how you could...."

Ilingsworth stared at her, fascinated. He felt his vision clear. He

realised now that she was right; that for weeks he had suffered the

curse of, the desperate; that he had been robbed of the one thing

that the desperate man needs--deliberation. He had possessed purpose,

force--the purpose to force the issue at the point of a murderous

revolver, but when it came to the execution.... And what about the

result? To what end would it all tend? Until now he had never thought

of that.

"I believe you're right, after all," he said somewhat sheepishly, and

started toward the door. "May I ask you for your promise not to expose

me," he entreated, "for the sake of Elinor?"

Leslie bowed her head. Now that it was all over, she was on the verge

of hysteria. "Mr. Ilingsworth, I won't say a word about it," she

promised, "unless the time comes when I think it necessary.... This

panic seems to have made us all half crazy--even my father seems so

most of the time. Good-bye!"

Somewhat incoherently Ilingsworth murmured some grateful words, and

immediately after Leslie watched him silently and carefully unlock the

door and open it. The hall was deserted save for the presence of a

footman near the front entrance, and to him this long interview behind

closed doors was as nothing. These were parlous times in the house of

Wilkinson; strange goings and comings were the rule, not the exception.

Nothing was unusual. And so Ilingsworth passed out in safety, carrying

his purpose with him to the free air outside.

But no sooner had he reached the middle of the sidewalk than there

swooped down upon him a horde of vagabonds, infinitesimal specimens of

humanity, and this mob of street gamins had but a single purpose, sang

but a common song: