"What the deuce is that machine doing in front of my place?" were the
words that Peter V. Wilkinson spoke as his eyes lighted upon the dark
blue limousine that had been standing for so long a time before his
house.
"Whose machine is it?" answered Flomerfelt, who had not yet recognised
it. But a moment more he emitted a whistle and whispered softly under
his breath: "By George, it's hers!"
Wilkinson's eyes bulged with anger.
"What does she mean by coming here?" He clutched Flomerfelt's shoulder
as in a vise. "You don't suppose she's come to see my wife, do you?
What's she up to? Why, I wouldn't have even little Pallister see her
for the world! And as for Leslie! Thunder and lightning, if Leslie
finds this out--anything but that!"
Wilkinson started toward the blue machine, bent on interviewing the
chauffeur.
"Look here, my man----" he began; but whatever imprecations he intended
to hurl at the chauffeur's head never passed his lips, for then it was
that something happened: a strange, dishevelled figure dashed suddenly
into the group, threw itself upon Wilkinson and seized him by the
throat. With almost maniacal energy the assailant forced Wilkinson up
against the blue machine, and digging his fingers into that gentleman's
wind-pipe, he cried:
"Now, Wilkinson, I'm going to even up matters with you!"
Wilkinson's face turned blue--almost as blue as the machine--and his
eyes bulged out almost like the headlights in front of it.
"Help! Help!" implored Wilkinson, tugging at the wrists of iron that
held him.
His call was quickly answered. And in an incredibly short space of
time, the Pinkerton men had broken the madman's grip and held him
fast. Wilkinson quickly regained his composure. Then half-wondering,
half-fearful, he riveted his eyes upon this enemy who seemed to have
dropped from the skies, while Flomerfelt came out from behind the
touring car where he had warily awaited the outcome of the sudden
onslaught.
"So it has come to this! Why, Ilingsworth, what's the matter with you?"
ejaculated Wilkinson. "What have I done to you?"
But before Ilingsworth could answer, the Pinkerton men had hustled him
into the Mastodon, and were holding him there.
"Shall we surrender him, Mr. Wilkinson?" they asked.
Wilkinson glanced at Flomerfelt, presumably, for advice. But when the
other was about to speak, Wilkinson evidently changed his mind, for
waving him aside with his hand, he strode to the side of the Mastodon
and looking Ilingsworth full in the face, after a moment's hesitation,
said:
"Not yet; I don't want the authorities to have him yet. I may want to
talk to him first. Suppose you bring him into the house." And with
that, he turned on his heel, and, striding through the entrance to his
home, past his two footmen who were quaking in their boots, walked into
the arms of his daughter.
"What's the matter, father?" she cried.
Wilkinson brushed her aside, for the business of the moment was too
weighty.
"Flomerfelt," he directed, in a low voice, "tell them to take
Ilingsworth into a reception-room--that one there, and hold him until I
send for him."
Leslie took her father's arm and led him into the Den. With almost a
mother's anxious gaze she looked him over.
"Are you hurt?" she inquired. "I saw--I could just make out
something--somebody attacking--it was all so quick--but I heard your
voice, and then I ran downstairs. But you're safe--safe!" and she
patted his arm affectionately. "Oh, what was the trouble?"
Wilkinson sank down into his desk-chair.
"Let me pull myself together first," he said. His heavy form sprawled
itself across the seat, and he panted with the unwonted fright he had
had. Now he lit a black cigar.
"Confound it, Leslie!" he returned at length, "the man scared
me--blamed if he didn't. There was murder in his eyes."
Leslie had not seen Ilingsworth, neither did she know that he was a
prisoner in another room.
"Whose eyes?" she asked, eagerly. "What man?"
Wilkinson turned his glance full upon her.
"A man you never heard of, girlie--a man you never saw--a business man,
Giles Ilingsworth----"
He got no further, for she was at his side now, her hand upon his arm.
"Then he _did_ mean murder! He did, I know he did!" she exclaimed,
greatly excited.
Wilkinson had been wiping his brow; this operation ceased with a start
and he searched her face.
"How do you know he did, girlie?" he asked suspiciously.
At that instant the lean and cat-like Flomerfelt entered the room and
stood beside the girl. Immediately, with a feminine aversion written on
her face, Leslie withdrew and stood in the doorway, still trembling and
afraid.
"How do you know that he meant murder?" persisted Wilkinson.
"I'll come back later, father, and tell you why," she said, leaving the
room, and hastening toward the staircase.
Flomerfelt moved slowly in the direction of the door and watched her
go, then noiselessly retraced his steps, and seated himself opposite
the financier. There was no cringing in the manner of this confidential
man of Wilkinson's; on the contrary, his attitude toward his employer
was that of man to man.
"The only decent thing about you, Peter V.," he said impudently to the
multi-millionaire, "is your daughter Leslie."
Wilkinson's face plainly showed his annoyance, nevertheless he said:
"Flomerfelt, it would be well for you to leave my daughter Leslie out
of this--out of everything, you understand?"
Flomerfelt smiled.
"Leaving her out, then, I will revise my former statement. There are
two good things about you: one is Flomerfelt, your very necessary
confidant; the other is----" he started to say "your chiefest luxury,
Miss Madeline Braine,"--but he didn't say it; for Wilkinson brought his
clenched hand down upon the desk with great force.
"Come, get down to the business in hand! Remember that you are dealing
with Peter V. Wilkinson." He paused, and then added with a smile full
of meaning: "Despite his being a ruined bank president."
Flomerfelt shook off his air of sinister sarcasm, squared his elbows on
the desk, and was all attention.
"Now, then," continued Wilkinson, "what are we going to do with--with
this incubus Ilingsworth?"
"Jug him, Peter! The man is dangerous--he's a bad one."
Wilkinson pulled away at his black cigar. This was a problem and he
liked problems. Ilingsworth was in his power, and Wilkinson did not
intend to let his chance slip by. Just then his eyes chanced to light
on the scareheads of the extras on his desk: