IV

Peter V. Wilkinson in the Den below was having a bad quarter of an hour

with his daughter Leslie. For, truth to tell, there was no person in

the universe whose judgment he dreaded more than the judgment of this

girl who sat before him: it was his one passion to appear well in her

eyes. He had listened, with keen interest, to what she had to say,

invariably seeking her glance, at times leaning forward with unusual

intentness in order not to lose a single word. Time and time again

her words, unintentionally it is true, stung him to the quick. And

yet, he had not even gulped down his emotion. He had faced her, quiet,

calculating, with a countenance at times interested, at times amused.

Not once had he interrupted her; not once apologised. At the start he

had wondered just what he should say when she had finished, had thought

of denials, of indignation, of calling on the absent accuser for his

proofs; but as her tale unfolded, he merely continued to chew the

black, unlighted cigar that he held in his mouth.

"Have you told me all?" he asked, glancing up at the high window with

its leaded panes.

The girl, shamefaced, downcast, because of her doubts of her father,

flushed and nodded a "yes."

Wilkinson smiled, and leaning across the table, looked her full in the

eyes.

"Girlie," he told her, suavely, "you know I'm glad you told me this. I

want you to be just as frank in telling me everything else that bothers

you--especially about myself. I'm glad you told me this," he repeated,

"because, because it's true."

The girl jumped up from her seat, and exclaimed incredulously:

"True! Father, it can't be true!"

He waved her back again to her chair, took a fresh cigar, lighted it,

and then said squarely:

"It's the Gospel truth. With just one exception--an immaterial

correction that I want to make--what you have said is fact, only you've

got the wrong sow by the ear."

"The what!" stammered the girl.

Wilkinson waved a deprecating hand.

"I should have said that your story is all right, but it's told about

the wrong man," he explained.

Leslie's eyes sparkled.

"Then you mean to say----"

"I mean to say," interrupted her father grimly, "that the man who

concocted that very clever scheme was not myself, but quite another

person."

"You don't mean Mr. Flomerfelt?" she put in quickly.

Wilkinson rose, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

"Who understands the methods of a thief better than a thief! Who can

tell you how to rob a bank so well as the thug who robbed it! Leslie,

the man who tried that scheme," he went on with great emphasis, "and

who, trying it, dragged us all to ruin, is the man who told you his

story in this room to-day. It is Giles Ilingsworth of the Tri-State

Trust Company."

Leslie fell back before him in astonishment.

"I--I can't believe it," was all she could say.

Wilkinson laughed gently, generously.

"I don't ask you to believe it, girlie. But let me ask you a question:

A year ago, did you ever hear my trust companies questioned? was there

any doubt of the integrity of the Interstate and Tri-State?--you

know there wasn't. Well, thirteen months ago we took on this Giles

Ilingsworth--new blood, you understand--who brought in a whole lot

of new bloods with him. We didn't understand then that he was a

get-rich-quick proposition." Wilkinson chuckled in spite of his

indignation. "We believed, rather, that he was an honest, sober-minded,

experienced chap, solid and, well, I thought I could take my ease,

thought I had a man who would run things right and let me have the fun

I've earned so hard. I let him go his gait. And what did he try to do

for us? Just what he accused me of doing this afternoon."

Wilkinson sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands.

Leslie darted around the corner of the big desk and threw her arms

about him.

"I knew--I knew----" she sobbed in her joy. She pressed her young, fair

face against his grizzled jowl. "My father ..." she whispered softly to

him, as though to some lover, "my father, will you believe that I never

really doubted you? It sounded so true on the instant----"

Wilkinson drew her to his knee and kissed her.

"I don't wonder you believed him, girlie," he said after a while. "Why

shouldn't he fool you, when he fooled your old father."

The girl still clung to him, but Wilkinson felt the strain beginning to

tell, felt that his face was growing ashen with fatigue, and now that

it was over he needed solitude. So he placed her lightly on her feet,

and tapping her affectionately on the shoulder, said:

"Run along now, girlie. And on your way out you might tell Jordan

that I'm not to be disturbed for fifteen minutes--not even by that

Flomerfelt, who seems to be wandering around upstairs in our private

apartments. That man gets on my nerves so that I can't think."

After Leslie had gone, for some moments Wilkinson, in silence, puffed

away at his black cigar. Then, with considerable deliberation, he

rose, went over to the door, and locked and bolted it. Absorbed in his

thoughts, he remained standing there for a long time. When he turned

back toward the desk, a woman stood there, facing him--a woman, young,

tall, slender, with very dark hair and dark blue eyes, a woman with a

strange mixture of hope and trouble in her eyes.

Wilkinson's face paled; he was angry through and through. Nevertheless

he struggled to appear calm.

"Confound it, Madeline," he said tactfully, "I forgot all about you.

This blamed excitement put it all out of my head." But in the next

breath his manner changed, and he burst out with: "What the deuce is

your car doing at my door?"

"Your car, not mine," she reminded him gently.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It happens to be yours," he corrected, "for I gave it to you, didn't

I?"

"We won't go into that," wearily she replied.

Wilkinson looked her sternly in the eye.

"We'll cut out the question of ownership. What's more to the point, is,

what the devil you're doing in my house? If you wanted to see me, why

didn't you wait for me to come to you? My wife is upstairs," he went on

severely, "and my daughter all around the place. They probably both

know you, even though they don't know.... You might have waited----"

"I couldn't do that," she answered, faltering. "I--I had to see you,

and I couldn't wait. Do you suppose I would have come here--to your

home--if there hadn't been some urgency about it. I wrote; you did not

answer."

"The Tri-State kept me on the jump," he half apologised. "I had no time

to read love letters----"

"Love letters? Indeed!" she interjected, and then went on: "I called at

the Trust Company office to see you, sent messages, called you up on

the 'phone, but to no avail. I had to see you even at the risk of your

displeasure. Besides, no one has seen me but you."

Wilkinson started.

"You've been here in this room all the time--what?"

"Behind those curtains," she informed him, emphasising her words with a

nod toward them.

Wilkinson advanced on the woman as if he were about to strike her, for

now he knew that she had been spying upon him, had been a witness to

Flomerfelt's confidences, had listened to the colloquy between Leslie

and himself; but, making a great effort, he checked his mad impulse,

and, instead, endeavoured to make no point whatever of her presence

there. He knew Madeline Braine's comprehension of business schemes was

nil. To direct her attention to anything she had heard would be unwise.

"You couldn't have chosen a better place," he told her genially.

And then it was that suddenly something seemed to snap within his

brain. The terrible excitement of the past few weeks was beginning to

tell on him; a wild yearning to escape all further responsibility, to

rove free, careless, reckless, took possession of him. The woman before

him was lovely to look upon, he liked her, and why not chuck the whole

game, so he termed it, take her away with him, anywhere, to South

America, to the ends of the world?

"Why not?" he exclaimed, touching her on the shoulder.

The woman looked at him, surprised.

"I say, Madeline," he went on, happily, "I've been so busy of late

that I haven't seen as much of you as I would have liked. Besides, you

were good enough to be out the last two times I looked you up. Do you

know," he was close to her now, his hot breath upon her face, "I don't

think I ever loved you quite as much as now. Suppose I take a rest from

business, and we'll take a ten-days' trip in the _Marchioness_. We'll

have a bully good time! Come, Madeline, say the word, and I'll do it."

Madeline eluded his amorous embrace, and slipping to the side of the

desk placed upon it a small black bag.

"One of the things, Peter V.," she said quietly, "I came for, was to

bring these back."

Wilkinson looked at the bag inquisitively. He wondered what surprise

she had in store for him, and smilingly proceeded to open it.

"Jewels!" he exclaimed, eyeing her for a moment in uncertainty; and the

next moment his hand brought forth a handful of rings.

"Yes, those and the automobile," she faltered, forcing the words out,

"I want to give them back to you."

The man broke suddenly into a good-natured, affectionate laugh.

"You've been reading the papers, I see, and thought the old man was

down and out. You were going to put up your jewels and truck to help me

out? Well, I'll be----" He caught her hand impulsively. "Say, Madeline,

you're a good sort, and no mistake about it!" And now, snapping the

little bag together, he passed it back to her. "But you're all wrong,

my dear, I'm not strapped--not much! This is between ourselves, though,

understand. You keep your jewels, and the car, too. There's many a good

time coming to us yet. Don't you worry, now--and don't forget that I

appreciate your goodness to me. I do, indeed."

"You don't understand me," she said, retreating under his advances. "I

brought these back to you, because I'm going to break with you. I----"

Wilkinson looked at her dumbfounded.

"Break with me! What? Surely you're joking. Why, no woman ever broke

with Peter V. Wilkinson voluntarily. I've broken with a score or more,

but this is a new one on me. Break with me? What for?" He leaned back

against his desk.

There was nothing more to say; the girl had spoken in finality. She

drew herself up to her full height and looked down upon him. And as she

stood there in all her slenderness, she had never seemed more beautiful

to him.

"I think I understand now," presently he said, white with anger. "You

really thought, like the rest, that I was a sinking ship; and you were

going to desert me, like the rats, before I sank. That's the idea, is

it? Well, you're mightily mistaken, my girl." And now he held out his

hand to her in appeal. "You don't want me to prove that I'm as sound

as a dollar, do you? For I can and will." And then he went on to tell

her that he had all his money stowed away. "I have, for a fact," he

concluded; "but this is in confidence. And now you won't leave me, will

you? Somehow, I can't let you go."

"Peter, I thought I might be able to do this without telling you the

truth," she said, with a note almost of tenderness in her voice. "But I

see I've got to make myself plain to you. I'm going to break with you

for the reason that--that there's someone else."

The words fell dully on his ears.

" ... Someone else," he repeated. He looked at her long and searchingly

before continuing:

"But how can there be anyone else? I've got all the money that there

is in little old New York! What more do you want? Who else----" And

then, without waiting for a reply: "It isn't Wilgerot? No? Then it's

Debevoise?"

She shook her head.

"Look here, Madeline, it isn't that Dumont Mapes?" he cried. "You

wouldn't shake me for a rake like that, would you?"

"I can't tell you who it is," was all the girl would say.

"But I want to know," insisted the man. "You've got to tell me."

"If you must know, then, it is a man I love--a man I'm going to marry,"

she answered softly.

Wilkinson returned to his desk, to a fresh cigar. This was another

problem, and problems were in his line, it seemed.

"You're going to marry somebody rich, I suppose," he said at length.

A smile crossed her face.

"Somebody poor," she answered.

"Poor! Why in heaven's name should you marry somebody that's poor?"

"Peter, I told you I loved him," she repeated, still smiling.

Wilkinson was conscious of a curious, indefinable sensation; an emotion

that heretofore had been foreign to his nature.

"And--and," he stammered, battling with this new sensation, "he loves

you, I suppose?"

"I know he does," she answered.

The millionaire puffed silently.

"He must love you," he went on at length, in brutal tones, "to--to

forgive all this." And stretching his arms wide into a circle that

included her and himself, he added: "He's willing to forget the past?"

The girl did not answer. But on her face was a death-like pallor.

"Ah!" he cried, quickly noting her change of colour. "Then he doesn't

know!"

No one better than Madeline Braine could better realise the full import

of this sneer. Advancing toward him, her limbs dragging against her

skirts, giving her the appearance of a woman struggling forward on her

knees, she caught at one corner of the desk and leaned against it,

crying:

"Peter, I love this man. You won't--why should he know----"

"Why shouldn't he?" was the man's cruel answer. "You love him...."

"No, no, no!" she cried. "Don't you understand--we're going away--going

West, never to come back. If he doesn't know, all will be well...."

"Oh, so everything is going to be lovely," grinned Peter, "until he

finds out. But when he finds out? What then?"

For a long time she pleaded with him, while he, lolling back

comfortably in his chair, leisurely blew rings of smoke in the air.

Finally he rose, and held out his hand.

"You're sure, Madeline, that you've made up your mind to leave me?

Sure?"

For answer, the girl inclined her head.

Wilkinson frowned.

"This interview is at an end. From now on, madam, we'll deal at

arm's length." Then he added, laughing brutally: "Until you find it

desirable to come back again to me." He unlocked the door and opened it

sufficiently to permit her to pass. "Good-day."

Without a word she passed out and down the hall. At the entrance she

found Jordan, who rose and bowed.

"Tell my man," she ordered, pointing to the blue limousine without,

"that he need wait no longer--that I shall remain here to-night."

Jordan's heart popped into his mouth at this unexpected declaration.

With difficulty he asked her to repeat her message, after which he

stepped out to the curb and delivered it. And it was not until the

machine started up and had gathered speed for its homeward journey that

she gave the order to the footman to open the door for her.

With a sigh of relief the footman cheerfully complied, and bowed her

out.

"First she said she was going to stay all night, and then she said she

wasn't," he repeated rhythmically, "and now I wonder where the devil

she's gone?"

Madeline Braine was hardly out of hearing when Wilkinson sent

post-haste for Flomerfelt.

"Flomerfelt," he cried, the minute that worthy entered the room, "I've

got a new job for you. Forget the Tri-State,--it's trivial, compared

with this,--and find out the name of the man Madeline Braine is going

to marry."

"Marry!" gasped Flomerfelt.

Wilkinson clutched him by the wrist, and continued: "And when you've

found out his name, find the man. And when you find the man,

buttonhole him...."

"Buttonhole him!" echoed the astonished Flomerfelt. "Don't you mean

throttle him?"

"Buttonhole him," repeated Wilkinson savagely, "and then tell him all

about the girl he loves--and me."

* * * * *

A few days later, alone in a bare, hall-bedroom, on the east side of

the big city, Madeline Braine sat staring, with eyes that saw not, into

the gloom without. Well might she reflect that nothing but a miracle

could save her now; well might her reason totter at the thought of what

life held for her in the future. The letter in her lap read:

" ... There's no use in my seeing you again. I take it from your

silence that you prefer not to explain what I have learned about

you--what I have proved to myself to be a fact--the truth of your

relations with Peter V. Wilkinson. I start West to-night.

"Yours,

"H. T."

V

In Mrs. Pallet-Searing's house on Fifth Avenue was an authorised

hiding-place intended, evidently, for no more than two persons, which

was reached by a short journey through the interior flower-garden:

an undignified plunge between some half-dozen palm-tubs, and a short

ascent up a wide, circular staircase.

In this haven--known only to the initiated,--a week later, Eliot

Beekman and Leslie Wilkinson had been sitting for some time.

"We must have been here three hours!" the girl suddenly exclaimed

in tones of deep contrition. "Half the people must have gone.

I've deliberately cut every man on the last half of my card," she

rattled on., "thereby completely ruining my chances of ever marrying

any of them; and besides," she concluded limply, "what will Mrs.

Pallet-Searing have to say ..."

"How did we get here anyway?" questioned the young man.

"I led the way," confessed the girl, opining wide her eyes, and

glancing daringly into his. "Mrs. Pallet-Searing says that this place

is a trap; and, that Pallet-Searing says, that she's a terribly

designing woman. She says that he says that more--more matches have

been made on account of this moonlit spot than in any other place in

the Borough of Manhattan."

The face of Eliot Beekman flushed, his eyes were unnaturally bright. If

only he had dared, with his strong right arm he would have drawn the

dainty head of Leslie Wilkinson down on his shoulder and would have

kissed her then and there. But he understood the girl too well--or

thought he did.

"A match-making cosy-corner," he mused. "How many others have you

fetched here before--have preceded me?"

Leslie laughingly rose and stood looking down upon him.

"You're quite the first, I assure you, Mr. Beekman," she answered,

still smiling.

"Are you--are you sure?" he faltered, becoming suddenly serious.

"Quite sure," she answered, catching his mood.

Beekman rose, the flush deepening on his face. His breath came fast.

"Why, then----" he began; but the girl quickly held up her hand.

"Now, don't be silly, don't!" she pleaded. "We've been foolish

enough as it is. People will talk, you know; they'll say that it's

the get-rich-quick strain in me that makes me do these ill-bred,

extraordinary things. But indeed it is not. My own mother, Mr.

Beekman," she went on soberly, "was a charming woman--a lady who

would never have associated with some of the people that one meets

here, even. It must be the pure deviltry in me that makes me do some

things--pure deviltry, I assure you, that's all."

"To lead some impecunious devil to the most exclusive match-making

place in America, and then refuse to.... Pure deviltry! I should

think----"

Leslie's brow wrinkled.

"But Mrs. Pallet-Searing? What is she going to say?" broke in the girl.

"Say! Say nothing at all, of course. She and Pallet-Searing must have

occupied similar cosy-corners, I suppose, years ago," he answered, with

a smile.

"I don't quite see the application," returned Leslie, puzzled. "Very

likely they had the right: they were engaged, and afterwards married."

"True," said Beekman, his eyes feasting on her. "And I don't understand

why history can't repeat itself right here and now. The fact is,

your hostess will be disappointed--will be annoyed, I'm sure, at our

stupidity, if we do not make the most of our opportunity."

Leslie smiled a glorious smile upon him.

"Mr. Beekman," she whispered softly, "do you think we've been so very

stupid?"

[Illustration: 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]

She touched him lightly on the arm. He tried to seize her hand, but she

drew it from him.

"I don't believe," he said, "that we've got any right to leave

this fascinating retreat, and go down and face the crowd without

being--well, without being engaged. That is, according to my idea of

the Pallet-Searings' idea, we'd be considered a dull young couple, to

say the least."

"But I'd be cutting myself out of many a delightful hour here!" Leslie

shook her head.

"Not necessarily," he persisted.

She tilted her head critically.

"And this is all I'm to get for sitting out the best part of an evening

with a girl, when I might have been down there with the madding crowd,

having the time of my life," he added.

Leslie moved to go.

"We've made several false starts from here," she reminded him, "but we

must go now without any further hesitation, and by separate routes.

Good-bye," she said, and held out her hand. "Shall I see you at the

landing-place at eight o'clock sharp in the morning?"

Beekman drew her back.

"At what landing-place?" he demanded, uncertain of her meaning. "What's

going on?"

The girl fell back helplessly before him.

"Do you mean to tell me," she sighed forlornly, "that I have been here

all this time with you without telling you the very thing I brought

you here to tell?"

"I only know," he returned, likewise forlornly, "that you won't let me

tell you the thing that for hours I've been trying to tell."

Leslie laughed gaily.

"It was very delightful listening, anyway," she admitted frankly. "But

about this other thing--I told everybody here, that is, everybody

that's to go, but you--and you, why I wanted you the most of all."

Beekman caught her hand and held it, despite her dignified little

struggle.

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure," she replied, in a matter-of-fact tone. "You need a

little tan--the sail would do you good. Why, twenty of us boys and

girls,--besides some half-dozen chaperones--are going for the week-end

on the _Marchioness_. Away out to sea as far as she can stand it, and

back again. It ought to be good fun! There'll be only congenial people

aboard--the right men for the right girls."

"But for yourself, Miss Wilkinson, who----"

"My dear young friend," she broke in upon his question, "inasmuch as

I am hostess, I see no reason why I shouldn't have the whole ten men

most of the time, do you? I'm a pretty fair manager about these things,

you know," she went on interestedly, "and I thought for you that Jane

Gerard...."

Beekman coughed slightly and glanced at his watch.

"A most delightful trip," he conceded, "and I should be glad, awfully

glad to be able to take advantage of the opportunity if it were not

that I am so very busy, and----"

Leslie was quick to detect his annoyance, but went on, still

flirtatiously:

"Of course, I could pair off Jane Gerard with Larry Pendexter, though I

was thinking of keeping him myself...." She pursed her lips, and stood

for a moment with her eyes half-closed. Presently, she said: "I think

maybe _it could_ be arranged." And laughing, now, added: "You'll surely

come, won't you?"

"Come!" he exclaimed, beaming with joy. "I'd come in the face of a

million-dollar retainer from John D. Rockefeller--I would, indeed!"

A few minutes later, when she faced her hostess to bid her good-night,

that estimable lady, not altogether satisfied with Leslie's nonchalant

manner, laid her hand on her young guest's shoulder, and drew her to

one side.

"I hope, my dear," she said insinuatingly, "that it's not going to be

Eliot Beekman. He's all right, little one--handsome, and clean, too.

But what you need is money--don't forget that--particularly now. Take

my advice--Eliot is dangerous." The lady sighed. "I've known such

men--I knew one of them once." Her eyes sought the portly form of

Pallet-Searing across the big room. "And I married Pallet-Searing. It's

been worth while." But there was a sigh in her voice, the girl thought,

as she repeated again, "worth while. Run along now! Mrs. Wilkinson has

been looking everywhere for you. Even Peter V. looked in to take you

home. They've both gone. But here comes Eliot now." And turning to

Beekman, the lady shook her finger at him. "I've been warning Leslie

against you, Eliot," she said, frankly, telling him to his face what

she had said behind his back. "I've been warning her that she must

look for money. And, oh, by the way, Eliot! Somebody's been here after

you to-night. We searched everywhere for you except in one place, and

nobody is ever allowed to look there. Colonel Morehead is the man."

Beekman started.

"You don't by any chance happen to know----"

"Business," interposed Mrs. Pallet-Searing; "at least, he said it was."

Beekman gave vent to a slight gesture of annoyance.

"I wish I might have seen him. But he's gone, I suppose?"

Mrs. Pallet-Searing laughed outright.

"You surely don't regret the fact that we couldn't find you, Eliot?"

Beekman laughed sheepishly, and shot a glance of guilt toward Leslie.

"That isn't the point. It simply gives me an involuntary pang when

somebody looks me up on business and I miss them. I have a feeling

that, somehow, I may have lost an opportunity; and chaps like me can't

well afford to miss a man like Colonel Morehead."

" ... How are you going to get home, child?" suddenly asked her hostess

of Leslie. "Your machine is out there, but----"

Leslie hesitated for an instant.

"Possibly Mr. Beekman ..." she laughed mischievously.

Beekman looked up with mock gravity.

"Miss Wilkinson," he said, "you've heard that old saying about the game

and the name? Come!" And he took her by the arm.

Mrs. Pallet-Searing watched the happy young couple leave her house, and

her face took on an expression little in accord with the worldly and

cynical advice that she had given the girl a few moments before.

From her corner of the limousine Leslie confided to Beekman:

"Do you know that every time I do something, have something, or give

something, now that we live on Bankrupt Row, up there on the Drive, I

have to explain to everybody that it's my money, and not my father's,

as most people imagine."

"I wish I could do something for you or your father, but I'm only an

atom of an aggregation here in New York, confound it!"

Leslie looked at him gratefully, but went on:

"My money must support the family. Father lost everything he had."

"I--I didn't know that you had any money." He laughed uncomfortably.

"I'm one of these chaps who has to blurt things out, Miss Wilkinson,

and so I'll tell you just what I thought. Of course I didn't really

want Peter V. Wilkinson to fail--I was sorry when I heard about it. But

when I knew it had to happen, that it was inevitable--Oh, confound it,

I was glad, and for my own selfish reason."

"Very kind of you to gloat over our misfortune," was her brief comment,

uttered by no means seriously.

"I thought," went on Beekman, grimly, "that it would put us more on an

equal footing, that perhaps I would have the right to----"

"Oh, the right, did you say? I never thought you worried much over

that," she said with truly feminine perversity.

There was a pause. Beekman was the first to speak.

"A terribly complicated matter, this making love to a rich girl. In the

first place----"

"Is this an argument before a court?" she inquired, playfully.

"Before the last court of appeals," he answered quickly. "And the gist

of it is this: How the deuce can a rich girl ever know that anybody

ever loves her?"

"Do you suppose she cannot tell?"

"You can't. Look at the rich women who have been fooled--either fooled,

or else satisfied to be sought for what they've got and not for what

they are! You know them by the score."

"I think I should know if anyone loved me."

The man shook his head.

"There is only one way to make the perfect test," he told her, "and

that's impossible. To rid yourself of every dollar for all time, and

then see what happens."

The girl made no answer.

"Yes," he went on, "of all the women in the world, the rich American

girl, in my opinion, stands the least chance to be mated as she should

be. If she marries money, ten chances to one it's money she marries

and not a man; if she marries a beggar, she gets an adventurer. The

reason for this, is: the honest American men will not aspire to the

hand of a girl of wealth; and those are the very men that the rich girl

ought to marry. Unfortunately, however, they are just as independent in

their way as she is in hers. You ought to come down and be poor," he

concluded, helping her to alight, for the limousine was now in front of

the Wilkinson house.

They crossed the pavement to the doorway. There she asked:

"Do you know any honest, poor man, who will----" She broke off

abruptly, recognising her audacity, and then added: "Don't forget, at

eight to-morrow morning. Those not on time will get left--for at two

minutes past eight the _Marchioness_ will be out in the middle of the

Hudson. Until then,"--and she gave him her hand,--"at the landing----"

"Not at the landing," he broke in. "I'm going to start from here. I'll

call for you just to see that Larry Pendexter keeps himself to himself,

or at least to Jane Gerard. Is it a go?"

Leslie did not answer. Instead she flashed him a bewildering smile as

she passed through the door which Jeffries held open for her.

Half way down the hall, Leslie ran into Roy Pallister. His face was

haggard and unduly white. She started back as she saw him.

"Why, Roy!" she cried, unconsciously calling him by his first name;

"what has happened?"

The boy flushed as his name fell from her lips.

"Miss Leslie," he began stumblingly, seemingly embarrassed by the

searching gaze she rested on him, "nothing--that is, nothing that's

imminent. Your----"

"My father!" she queried. "Has anything----"

"They," pointing to the floor above, "seem to treat it lightly. I'm a

beast for frightening you; but I think your father feels--fears----"

"Mr. Pallister, what are you keeping from me? What is the matter?"

The gentle little fellow steadied himself for a moment against the

wall, and then, as she made a movement to go, he drew her back.

"Miss Leslie, I've been wanting to tell you something--I've been

waiting for the chance. If ever in the future you need help--help of

any kind, you'll let me know," he said with lips that trembled. "I

want to be sure that you understand just what I mean. I've never done

anything for you, Miss Leslie, and----"

"Why, yes you have; indeed you have...." she assured him, and her look

was one of genuine affection.

The boy shook his head.

"I want your promise that you'll come to me if----"

Leslie did not wait to hear any more, but breaking from him, ran

swiftly up the stairs. At the first landing she turned and looked

back: he was standing very straight and very quiet by the newel post,

glancing up at her with intense admiration. In a flash she was back to

the foot of the stairs holding out her hand to him.

"I promise, Roy," she said impulsively. "You're the best-hearted fellow

going! Good-night!"

At the door of her step-mother's apartment, Leslie paused. A babel of

voices came from behind the closed doors--the voices of many men and

one woman. Quickly in answer to her knock and question "May I come in?"

the door was thrown back, and Flomerfelt, her father's confidential

man, stood framed in the doorway, bowing elaborately. In a glance,

despite the haze of cigar smoke, she saw that the company consisted of

her father, her father's wife, and another man. With a glad cry, she

rushed over to this other man and grasped his hand.

"Colonel Morehead! The sight of you...."

In an instant, Colonel Morehead's thin lips parted in a smile. He made

an old-fashioned bow and then sank back into his chair.

"You were at Amy Pallet-Searing's to-night," the girl went on, "and you

never looked me up. Be good enough to explain yourself, sir!"

Colonel Morehead removed his glasses and polished them upon his

handkerchief before answering:

"I was busy looking up somebody else," he said, and Leslie saw that

the smile had left his face as he resumed his tap-tapping on the table

with his fingers; she saw, too, that her father's face was a bit white

where the skin showed. He looked tired, but his thick Van Dyke bristled

aggressively, and his eyebrows breathed the usual defiance.

"Where were you, Leslie, that we couldn't find you anywhere?" demanded

her step-mother, irritably. "How did you get home?"

"Very comfortably in the limousine, thank you," replied Leslie. "Mr.

Beekman was good enough----"

Colonel Morehead leaped to his feet.

"Not Eliot Beekman! What? He came home with you?" He started for the

door. "Why, he's the man I've been looking for. Where is he now?"

"Undoubtedly home, by this time," said Leslie.

The Colonel again reseated himself and drummed loudly with his fingers.

"Hang it!" he ejaculated. "If I'd only known.... He could have been

with us here now. We need him--and badly."

Wilkinson looked puzzled.

"Why do we need him?" Wilkinson asked the question in a voice in which

excitement still held sway.

"That's what I should like to know!" put in Mrs. Wilkinson, gulping

down, not without audible satisfaction, her customary night-cap.

Leslie blushed as she added that the question likewise was of interest

to her.

"We're disgraced, that's all there is to it!" snapped the mistress

of the house, her night-cap, even at this early stage, lending her

asperity. "And I the most of all! I don't see how this Beekman can help

us out?"

"I don't myself," admitted her husband. "However, nothing can happen so

long as Colonel Morehead sticks to us--nothing."

"I have no intention of deserting you, don't be alarmed," declared

Colonel Morehead. "But for all that, I want this man Beekman--I

need him." And so saying he lifted from the small table a document

consisting of several sheets of carbon-copy.

"Miss Wilkinson," he said gravely, handing it to her. "No--there's

nothing in it to startle you, only you should know, I think, we all

ought to understand.... If you'll read this, you'll know what happened

to your father this afternoon."

Puzzled at first, the girl slowly read the flimsy document as she

stood there in the middle of the room.

"Oh!" she wailed, as its meaning dawned upon her. "They had no right to

do this--no right whatever!"

"You're sure you understand it?" interrogated the Colonel.

The girl bowed her head gravely. Then, going over to her

father,--wholly unconscious of a curious look on Flomerfelt's

face,--she threw her arms about his neck.

"Father, dear father," she whispered to him, "don't mind. We'll win

out."

Her father submitted goodnaturedly but wearily to her embrace. He

stretched his arms and yawned.

"I'm dog tired," he said, rising. "I'm going to bed. You'll stay all

night, Morehead?"

"Not a bit of it," responded the Colonel. "You don't catch me deserting

my own hard bed--not much! I'll go home." He shook hands with Mrs.

Peter V. Wilkinson, and pressed a button.

"How about you, Flomerfelt? It's rather late ..." said Peter V.

"Don't care if I do," was the latter's answer. And on the servant's

appearing, Peter V. ordered him to show Mr. Flomerfelt to one of the

guest rooms, concluding with: "Show him to the one with the painted

nymphs skylarking on the walls." Then he placed his arm around his

daughter, and together they followed Colonel Morehead downstairs to the

door, where they bade him good-night.

Mrs. Wilkinson and Flomerfelt listened to the sound of retreating

footsteps.

"He'll not be coming back," she said, "and I want to talk to you." And

pointing to the document that Leslie had been shown, she asked: "What

does all this signify?"

"What it signifies," he answered, picking up the paper, "may depend on

you."

The woman looked puzzled.

"How?"

Flomerfelt's eyes narrowed. Then, with a lithe and dexterous movement

of his long arms, he shot his cuffs--hitherto out of sight--into view;

extending them, with a jerk, below his coat-sleeves, so that they

covered his lean wrists to the extent of three-quarters of an inch, a

distance which he measured with mathematical certainty, apparently, for

his nice adjustment of them was followed critically by his glance. He

eyed and adjusted one cuff until it satisfied him, and then eyed and

adjusted the other; finally he rubbed his hands together, and said:

"One of the richest women in the world--rich in her own right. How does

that sound to you?"

Mrs. Peter V. stared at him.

"Who is?" she inquired.

"It's a possibility that affects a woman in this house."

"Leslie?"

He shook his head.

"I was thinking of you."

"I? I'm not rich. I've been a fool!" she cried. "I should have made him

settle something on me--half, at any rate. Now it's all gone; he's lost

everything; I might as well have had half of it--as well that, as to

throw it in the gutter as he did."

Wilkinson's confidential man seated himself.

"Unquestionably you need me," he said frankly, and then stopped.

Hitherto he had kept his own counsel. And yet, he reflected, there is a

wisdom of disclosure just as there is a wisdom of suppression. Some new

impulse seized him; his voice sank into a whisper. "There is a chance

for us, Mrs. Peter V., to be rich, if we work together, unusually rich."

"But how?" she whispered back, excitedly.

Flomerfelt smiled inscrutably, and answered:

"Out of the wreck, there's a chance----"

"A good chance?" she interrupted eagerly.

"There's only one man who can prevent it," he went on.

"Peter V.----?"

A nod was her answer.

Immediately then she went back to first principles.

"What is going to happen to him? Will they put him in jail?"

Wilkinson's confidential man smiled.

"I've often wondered," he mused, "whether it would be good or bad for

us if they jailed him. A man in prison is a man very much out of the

way. But in this case he would be too much out of the way. Put him in

jail and you discourage his defence--you encourage the public, his

depositors. They'll do what we should do: infest the wreck and gobble

up what is ours by right. No, so long as Peter Wilkinson lives, we must

fight his battle for him--pull him through, keep him standing up, only

to be able to knock him down later. That, so long as he lives, must be

our policy. So long as he lives," he repeated.

"Suppose," she began, and then hazarded: "In case of his death, what

would my rights be?"

"In case he dies----" suddenly he stopped. That was a possibility he

had not foreseen. He had seen much strife ahead: first, a tremendous

fight for Wilkinson, then a tremendous campaign against him. But what

if the man should break down, die? There was food for thought, reasoned

Flomerfelt.

"He might die," he resumed, holding her glance as he went on, "for

everything must be considered. Disgrace wouldn't kill him, but his

liver, or,----" he jerked his thumb over his shoulder,--"there might be

violence--conspiracies. There have been rumours that the trust company

depositors are wild, especially the poor ones--socialists, we'll say.

So, he might die--be killed. Who knows?"

Flomerfelt rose and looked down upon her long and earnestly.

"But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mrs. Peter V.

Good-night, my dear lady!" And bowing unusually low to her, he left the

room.