It was three o'clock in the morning when Eliot Beekman reached his club
in Forty-fourth Street.
"There's a telegram for you, Mr. Beekman," called out a sleepy employé,
from the office. "It was left here by your clerk to-night."
In his room Beekman switched on the light and read:
ELIOT BEEKMAN, ESQ.,
32 Nassau St., N. Y.
Meet us at Hotel Iroquois, Buffalo, to-morrow six P. M. Important
letter follows. Wire answer. Do not fail.
BANK LE BOEUF,
_J. K. W., Cashier_.
"The Bank Le Boeuf of Buffalo! Sounds good; I hope it is good," mused
Beekman. "If so, another big client added to my growing list."
Without hesitation he wrote an answering telegram, stating that he
would be at the Hotel Iroquois at 6 P. M. the following night, took it
downstairs, and left it in the office with instructions to send it as
soon as possible.
And it was not until fifteen minutes later, in the midst of his
speculations as to the nature of this business sent to him by the Bank
Le Boeuf, that the thought of Leslie's yachting-party came to him.
"Confound it!" he muttered to himself. "I clean forgot all about it.
What am I going to do?"
Yet Beekman was so consistent that he recognised at once that there
was nothing to do save what he had done. He had built up his practice
without pull, influence or money; and he had done it by religiously
conserving the interests of his clients. He knew, therefore, that
he must obey this summons. So, assuring himself that Leslie would
understand it when he told her in the morning, he removed his evening
dress, swathed himself in a dressing--gown, stepped into his library
and began to work. An unfinished job lay upon his table--a job that, he
knew, would take past dawn to finish, and early in the evening he had
determined not to go to bed. So he started in.
There was a neat supply of law books in his rooms--a good working
library, an average lawyer would call it. And from the hour that he
donned his dressing--gown, Beekman nosed among these tan-coloured
volumes, taking down one from its shelf, scanning the headnotes of
a given case, reading the opinion, slapping the book together and
replacing it. A hundred times, at least, he did this. Finally, weary of
his search, and hopelessly downcast, for so far his search had been in
vain, he found on the highest shelf a slender volume and opened it. And
now, as he started to read, his eye brightened and he quickly seized
pen and paper.
"Eureka!" he exclaimed. "On all fours--just in point. By George,
this--this wins the trick!"
Half an hour was spent in jotting down the salient portions of the
opinion of the Court of Appeals. Then, restoring the book to its
accustomed place, he folded up his memorandum neatly and thrust it
into a heavy brown envelope, labelled: Turner vs. Cooper. And now with
considerable complacency he leaned back, saying to himself:
"I thought sure I was licked. But I've got 'em! I'll bet dollars to
doughnuts that Jameson & Bowers never even heard of that decision!
Now," he stretched out his arms, "I'm ready for Leslie Wilkinson and
the _Marchioness_--or, no," he corrected himself, "I mean I'm ready for
the Empire State Express."
A moment more and he had turned on the faucet, filled the tub to the
brim, and had plunged in--holding his head under the cold water for
half a minute at a time. Completely refreshed, he dressed carefully,
ascertained from the appearance of the heavens that it was likely to be
clear, then quietly left his room and started down the stairs and left
the club. At the Grand Central Station he checked his grip. He had lots
of time, even for the preliminary little journey that he proposed to
take.
After getting some breakfast he strolled back to the West Side and
sauntered up Sixth Avenue. The stores were all closed. One, however,
as Beekman passed, opened up. From the door its proprietor, a little
wizened Jew, nodded sleepily to Beekman. Returning the nod, the latter
looked again at the store, and retracing his steps, entered.
"Ready for business?" inquired the lawyer.
The proprietor nodded.
"Always," he replied.
"This is a gun store?" queried Beekman.
The Jew yawned.
"Loogs like id," he conceded. "Did you vant to buy a gun?"
"I want ten cents' worth of shot," his customer replied, pointing out
the size he wanted; and, after the storekeeper had weighed out the
quantity and it had been dropped into his pockets, he started on his
way rejoicing, making a bee line for Wilkinson's. It was getting-up
time now, but not for people on the Drive. There silence reigned
supreme.
But Beekman felt very wide awake. His conversation with Leslie the
night before in the Pallet-Searing cosy-corner, and his successful
night's work had gone to his head like wine. And it was this condition
that led him to purchase a handful of shot; and now, regardless of the
fact that he was operating on the residence that had cost ten million
dollars, more or less, and, in fact, regardless of consequences, he
took his station in the middle of the Drive and selecting half a dozen
missiles from his pocket, he flung them lightly through the air, aiming
for a wide window-pane on the third story of the house. Three times he
did this. The fourth time he was stopped by a voice calling out:
"Hi, there!"
Turning quickly Beekman found himself confronted with the majesty of
the law.
"What're you trying to do?" demanded the officer. "Isn't it a bit early
in the morning, or a bit late in the evening, to be out on a drunk?
What's doin', anyway?"
Beekman grinned, desisting, nevertheless.
"A bit of old-time romance," he explained; "trying to wake her up,
that's all."
"Is her name Norah?" demanded the blue-coat, threateningly.
Beekman glanced aloft; then he plucked the officer by the sleeve.
"Look for yourself," he rejoined, "and see.... Is that Norah up
there?"
While the officer scanned the housetop, Beekman gazed innocently out
over the Hudson.
"It is--not," he assented joyfully. "And so long as it is not, I have
nought to say, except," the policeman's voice trailed off into a
whisper, "except, sir, that the lady is waving to you. Look now, and
see."
Beekman looked. There she was, indeed.
"I've been up an hour!" she cried. "Wait until I come down."
In the music-room, she greeted him with:
"Have you had your breakfast?"
"Yes. I came to tell you...."
"Then you got my telegram all right?"
Beekman shook his head.
"You're not the Bank Le Boeuf of Buffalo?"
"I didn't phone you," she went on, ignoring his question, "because I
couldn't, don't you know. But I sent a wire so you'd get it the first
thing this morning--at your club."
"Crowd there too sleepy to get it to me, I suppose," he said, puzzled.
"What was in it?" But without waiting for an answer, he went on: "I
came to tell you about my telegram," and with that he passed it over
to her. "Business before pleasure," he remarked tritely, and yet
in a manner that he knew she would understand. "I can't go on the
_Marchioness_, you see."
"The _Marchioness_," she responded, "is not going after all. That's
why I wired you. But I'm glad you came, because, somehow, I wanted you
to know--before it appeared in the papers----" She paused, and then
added, with much feeling: "The Grand Jury has indicted my father--late
yesterday afternoon. As yet no one knows it; but everybody will know it
by nine o'clock this morning. It may be in the papers now, though they
tried to keep it out. It's a terrible thing--a thing like that! I can't
see how, or why, they indicted him! Can you?"
Beekman looked his sympathy. Presently he asked:
"Do you mind my asking just what they charge him with?"