Ten men crowded into the office of Assistant District Attorney Leech,
ten men of various sizes and complexions, ten men upon whom sat
undoubted respectability, and yet in whose eyes gleamed a gnawing
anxiety--a strange excitement.
A deputy assistant district attorney--or a d. a. d. a., as they call
them there, received the delegation coldly.
"What in thunder is this mob doing here?" he asked.
The ten men nodded toward their spokesman; he leaned against the d. a.
d. a.'s desk.
"Chief clerk sent us here," he said.
"What about?" asked his cross-examiner.
The spokesman drew from his pocket a folded paper and opened it wide
for the other to read.
"Ten Thousand Dollars Reward for information leading to the Conviction
of the Murderer of Roy Pallister," is what he read, after which the d.
a. d. a. looked at it curiously, and added: "Well? What then?"
"Well," said the spokesman, as the ten men crowded closely about him,
"we've got information--see?"
"What information?"
For answer he drew forth a weapon--an ugly-looking weapon: a hammerless
revolver, with one chamber empty.
The d. a. d. a. sniffed with some excitement.
"Where did you get it?" he demanded. Surreptitiously he nodded to a
uniformed attendant, who as surreptitiously shut the door and locked it.
"Picked it up the day young Pallister was killed," went on the
spokesman, "picked it up where the man that used it left it lying--when
he ran away."
The assistant glanced at him sharply.
"Why didn't you pass it over right away?" he demanded.
The ten men shrugged their shoulders, but it was their spokesman who
explained:
"In that crowd," he returned slowly, "there was too much excitement
already. These here saw me pick it up, and we talked about it--talked
about it slow and cold. We didn't want to be mobbed ourselves, even by
the cops; we didn't want to be taken for the murderer--you understand?
So we closed in around this gun, y'see, and we kept it close, till
now." He grinned sheepishly. "Besides," he added, "our savings has been
lost in the Tri-State Trust, and we was kind o' waitin' for somethin'
of this kind," he pointed to the advertised reward, "thinking maybe we
could even up somehow, y'see."
"I see," returned the assistant, grimly. "I see that you had no right
to wait an instant when you got this thing in your fist." He waved his
hand. "Never mind that now, but tell me who did the killing. Did you
know the man?"
The ten men shook their heads.
"We seen no man," one blurted out, "a hand--that's all I see."
"That's all we see," assented the spokesman, looking to his fellows
for affirmance, "a hand and a shot. It was all so quick. We asked
everybody; nobody seen anything--just a hand and a shot, that's all."
The assistant frowned.
"Do you suspect who did it?" he interrogated.
Blankly they shook their heads.
The d. a. d. a. shot out a forefinger.
"Tell me about that mass meeting of the savings depositors held the
night before the murder?" he demanded, at a venture.
They returned his query with a stare.
"There wasn't any mass meeting that we know of," they said.
He rapped upon the table and nodded to the uniformed attendant.
"You know what to do," he said.
Evidently the attendant did; for after a short space of time he
unlocked the door, and six plain-clothesmen pounced upon the spokesman.
"But I didn't do it!" yelled the big man who had handed over the
ferocious-looking gun.
"He didn't do it!" cried the other men behind.
"Aw, come on!" said the officer of the law, "we'll lock the whole kit
an' boodle of you up as witnesses. What--you won't? Come on--Come on!"
"But don't you forget that we furnished information," called back the
spokesman, "that may lead to the conviction of somebody, and when that
happens, we want that ten, y'see?"
It was not long before the news of the discovery of the pistol became
known. So that when Leslie arrived on a visit to her father, and
asked an officer if there had been any developments in regard to her
advertisement in the paper, she was answered in the affirmative.
"Father, dear," she cried, excitedly, when they were alone, "listen to
me. I can't sleep to-night unless it can be arranged for me to see that
pistol that was found. I have a fancy that----" She stopped short.
"A fancy--what?" he demanded suddenly.
"That I may have seen it once before," she continued.
Wilkinson called an officer.
The officer took Leslie across the bridge and into the other part of
the building where the pistol was to be seen. Its custodian watched the
girl narrowly as she looked upon it; but she gave no sign.
"I don't believe I ever saw that one before," she volunteered.
Back again with her father, she whispered eagerly in his ear:
"Father, oh, father, what am I to do? That gun there is the very gun
that Giles Ilingsworth had in our house that day. It's the same--the
very same, I'm sure of it. What am I to do?"
Wilkinson uttered an oath under his breath.
"We'll give him up, that's what we'll do! We'll hunt him down!" he said
excitedly. "He tried to kill me, and he did kill little Pallister."
He stood there staring at her, his face growing whiter all the time.
He was about to speak again when he was interrupted by the entrance of
Colonel Morehead.
Through the lawyer's mind, as he looked at Wilkinson and his daughter,
a number of impressions were passing. The three days' confinement
in a cell had left its traces on the multi-millionaire: a terrible
depression was on him, his shoulders were hunched, and his eyes
lustreless. With Leslie, of course, there was no such great change,
though her lips were trembling, her eyes wide and searching, and her
figure seemed shrunken. In other words, the shadow of the Tombs
was upon them all. All--the word is used advisedly, for Morehead,
himself, was by no means in a normal condition. Veteran, though he
unquestionably was, he had shivered as if with dread the moment he had
crossed the threshold of the jail. Hundreds of times, it is true, he
had passed in and out without let or hinderance, and yet upon every
occasion this indescribable sense of dread--the clutch of terror,
the stretching out of the cold, clammy hand of penal servitude, the
horribly silent eloquence of bolt and bar--was ever present. Custom had
not staled it; it bit into him with terrible force.
But whatever he felt, he gave no sign. To-day, as always, he had
merely nodded to the doorman as he passed in, strode down the narrow
passage-way and pushed through the turn-stile. At that point, however,
he had been confronted by the deputy warden of the jail.
"Counsellor," asked big Bill Steen with unaccustomed caution in his
tone, "who was you looking for?"
The Counsellor smiled.
"You have only one of my birds shut up in your aviary, Bill. Obviously,
he's the man I wish to see."
Big Bill nodded, still with suspicious caution.
"Peter V. Wilkinson, I suppose?"
"Precisely," returned the Colonel, and was starting on.
"One moment, Counsellor," went on the deputy, detaining him. "You an'
me is old friends, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. But I have
been warned by Murgatroyd. The District Attorney is most particular
about this case." And a curious expression crossed his face, as he
added: "You must admit, Counsellor, that we don't often have a guy
locked up here--worth millions and charged with larceny, forgery and
perjury, all at once, and who's waitin' for three-quarters of a million
bail."
"No, it isn't an everyday occurrence, I acknowledge. Now, will you
bring him down, or shall I go up to him?"
Again the deputy shook his head.
"Counsellor, District Attorney Murgatroyd says be careful, and I got
to, even with an old friend like you. If there's any attempt at an
escape,--and a man who's said to be worth millions and wants to get out
of jail--well, sometimes, locks will turn and bars will break. I don't
know that it would take so many millions to----"
Colonel Morehead looked straight into the eyes of big Bill Steen, with
that confidential look which had won him many juries.
"Bill," he said, under his breath, "suppose he wasn't worth
millions--only a fraction of a million! And suppose he couldn't get
bail! How much would you take, Bill, to let him go? How much? A hundred
thousand, two hundred, a quarter of a million? Come--say the word."
The deputy indignantly drew away.
"Counsellor," he protested, "you couldn't touch me with ten million. I
wouldn't let him off for that."
Morehead's smile was not a pleasant one.
"Steen," he went on severely, "you'll let him off for less. Oh, yes,
yes you will; I know all about you, one hour won't pass before you'll
be sending a man upstairs to let Wilkinson out. Come, call it a hundred
and fifty thousand.... No? Then two ... two and a half----"
"Not on your life!" returned Steen, raising a deprecating hand.
Colonel Morehead fixed his hypnotic eye upon the other, drew himself up
to his full height, thrust his hand into his breast-pocket, pulled out
a paper, and held it under the nose of Steen.
"Look at that, Bill," he insisted, "and see whether my prophecy comes
true."
The deputy warden opened the paper, glanced at it and grinned.
"Quit your kiddin', Counsellor! Why didn't you say all along that you'd
given bail?"
"You can send it to your friend Murgatroyd," concluded Morehead, "and
make sure it's O. K. I'll go up to Wilkinson."
Colonel Morehead, on leaving the warden, was suddenly conscious of a
feeling of disgust. With an effort, however, he shook it off, and there
was a semblance, at least, of a smile on his face when he appeared, as
has been said, before Wilkinson and his daughter in the counsel room.
"They're going to let you out, Peter," he announced, seating himself at
a table and squaring his elbows, "and right away."
"I thought they never would," was Wilkinson's answer. "These three days
have seemed more like three years to me.... So you got it through, did
you? Surety Company fix it up ...?"
"I got the Court to reduce the bail to half a million; your daughter
Leslie and the Surety Company did the rest."
Leslie started.
"I! Why I didn't know that I did anything?"
Colonel Morehead smiled.
"You assigned two-thirds of your own fortune--stocks and bonds--to the
surety company to secure them. So if Peter V. skips his bail--runs
away,"--he was leering at him now,--"you stand to lose, you see."
"Runs away," repeated Leslie. The words were like music to her ears.
"What a splendid idea! It would be the best way out of it, after all.
You could take the _Marchioness_," she went on enthusiastically, "and
steam to the ends of the earth!"
"Haven't I told you, Colonel, that she was a hard-headed little
proposition," said her father, with a good deal of pride. "Not a bad
idea, the _Marchioness_. Now, if--if I were guilty, instead of being
innocent...."
Colonel Morehead grunted.
"Do you think that your steam yacht the _Marchioness_ is any match for
District Attorney Murgatroyd? He'd find you even in uncharted seas, and
bring you back."
"It's all O. K., Counsellor," called out Bill Steen, tapping on the
door; "you can go now!"
Steen unlocked the door of the dingy little room. And as Peter
Wilkinson started to go, Steen intercepted him and held out his hand,
hesitated a moment, and finally said:
"It ain't often that we have a man of your standing, Mr. Wilkinson, in
our hotel. Would you mind a-shakin' hands before you go?"
Wilkinson shook hands with a will.
"Here's hoping that we may never see you here again," said Steen,
cordially.
"You can be sure of that," answered Wilkinson, with just the ghost of
a smile on his lips. At the entrance he stood an instant and looked
up into the sky. "Free," he breathed, as to himself. Leslie clung to
his arm, and pressed her hand against her face. They started down the
steps, but Wilkinson drew back.
"The crowds--the crowds--they'll mob me again!" he cried, his huge
frame shaking like a leaf.
Morehead caught him firmly by the arm.
"Come, Peter, brace up, take a big grip on yourself!" were his
reassuring words. "There's no mob, no one who knows you, anyhow. You
don't look so different from a lot of other men."
Wilkinson shook himself and clenched his hands.
"I'm all right now," he declared, "I lost my nerve in there." After a
long intake of breath, he added: "That's the last time they'll ever get
me in there, the last time, mark my words, Morehead. There were times
when I came near biting the bars. Think of me being locked up!" They
had reached the corner of the street. He halted. "There was a chap in
the cell next to mine," he went on, "who'd been sent up for five years.
Think of it! He was waiting to be taken up the river any day--didn't
seem to mind it, either. Five years in a place like that----"
"The machine's around on Lafayette Street," interrupted the Colonel. "I
thought it better...."
"Right," declared Wilkinson. "But we don't need it yet."
Leslie turned to Colonel Morehead; her eyes were bright, her cheeks red
with excitement.
"Why did my father have to stay in there; can you tell me that?" she
asked.
"The bail was stupendous. I had arranged for reasonable bail; but this
was unusual," the Colonel explained. "But that's not all--the surety
companies had been warned."
"Warned! Did you say warned not to give bail when they were secured?"
she cried.
"Warned," repeated Morehead, "not to furnish bail without being sure
that they were secure."
"Who warned them?" echoed Wilkinson, incredulous.
"The _Morning Mail_," began the Colonel, but was interrupted by
Wilkinson:
"Phew! And who owns the _Morning Mail_?"
Morehead smiled.
"Check and countercheck," he grinned. "Ougheltree and his gang have
just bought it." Turning to Leslie, he explained that Ougheltree was
the President of the Twentieth Century National Bank. "The National
Banks have formed in line to fight the Trust Companies," he told her,
"because the Trust Companies, having bigger powers, attract more
people. And they've opened fire on your father, first, and his string
of Trust Companies." And now once more he turned to Wilkinson, and
laying his hand on the other's shoulder, he said: "Do you know what I
was thinking just this morning? I think you ought to buy a daily paper.
I do, indeed! This is a crisis----"
"But I already own a paper," objected Wilkinson.
"I mean a good one. My idea would be to buy--well, say the _Daily
Reporter_. It's a crackerjack sheet that's just begun to go down hill.
It can be bought cheap, too."
Leslie tightened her grasp on her father's arm.
"Let me buy it for you, father, that is, if there's money enough left
to buy it with."
Morehead's attention was directed afresh toward Leslie.
"Let me go on, Miss Leslie," he continued. "There were other reasons
why haste was inadvisable. The _Morning Mail_, owned by this gang of
national bankers, is trying to poison public opinion against your
father. If we had instantly snapped a bail bond of three-quarters of a
million dollars on the files, the _Mail_ would have charged Peter V.
Wilkinson with being a rich man still, having the money of the masses
in his coat-tail pocket. It was wise and necessary, too, for me to
forestall this. I gave to every newspaper in the city the pedigree
of the stocks and bonds that you put up, showing that they were the
individual property of your mother, and had come down to you direct.
The result is that the _Morning Mail_ had not a word to say. We've got
to be mighty careful," he concluded, "about public opinion. For there's
a trial waiting for us out there in the future."
There was determination in the girl's voice as she answered excitedly:
"And we'll win it, too!"
Wilkinson snorted.
"Of course we'll win!" he cried.
"We'll win," conceded Morehead, "but only after some shrewd
counsellor-at-law--naming no names--has mapped out the campaign."
"That reminds me," said Wilkinson, "that we must put Flomerfelt on to
this."
"Never mind Flomerfelt just now," advised Morehead. "Our first step is
to buy a live newspaper and start in. And the first thing that's going
to be chalked up to the methods of the _Morning Mail_, is the murderous
mob that's responsible for the murder of Pallister three days ago."
They had started for Lafayette Street, but Wilkinson held them back.
"Who's going to try my case, Morehead?" he queried. "Which one of
Murgatroyd's men?"
Colonel Morehead smiled enigmatically.
"Assistant District Attorney J. Newton Leech is the man. My information
is direct--direct from the inside."
Wilkinson literally dragged them across the street.
"Come on," he said, "we'll go in and see Assistant District Attorney
Leech right away."
Morehead interposed, and demanded:
"What for?"
"Just to--er--throw a sop to Cerberus," said Wilkinson. "Come, come
along with me."
Wilkinson's cringing manner of a little while before had left him. His
shoulders once more were straight, his Van Dyke belligerent. He had
assumed his position as a leader of men.
"Both you and Leslie come along with me," he repeated. "I'm going to
scratch Leech's back, and maybe, one of these days, he'll scratch mine."
They were ushered forthwith into the Assistant District Attorney's
outer office. His private door was open, and they could hear his even
voice within. His tones were mingled, however, with those of a woman--a
pleading, tearful woman, judging from her voice. Wilkinson's card was
sent in to Leech; and the instant that the Assistant District Attorney
saw it, his straight lips widened into a pleasant smile. He came out to
greet the three almost instantly, singled out Morehead and held out his
hand.
"Colonel," he said in his sprightly and yet confidential manner,
"mighty glad to see you." And now turning his gaze on Wilkinson, he
added: "I'm afraid, Mr. Wilkinson, that you won't care to shake hands
with me; but I assure you I won't bite--not just yet, at any rate."
Wilkinson shook hands warmly, and haw-hawed in a most approved and
business-like manner. Leech now turned swiftly to Leslie, and then
stopped, embarrassed.
"Miss Wilkinson," began Colonel Morehead.
"Mr. Leech, this is my daughter, Miss Wilkinson," said Peter V.,
snatching the words from the Colonel's mouth, and then without giving
Leech the opportunity to make the usual acknowledgment, he hurriedly
went on in a loud, commanding voice: "Now, Leslie, dear, I want you to
tell Assistant District Attorney Leech of the threats that this man
Ilingsworth made to you the other day."
"I beg your pardon," said Leech, stepping to the inner door and closing
it quietly, for Wilkinson's words had brought an exclamation to the
lips of the woman in the adjoining room, that had reached his ears.
Leech came back almost instantly and placed chairs for them all.
"Tell him all you know, Leslie," commanded her father.
The girl's breath came quick and short. Her father's words had come as
a shock to her, and she looked about her helplessly.
"Father, I'd much prefer not," she protested.
Morehead did not altogether approve of the proceeding, chiefly because
he had not been consulted upon it, and he interjected gravely:
"Are we sure, Mr. Wilkinson, that she knows anything of the affair?"
Wilkinson did not deign even to glance at his counsel, and ignoring the
girl's protests, and brushing aside or rather pushing his way through
her objections, as was his wont, with his shoulders, he repeated:
"Leslie, I want you to tell Assistant District Attorney Leech all that
you know about this man Ilingsworth--all--you understand."
Leslie, with difficulty, controlled herself, and cried out:
"Father, this is a--a case of murder. I can't be the accuser.... Don't
drag me into it--please...."
A dull red, angry colour crept up over Wilkinson's collar, and his eyes
flashed.
"Leslie, don't you understand what this man Ilingsworth has done? He's
killed my private secretary Pallister! It's your duty.... How are you
going to escape ...?"
Leech tiptoed back to the door of his private office and gently closed
the transom, which was open.
"In order to relieve you, Miss Wilkinson," he now said, and his voice
was reassuring, "I may as well tell you that we have established,
beyond all doubt, proofs of Ilingsworth's guilt. We have people who say
they saw him in the crowd; we've found the man who sold him the gun,
and we've shown him Ilingsworth's photograph, which he identifies as
unquestionably the man."
"But you haven't got Ilingsworth?" quickly interposed Morehead.
"Not yet," and Leech fastened his eyes on Leslie. "Can you have any
idea as to where he is?"
The three dissented silently.
"We'll get him yet," smiled Leech. "It is rare that we do not succeed
in landing a person when once we start out to," he went on, his glance
shifting to Wilkinson, who met it in open and genial defiance.
"You--you have time to hear what my daughter has to say?" asked
Wilkinson, and without waiting for an answer, he added: "I think now is
the time to take it down--and----"
Leech rose abruptly.
"Miss Wilkinson, you would know this man Ilingsworth, I suppose, if you
saw him?"
"Yes," faltered Leslie, "I should know the man. But his pictures in
the daily papers--I should never have known him from those."
"Just a moment, until I get his photograph," whispered the Assistant
District Attorney, opening the inside door; presently he returned,
closing the door again behind him, and advancing towards them he
resumed confidingly: "The fact is, I've got Ilingsworth's daughter
inside there. I shouldn't be surprised if she knew where the old man
is, either, though she insists that she does not, and----"
Wilkinson grunted.
"And you're practising third-degree tactics on her, I suppose," he said.
"Well, not exactly that, but persuasion--polite persuasion, that's
all," explained the Assistant District Attorney, smiling. He stepped
once more toward the inner door, and Leslie, obeying some hidden
impulse, darted quickly to his side.
"Will you let me see her without being seen," she pleaded. "He told me
all about her--her name is Elinor."
"Stand here, then," whispered Leech, and opening the door swiftly, he
passed over to the window and held the girl within in conversation
while he searched among his papers, and in such a manner that
three-quarters of her countenance was turned toward Leslie. One glance
at the pretty face of the girl was sufficient to satisfy Leslie that
Elinor Ilingsworth was in great distress, and taking her place beside
her father, she whispered:
"Oh, father, you should see her. She's in great trouble, and yet she
looks so--so pretty." Genuine anguish shone from Leslie's eyes as she
now turned from her father to Colonel Morehead, and asked:
"Who's going to take care of her? What's to become of her now?"
Leech had returned by this time and was holding before Leslie a
half-tone photograph of Giles Ilingsworth.
"That's the man!" cried Leslie, seizing the picture. She turned it
over and glanced involuntarily at the inscription on the back. "Taken
particularly for my daughter Elinor," it said. "Affectionately her
father, G. I. Sept. 190----"
Leslie's eyes reproached Leech.
"You make this girl an instrument in her father's destruction," she
said indignantly, little understanding what part she might play later
in her own father's affairs.
Leech, who seemed to take a very business-like pleasure in feasting his
eyes upon Leslie's face, merely nodded, and after a moment's silence he
said:
"You forget, Miss Wilkinson, that we have our duty to perform. A man
who murders is not entitled to so very much consideration, after all."
He looked at the photograph in her hand. "If you're sure that this is
the man you know as Giles Ilingsworth, you might tell me briefly what
he said. It is not vital," he went on hastily, "that is, we can make
a case without it. But we want--and Mr. Wilkinson is good enough to
offer----"
"Mr. Leech," broke in Wilkinson, seeking the Assistant District
Attorney's glance, which he held to the end, "let me be understood.
This man Ilingsworth killed a man in my employ--to be exact, my private
secretary, my friend. I want to put myself on record here and now:
Whenever a man tries to do me an injury, whenever a man tries to hound
me--hound me, understand, as this man Ilingsworth did,"--he paused for
an instant,--"his gun was aimed at me, don't you forget that--why,
I camp on that man's trail until I land him. And conversely, if a
man does me a favour,"--again there was a pause to let the fact sink
home,--"I never forget it. Now, Leslie," he concluded, "you may proceed
with the facts, and tell us about the man who tried to kill your father
in cold blood."
Leslie's recital consisted of the threats Ilingsworth had made.
Wilkinson supplemented it with his statement as to the unwarranted
attack on himself by Ilingsworth in front of Wilkinson's house on the
Drive on that eventful evening a short while before. Leech took no
notes of these statements, but merely tucked away the details to be
dictated to his stenographer later in the privacy of his inner room.
"That's all, Mr. Leech," said Wilkinson, rising, and, holding out his
hand, the other shook it genially.
"By the way, who's going to try the Ilingsworth case for the People?"
inquired Morehead, hoping to take the Assistant District Attorney off
his guard.
"Nobody knows yet," snapped the Assistant District Attorney, in a
manner to remind the Colonel gently but forcefully that it was nobody's
business but the People's.
At the outer door, Leslie held them for a moment.
"If there was any way to," she faltered, "I'd like to know what's going
to happen to--to that girl inside. I----"
Wilkinson winked at Morehead.
"Why, girlie," he exclaimed, "Ilingsworth's stolen millions will take
care of her!"
Leslie brightened up.
"To be sure," she answered. "I--I never thought of that. I'd forgotten
all about the fact that he had money still."
"He reeks with money," added Morehead, returning Wilkinson's wink. "And
now, for the machine."
Twenty minutes later Wilkinson stalked into the presence of his wife
and Beekman. It was late afternoon, and Beekman was to dine with them
that night. Wilkinson bowed ostentatiously to Mrs. Wilkinson, and
commented:
"Overpowered, my dear, absolutely overpowered by your attentions to me
while I was in the Tombs. I actually felt like a bachelor again."
"How could any man expect a lady to go there?" she asked, glaring at
Beekman, and evidently expecting him to come to her aid, but as no
comment was forthcoming from that gentleman, she concluded her remark
by saying: "Not for the best man alive would I trail down into that
dirty, dingy place."
Wilkinson groaned with disgust.
"Nevertheless, there were some women," he reminded her, "who came
there, clad in rags, and stood, stood, stood on their tired feet all
day long, outside the cells of the men they loved. They were wives,
mostly wives, too, for I heard what they had to say...." He, too,
appealed to Beekman. "It's worth while, Beekman," he wound up, a trifle
sadly, "to be loved for yourself alone, and not for your money, isn't
it?"
The mistress of the house lifted up her voice in raucous mirth.
"I don't see, Peter," she returned, "that you have any money to be
loved for now."
"Hence," commented her lord and master, while Beekman grew hot and cold
by turns at this free and easy bickering, "hence you didn't come down
to the Tombs. But," his forefinger shot out and, figuratively speaking,
touched her on a vital spot, "you made a big mistake! If you'd been
there the artists of the daily press would have had you shown up in
forty different poses for Sunday. I had the devil's own time in keeping
Leslie's face from getting in. But yours--I could have had it in every
hour of the day without its costing me one penny."
The lady leaned forward in genuine eagerness, and asked:
"Is that true, Peter? I thought they had abandoned me--left me on the
shelf. But if it's true, I promise to be there every day the next time
you're locked up."
Peter V. paled perceptibly.
"There isn't going to be any next time," he laughed. "Eliot Beekman's
going to see to that."
Meantime in the Colonial drawing-room, Leslie was enjoying a quiet
tête-à-tête with Colonel Morehead.
"It was the nicest thing in the world, Colonel," she was telling him,
"your picking out Eliot Beekman for--for father. And I believe you're
right. Mr. Beekman is so honest, so earnest, and so convincing. And he
looks you in the eye so."
"Um, how does he look you in the eye?" returned the Colonel, meeting
her gaze.
But Leslie, flushing, had already fled.
It was hours later, when alone with Beekman, she looked into his eyes
squarely, as was her habit, and asked falteringly:
"Do you know, Mr.--Mr. Beekman----"
Beekman stopped her.
"Begin again," he commanded, "you can do better than that."
"Mr.... Mr...." she started in, but again Beekman protested.
"Now look here, I'm only one of six lawyers in your father's case.
Every last man of 'em calls you Leslie--even Patrick Durand, and I'm
going to call you Leslie, too. It's a part of my duties, as your
father's counsel in the case. Therefore, you begin again, and begin it
right."
There was a moment's pause in which Leslie averted her face.
"Eliot," she finally whispered, in gentle tones, her eyes coming back
to his, "I think it is perfectly fine of you to help father in this
way. Don't you know," she went on, "you said that night on the way home
from Mrs. Pallet-Searing's, that you wished you could do something for
him, help him some way. And now you've buckled on your armour in his
defence."
"Hold on there!" called out Beekman, in alarm. "Wait a bit! Is that
what you call it-- my helping him? Why, there are just about ten
thousand lawyers in the Borough of Manhattan who'd give their eyes to
get the job. And, besides, don't laud me yet. Great Heavens, Leslie!
Don't you understand that I've got a fat retainer in my pocket for all
this?"
The girl laughed in glee.
"So much the better!" she exclaimed. Presently her brow wrinkled and
she demanded: "Who paid it to you, Eliot?"
"Colonel Morehead," quickly spoke up Beekman.
"I wonder where he got the money?" she mused, then she laughed once
more. "Probably my money," she said. "Wouldn't it be great if I were
paying you for this?"
"It would," answered Beekman in mock solemnity, "because, getting this
much out of your coffers, I should have hopes in time of depleting your
funds to a very large extent, so that some day in the future, having
flim-flammed you out of a large proportion of your worldly wealth, I
should then stand on that footing of American equality I mentioned to
you the other night, and might, in turn, 'with all these worldly goods
I thee endow'----"
"Don't you be too sure," she said seriously.
Nor was it given to them to know what the fates had in store for them,
that the time was soon to come when Beekman should be on that equal
footing, to which he referred, and, what is more, that he was to stand
as the one man in the state, the cynosure of all eyes, his name on
every lip.
"At any rate," she went on, "it's fine of you to fight.... You're going
to fight, aren't you?"
He looked over her head far into the future. It was all hazy there, but
in his ambitious purposes Beekman recognised that he held within his
grasp the one big opportunity of his career.
"Fight," he echoed, "to the last ditch."
"And so am I," she went on enthusiastically. "We'll all fight, and
we'll win; we're bound to win."
"We're bound to win," he repeated, the blood surging through his veins.
"And when we win--what then?" He looked deep into her eyes; but she
cast them down before him.
"Let's win first," she faltered.
If only there had been a warning hand, a friendly voice to tell him
what lay before him in the future! For could he have heard Wilkinson's
words, that very afternoon, to the Assistant District Attorney: "The
man who does me a favour I never forget; the man who injures me I never
forgive,"--he might have thought twice before replying:
"It's a go. You're quite right. We'll win first."
X
"You ought to have been there, Patrick! By jinks, you had ...!"
exclaimed Wilkinson some months later as he watched the rings of smoke
from his cigar float upwards to the ceiling of the Millionaires' Club.
"I fixed him, didn't I, Colonel?"
Colonel Morehead thought a moment before replying:
"I shouldn't wonder if you did, Peter. You furnished the evidence of
deliberation--that essential element in a murder case--the lying in
wait. Yes, your admirable efforts in that direction will probably land
Ilingsworth in the chair."
"Probably! Oh, thunder," put in Patrick Durand, one of the cleverest
criminal lawyers in the city, "that man Ilingsworth is dead already!"
Colonel Morehead placed the finger-tips of one hand against those of
the other as he made answer:
"If he'd been merely one of a crowd of maddened depositors, acting
in the heat of passion, it would have been second degree, without a
doubt. And yet,"--and the Colonel darted sharp glances first at Durand
and then toward his client,--"in my opinion, the star witness of the
prosecution was your daughter Leslie. The jury believed every word
that she said."
And indeed such had been the case at Ilingsworth's trial. Assistant
District Attorney Leech had made no mistake in the order of summoning
his witnesses. After her father, bluff, arrogant and eager--and
over-willingness is a bad virtue in a witness--had finished his
testimony, Leslie had taken the stand and had wholly removed the bad
impression Wilkinson had made on the jury through his evident desire
that Ilingsworth should be convicted. Moreover, Leech had trained the
girl, as he did all his witnesses, to answer the essential facts,
and nothing else. And to make his task all the easier, Ilingsworth's
lawyer, a hanger-on of the criminal courts--for Ilingsworth had had
no funds to employ first-class counsel, and a prisoner without money
is a doomed man in New York--had wallowed through the trial without
a glimmering of common sense. From the first, as might have been
expected, he had played directly into the hands of the People. But his
blundering had not been without its interesting side--interesting, at
least, to a few of his hearers. For despite the Assistant District
Attorney's strenuous objections, the Court had overruled his contention
that the entire conversation between Giles Ilingsworth and Leslie that
memorable afternoon was irrelevant and immaterial, and in consequence
the good-for-nothing lawyer had led Leslie on to tell in detail all
of Ilingsworth's grave charges against her father. And it was at that
point, and barely before the girl had uttered two hundred words,
that a reporter of the _Morning Mail_ had succeeded in wriggling
his way through the lawyers inside the rail, and had not crept back
into his place and resumed the taking of copious notes until the
court stenographer to whom he had whispered: "Say, old man, I want
all this, word for word, by two o'clock, at any price," had nodded
his willingness to accept the fifty-dollar bill that he was sure the
_Morning Mail_ must vouchsafe him for this hurry job.
And so it happened that an hour later the _Morning Mail_ man was
telling Mr. Ougheltree of the Twentieth Century Bank and head of the
bankers clique that owned the _Mail_, that he had to stand by this man
Ilingsworth from start to finish. And as a result of this interview
the few spectators at the afternoon session of the court had heard the
celebrated Worth Higgins inform the Court that he had been retained to
conduct the case for the defence, as well as the Court's complimentary
remarks in reply.
But Worth Higgins had been of little service to the defendant, though
he had drawn from his witnesses, especially Ilingsworth, all that
they knew or suspected about Wilkinson's management of the seventeen
bankrupt trust companies--a feat which, as will readily be imagined,
was all that the _Morning Mail_ required of him. In truth, Higgins had
done Ilingsworth more harm than good. The defendant had deliberately
purchased a gun; had lain in wait; had shot a man down in cold blood.
Not the man he had aimed at, it is true, but the principle was the same.
"Will the defendant deny that he did the shooting?" had been Higgins'
query to Boggs.
"Of course he will," had been his fellow-counsel's answer. "He's as
innocent as a new-born babe."
And with that Higgins had put the defendant on the stand and heard him
deny it--a weak, wabbling denial it was, in reality merely a recital of
his wrongs.
"That's all," Higgins said, when the testimony was over, and then he
had added in an aside to his junior: "His goose is cooked."
Nevertheless, at the suggestion of the _Morning Mail_ man, he had taken
all the exceptions possible, remarking to that gentleman's intimation
that the case was going up for an appeal: "A good thing it is, for it's
a gone case here."
And Higgins had been quite right. For, a short time after this the jury
had filed back and pronounced the one word of doom.
In common with everyone in the court-room, save Ilingsworth and his
daughter, Leslie had expected just such an ending. All through the
trial she had longed for the words that would relieve her from the
thraldom of uncertainty in which she was held; yet when the foreman
had pronounced the verdict it had shocked her inexpressibly, left her
indescribably sad. For some moments she had struggled to regain her
composure, and fearful of a break-down, she had fled, but not in time
to escape seeing Ilingsworth slump down into his seat with a faint
moan. At the door the sound of many voices and exclamations of pity
had reached her ears. She halted, and looking back she saw that the
commotion was the result of some woman who had fainted. And then it
was that she saw, too, the never-to-be-forgotten picture of Elinor
Ilingsworth, friendless and helpless, looking hopelessly down upon
her father while she endeavoured to soothe him with endearing words.
Impulsively Leslie had started back, a vague intention of putting her
arms around the girl's neck, of taking possession of her, as it were,
and carrying her, who needed care so much, to her own home. But like
a flash the futility of such a course had dawned upon her. For the
realisation had been borne in upon her that it was her own testimony,
more than anyone else's, that had been the means of convicting the
girl's father; and that for her to offer words of sympathy to the
daughter would be a mockery if not an insult. It was, therefore, with
a sigh that Leslie had again retraced her steps, forcing herself to be
content with giving the girl a glance of infinite pity.
* * * * *
"Conceding that Leslie's testimony did for him," Wilkinson was now
saying to his cronies at his club, gulping down his Scotch, "conceding
that, but who set her on--made her testify? It was I who bit into that
fellow's heel, and don't you forget that I'm proud of it."
Morehead stared through the cloud of collecting smoke.
"I wish, Patrick," he proceeded to say to Durand, in his own calm way,
"that you could have been there for just one reason: I am anxious to
know whether my view of the effect of Peter's testimony on the jury is
correct."
Patrick Durand waved his hand.
"You ought to know, Colonel."
"Don't you think it had a good effect on 'em, Morehead?" queried his
client.
Morehead rose and stretched his legs, and without glancing, even, at
Wilkinson, he said bluntly:
"Durand, I watched them closely--each one of the twelve. And, mark my
words, if it hadn't been for Leslie, I don't believe one man in the
twelve would have believed a word that Peter said."
Wilkinson turned red.
"What the devil do you mean, Morehead?" he roared. "Is this an insult?"
Morehead never flinched.
"Sit down, Wilkinson," he commanded curtly. "I'm talking to Mr. Durand.
What do you think, Patrick?"
Patrick Durand glanced over the rims of his glasses at the ceiling.
"Representative men, were they, Colonel?" he asked.
"A good mixture," said the Colonel. "I never saw a better...."
Durand drew a long breath.
"It looks bad--mighty bad, Colonel, for us," he observed calmly.
"What do you mean? How bad for us?" insisted Wilkinson, his face still
red with the imputation cast upon him.
Durand looked at him long and searchingly, doubtful whether to take him
into their confidence or not. Presently he said:
"It's just this, Brother Wilkinson: If an ordinary jury isn't going to
believe a man when he tells the truth, what are they going to do when
he deliberately lies?"
"But hang it, man," exploded Wilkinson, "I didn't lie; I told the
truth."
"Yes, Wilkinson, you told the truth in this Ilingsworth case, but it's
your own case we're thinking about. There'll be a jury in that, too."
"You fellows make me tired," growled Wilkinson. "My case--if it ever
comes to trial----"
"Oh, don't you worry about that! It will come to trial, all right," put
in Flomerfelt, speaking for the first time, and helping himself to a
fresh cigar.
"It won't if my overtures to District Attorney Murgatroyd are
accepted," retorted Peter V.
The two eminent counsel lifted up their eyes in mild surprise.
"You don't mean to say you're going to bribe Murgatroyd?" came in
chorus.
"Why not?"
"You've got enough indictments against you already, Peter," they warned
him, "without having Murgatroyd charge you with an attempt to bribe."
"No, indeed, you can't bribe Murgatroyd," spoke up Flomerfelt, with a
knowing smile. "Though I'll tell you what, Colonel," he went on, "there
is a chap who's not above suspicion on that staff."
Morehead winked.
"The hold-over from the last administration?"
"You mean Leech?" gasped Wilkinson.
Flomerfelt nodded.
"It's better to hear you say the name than to say it ourselves, Peter,"
remarked Morehead.
"Why, then the case needn't come to trial!" exclaimed Peter V.,
joyously. "We can get at Leech."
"Not in a hundred years!" ejaculated Flomerfelt. "Murgatroyd stands
behind these indictments in your case, don't you forget that. And even
if Leech tries them, Murgatroyd will be there to see.... The Assistant
District Attorney won't be able to move out of the beaten track. Your
case will come to trial, never fear."
"Well, then, let it come," grunted Wilkinson, a little ruffled by the
demeanour of Flomerfelt and his counsel. "But by that time this man
Ilingsworth will be dead; we'll shove everything on him."
"I don't believe Ilingsworth will be dead," remarked Morehead. "Indeed
I do not."
"Well, even if he isn't," retorted Wilkinson, huskily, "he's wholly
discredited. A man who'll murder may commit other crimes; the jury will
believe anything of Ilingsworth by the time we're through with him."
Morehead held up his hand.
"Durand and I have gone over this whole thing; have looked up every man
on Flomerfelt's list; they won't stick to us, that's all. Wilkinson,
your crowd are down on you. And what's more, the _Morning Mail_ now
stands behind Ilingsworth, and they're going to stick by him. So if we
make this attempt to unload iniquity on Ilingsworth and fail, we'll
do two things we don't want to do: One is, we'll make the dangerous
admission that there has been iniquity; and the other, psychological
problem as it is, is quite as much to be feared----"
"Fire ahead," interrupted Wilkinson.
"I'm banking on Beekman--banking on his personality with his jury, and
I don't want the ghost of a doubt to show in his face. That's why I
sent him to Europe. Of course we need the evidence he's getting over
there--it's good stuff. But I sent him now in order that he shouldn't
even read, save in a casual way, this story of Ilingsworth. A true
story is a mighty bad story, Peter. So we'll cut Ilingsworth out of
this case. If the People produce him--and I'm satisfied they won't--why
we'll try to get him on the cross-examination. Durand and I have talked
it all over, and our game is going to be a game of denial from start to
finish. I doubt whether the People make out the case against you. If
they don't we've got 'em nailed. And if the judge sends the case to the
jury, we'll deny everything the People put up against us. But it's a
lucky thing for you that they'll believe your daughter Leslie."
"It's a pity, Wilkinson," said Flomerfelt, with something like a
sneer, "that while you were about it, you didn't swing this thing in a
more careful way. Of course it's too late now. You bit off more than
you could chew that time! You thought you could get away with the
goods--got careless! I've seen many a safecracker do the same thing."
Wilkinson flushed.
"Do you mean to compare me with----" he began; but Flomerfelt left the
question unanswered.
"This is no Sunday-school picnic, and you may as well understand it
now, Peter," said Morehead. "We've got to work for our living in this
case, and you've got to do your share, have got to understand that it's
a running fight from now on to the end."
"I'll do my part," Wilkinson assured them, burying his hands in his
pockets. "But I want you to find out who the judge is going to be, and
when the time comes, give me the names of the jury, and I'll get at
them all right."
Colonel Morehead rose to his lanky height and clutched the shoulder of
his opulent client.
"Wilkinson," he cried, shaking a lean hand in the other's face, "you
don't know what you're talking about! And you might as well make up
your mind now that you can't touch Murgatroyd, and you can't touch the
Court. And Murgatroyd is there to see that you don't touch the jury.
We--Durand and I--have got charge of this thing. You keep your hands
off...."
"But you're going to pull me out, aren't you?"
" ... In our own way. So far I've always had my own way in my cases,"
declared Patrick Durand, "and if I can't have it in this one, why, I'll
retire, that's all."
"Yes, you must do as they say, Peter V." advised Flomerfelt, suavely,
and then lowering his voice so that the others should not hear, he
added: "If in the course of human events it should become necessary to
lay a bribe in order to get you clear, I'll attend to that myself."