In Colonel Morehead's office at 120 Broadway, Peter V. Wilkinson sat at
the window reading a typewritten document of considerable length. He
was white and rigid; while Leslie, standing beside him, rested her arm
upon his shoulder. As he read he stirred uneasily, even his daughter's
hand felt heavy upon him, and he shrugged it off.
"By all the gods!" he groaned from time to time; "those chaps have
nerve to say such things about me!"
"They seem to have the right," said the Colonel, suppressing a chuckle,
"and I suppose we can't complain."
When Peter V. had finished reading the opinion, he wiped his face with
his kerchief--the perspiration had started from every pore.
"That's the last crack, I suppose, Morehead," he ventured.
Morehead did not immediately answer, but turned to Leslie and said:
"There's a new Inness in the next room that I picked up at a bargain.
Would you like----" And without waiting for her answer the Colonel led
the way to an adjoining room, where he pointed out briefly to her the
artistic features of his new acquisition, and leaving her to admire it,
he came back, closing the door behind him.
"Peter," he said softly, "how much money have you squandered on this
business in the last year--since you were indicted, convicted and so
forth. I mean outside of what you haven't paid me and of what I know
about?"
Wilkinson grunted in disgust.
"Ten, I should say."
"Millions?"
His client fumed and nodded.
Morehead made a gesture of impatience which included the other.
"Didn't I warn you, Peter, that it would be of no use? That at the end
of the race you'd find yourself with a ten-years' sentence staring
you in the face. You might have saved your money, or given it to me,
preferably the latter course."
"Oh, come, Morehead, what's the use of these post mortems of yours!
Let's get to work. How much time have we got?"
"I can get a few certificates of reasonable doubt--that part's all
right--run it along for months yet. We've got to concede, however,
that they shoved it along mighty quick. What I'm trying to figure out
is whether we hadn't better apply to Beekman now--strike while the
iron's hot. For that opinion will make him mad, and if so, now is our
time...."
"Sure it's our time, Colonel; let's do it right away."
Morehead slipped into the next room and adjusted the window-shade.
"The light is a little better, now, Miss Leslie. I want you to like
that picture. If you like it well enough, maybe I'll give it to you one
of these days...."
Leslie smiled her gratitude, glancing anxiously at the same time into
the next room.
"Can I go back to father now?" she asked.
"Of course, I came to get you," said Colonel Morehead; and when they
were back in the room in which her father waited, the Colonel, lounging
easily in his seat, went on to confide to her the fact that her father
was at last in desperate straits; that this opinion constituted his
last chance with the courts.
"Your father and I have been talking it over," he said in a tone of
finality; "and the hand of the National Banks sticks up like a sore
finger all through the case. It's an outrage! We've decided that this
is the proper time and the proper case to present to Governor Beekman
for pardon. What do you think ...?"
At first, while Morehead was explaining, as well as he knew how, the
unpleasant situation that her father was in, Leslie had half-risen in
her chair, her face growing white; but at the lawyer's concluding words
her colour came back.
"Why, I--I never thought of that!" she cried out, her troubles slipping
from her suddenly.
Colonel Morehead smiled at her until she lowered her eyes in confusion.
Afterwards he deigned to explain that neither had they until just now.
"Providence," put in Wilkinson, winking at Colonel Morehead, "seems to
be on our side--the appellate courts to the contrary notwithstanding."
"The right shall prevail," quoth Morehead, unblushingly.
"Isn't it funny," exclaimed Leslie, "that none of us ever thought of
this before!"
Leslie thought of it a good deal afterwards, however, and the very next
day in the Mastodon car she canvassed in person practically every house
upon the Drive and over on Fifth Avenue to get the list of signatures
that the Colonel wished her to obtain.
"This has got to be done right, Miss Leslie," he impressed upon her.
"For when Eliot pardons your father, remember that he's got to show why
he does it, and upon whose petition."
"You mean"--she faltered, "that he may be criticised?"
"It's quite possible, my dear. The _Morning Mail_, for instance, will
doubtless roast him from here to Gehenna and back again."
Leslie's smile of girlish confidence returned.
"Eliot won't mind," she said. "I don't believe he cares much about
anything except me. He'll do right by us no matter what happens, I feel
sure of that."
"And I think," suggested the Colonel, "that when we hand in our
petitions, we'll all go up together."
Leslie laughed in sheer delight.
"Of course we'll all go up together," she returned. "Our march to
victory."
* * * * *
"That man Ilingsworth is here again," Phillips told the Governor,
somewhat reluctantly; "and he wants to see you."
"Show him in," briskly returned his chief. "I'll be delighted to see
him."
Ilingsworth came in slowly, dejectedly, alone. No guard was with him;
the air he breathed was free air, and yet there were no signs of
contentment.
"I didn't come exactly to thank you, Governor," he said uneasily. "I
did that in my letter when they told me of my pardon. I came to you
because in all my life you are the only man who ever really helped
me--for it seems to have been the mission of other men to drag me down.
I have come for help once more."
"I want to help you, Mr. Ilingsworth," volunteered the Governor.
"What's the trouble? Is it--money?"
Ilingsworth slowly shook his head.
"No, it is not money...." He paused and looked about him uncertainly,
murmuring to himself: "What is it that I want?"
Beekman touched him kindly.
"You seem to lose yourself at times," he remarked. "For instance, you
didn't remember that trip to Buffalo."
"That's the only time I ever lost myself, I guess," was his answer.
"If I hadn't lost myself then, I suppose I could have proved an alibi.
I couldn't account for myself upon my trial, and nobody who knew me
had seen me for a few days. I must have knocked about Buffalo and come
back."
"You were looking for a farm."
"Yes, you told me that. It comes back to me now. And there was a farm,
but it's all very vague--a farm some years ago somewhere up there. I
had the notion to find it and to live on it--just myself and----" he
broke off abruptly, and there was a new light in his eyes and a world
of pathos in the voice that said: "It's my daughter that I want to see
you about. I want to find her. Can't you help me to find her?"
"Don't you know where she is?"
"I haven't seen her for, oh, so long--so long. When they put me away
she would come to the Tombs--twice she came up the River to see me. But
the last time there was something in her face I couldn't understand,
then she never came again, and I knew they'd got her. For she had to
get along, somehow, and she didn't dare to face me. Poor girl, there
was no one to care for her--see to her!" And then all of a sudden
flaring up out of his downcast demeanour, he cried:
"Curse them! Curse that man Wilkinson--all of them! First they robbed
me of my money, then they got me, and now they've got her!"
The Governor's eyes narrowed.
"What has Wilkinson to do with it?" he demanded.
"Why, don't you know?" Ilingsworth burst out excitedly. "Doesn't
everybody know? Didn't you read my testimony at the trial?"
"Only hurriedly," acknowledged the Governor. "What I wanted to read
first was the case made against you. I read your own denial--but as
for the rest, well, you were rambling, somewhat incoherent. I didn't
understand it--in fact I hardly read it all."
Ilingsworth dragged up a chair.
"Will you let me tell you, sir, all about it?"
Governor Beekman let him tell his story. And scarcely had the last
words of Ilingsworth's recital of his wrongs left his lips than
Phillips, entering, announced:
"Colonel Morehead and some friends to see you, sir!"
"Bring them right in!" exclaimed the Governor, at once rising and going
with a smile to meet them. Suddenly he remembered Ilingsworth and
started to escort that gentleman out of another entrance.
"But my daughter," mumbled Ilingsworth as with bowed head he followed
the Governor. "If I can't have her back again, why, what's the good of
a pardon? I must have help to find her." At the door something impelled
him to pause, and looking back he found himself face to face with Peter
V. Wilkinson.
"That's the man--there--the man that got my money--that's got my
daughter! No matter where she is, he's responsible! Look at him! Look
at his face! I don't have to tell you...."
But the Governor, startled by this outburst and intent upon getting rid
of his visitor, did not turn, and consequently he did not see the face
of Wilkinson blanch and twitch under the accusing forefinger of his old
vice-president, Giles Ilingsworth.
"I'll help you find your daughter, sir," the Governor promised, taking
the man by the arm; "I'll help you all I can."
"Poor chap," said he, returning, and shaking hands with his guests,
"seems to have it in for you, Mr. Wilkinson."
"I don't blame him having it in for somebody," spoke up Leslie. "It is
not his innocence or guilt that interests me, but his daughter. I saw
her picture once--saw her twice," she went on wistfully. "How I wish
that I might help him...."
Colonel Morehead, tucking the Ilingsworth incident into the back of his
head for future use, laid down a batch of papers and his printed case
upon the Governor's desk.
"Governor--Eliot," he remarked jovially, "the New York _Reporter_ and
the _Star_ call you the pardoning Governor."
"Yes. They rapped me hard, didn't they," he said, all unconscious
that they were Wilkinson's own papers. "But what could I do? The man
Ilingsworth was innocent--I knew he was innocent."
"Oh, they didn't hit you very hard--just a little dig in the short
ribs--friendly little scrap, don't you know," said Morehead,
soothingly. "But the _Morning Mail_ made up for it, my boy. They'll
stick to you through thick and thin, and don't you forget it. It won't
hurt you. Ougheltree's backing is not to be sneezed at by any man. But
what I started in to say, Eliot, was, that since you're the pardoning
Governor, so-called, why, we've got a little bone to pick with you--a
petition--or petitions, rather, in the case of the People versus
Wilkinson."
Colonel Morehead handed up his bunch of papers, Leslie following suit,
as she said with a little smile:
"My contribution, Governor."
"A bit stiff, that U. S. Supreme decision," said the Governor, taking
them, and looking at Wilkinson. "It seemed to me unnecessarily rough."
Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders.
"With the National Banks against me, how can the U. S. courts be for
me--that's what I'd like to know?" he asked.
"Will you hear me now, Governor," interposed Morehead.
For an instant the Governor hesitated. Then he replied that he would
send for him when he was ready; that he had to read the case all
through, ending with:
"I've forgotten half of it. I'll read it and then I'll set a day...."
But that day was long forthcoming. For it was not until three weeks
later that Colonel Morehead heard anything relating to their visit
to the Governor in Albany. And then, one morning to his surprise,
Governor Beekman presented himself at his office in Broadway, and
handing him a personal memorandum, he said:
"I was down here and thought we'd clean these up first. I'm going to
Murgatroyd's to look at the original exhibits when I'm through here--or
he'll probably send them to my office."
The Colonel gave the man before him one long searching glance. He noted
that the Governor's face was unnaturally flushed; there were deep lines
on it; he had the appearance of an over-worked man.
"Must have burned some midnight oil on this thing, Eliot?" said
Morehead.
The Governor wearily drew his hand across his face.
"I have," he answered shortly.
"The first memo.," went on the Governor, referring to the printed case,
"relates to page 121."
Morehead found page 121 and his face reddened perceptibly. The Governor
had touched a sore spot: page 121 contained the first bit of damning
documentary evidence against Wilkinson. Morehead ran through the
other pages indicated on the memorandum; and closing his eyes for a
few seconds, he pressed his hands against them and thought hard. The
Governor had burnt midnight oil to some purpose: he had located every
weak place in Wilkinson's armour--and Morehead knew it.
"I merely want to find out what Wilkinson's explanation of all these
things is," remarked the Governor, grimly.
"I'll tell you," said the Colonel, glibly; "that's easy, Eliot. Or,
perhaps," he suggested in order to gain time, "we might get Wilkinson
down here, and have him go over these things with you and me." Already
his hand was on the telephone; but the Governor stayed it.
"Your explanation will do, Colonel."
For two hours the Governor listened to Morehead's explanation. At
the end of that time the Governor was still leaning forward studying
every expression in the other's face; but the lines were deeper in
his own face, while on the Colonel's lean countenance small beads of
perspiration stood forth.
"That's the explanation of it, is it, Colonel?" asked the Governor.
"That's the whole thing in a nut-shell," returned Morehead.
Hurriedly the Governor took his departure. He was nervous, anxious,
worried.
"It seems to be the kind of an explanation that doesn't explain ..." he
told himself. Now he went back to his old office on Nassau Street and
telephoned to Murgatroyd for the original exhibits. At the Barristers'
Club, behind locked doors, he examined the documents for hours. All
night long he studied them; then he rose and gazed out into the grey
dawn.
"Wilkinson is guilty!" he cried out; "damnably guilty! Why didn't I see
it all before?"
There was a reason: Colonel Morehead had been right when he told
Wilkinson that Beekman was partisan. And so long as his duty lay
that way, Beekman was partisan. But now he was Governor; his duty in
this case had become judicial; he saw with impartial eyes; and what
he saw and what he read was not the mere testimony of witnesses, not
evidence that depended on veracity, but documents whose genuineness
was undisputed, and whose significance had strangely escaped him until
now. In his own words, over his own signature, Wilkinson had convicted
himself over and over again.
"Damnably guilty," he repeated to himself.
* * * * *
One evening some days later Colonel Morehead betook himself into
the presence of Peter V. Wilkinson and his daughter Leslie. He had
with him, he said, a note which had come from the Governor's private
chambers, which he wished to read to them. It ran:
_My dear Colonel_:
I have examined with great care the petitions for pardon in the
People vs. Wilkinson. Also the printed record. There seem to be
undisputed facts which are totally inconsistent with innocence.
The verdict seems to have been justified, the decisions on appeal
correct. There are no extenuating circumstances known to me which
require executive interference.
Very truly,