In common with most men who have attained their ambition to be
money-kings, Peter V. Wilkinson regarded the legal profession solely
in the light of the ability of its members to provide processes for
him by means of which the law could be evaded. Failing in that or in
their promises of immunity from imprisonment,--which is much more
to the point in this case,--their usefulness, naturally, ceased.
Accordingly, from time to time, one after another of his superfluous
counsel had been dropped, even Patrick Durand, able criminal lawyer
as he was acknowledged to be, being forced to content himself with a
handsome souvenir of his connection with the case, to the exclusion of
any further interest in the expected spoils. Obviously, the old Colonel
was retained, but even this field marshal of a hundred campaigns, when
he arrived at the Wilkinson suite in the Remsen at Albany in response
to Wilkinson's imperative summons, had to acknowledge that the battle
of his life--the last battle of what he called the running fight--was
on, and likely, so at least it looked at the present time, to be his
Waterloo.
It was but little wonder that, witnessing the burst of rage with which
Wilkinson had told him of the Governor's refusal to pardon, not to
speak of the pitiful state of collapse in which he found Leslie, that
thwarted and disappointed as he was, Colonel Morehead came to feel
that there was little likelihood of anything being immediately done
towards the forming of a new campaign. Practically, the Wilkinson
advisory committee had dwindled down to three--a triumvirate now, as it
were--for Flomerfelt, doubtless for reasons of his own, had returned
to New York; and Morehead at once set himself the task of forcing the
intellects of father and daughter to resume their functions. With the
girl it did not prove difficult. Womanlike, and despite her horror of
the inevitable, she flung aside her own personal troubles at the call
of the Colonel for a consultation, and entered the conclave intent on
helping her father in his last great struggle with an energy that she
determined would be boundless.
"Colonel Morehead, why can't father go away?" suddenly said the girl.
"Why not, Morehead?" asked Wilkinson, fairly jumping at her words.
But the Colonel was still sullen. He was beaten, or thought he was,
which is very much the same thing. Wilkinson, on the contrary, seemed
to find new life in the moroseness of the other. And for the first
time in the struggle Wilkinson seemed to feel that the whole fight
rested on his own shoulders, and Wilkinson was one who dearly loved to
fight alone and single-handed.
"Why not run away, Morehead?" he repeated.
"How?" demanded the Colonel with little interest.
"The _Marchioness_ ..." suggested Leslie.
"And forfeit a million dollars bail?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Don't make any mistake," declared Wilkinson, "they'll never get me
behind the bars again! Never! Not even if I have to----" A new strange
note had forced itself into his tone. Leslie, feeling suddenly cold,
crept closer to him.
"Don't, don't talk that way, father!" she cried. "It shall never come
to that."
Morehead, even, was alarmed.
"Peter, you don't mean----" he began.
"I mean," repeated the other, looking sturdily at him, "that if they
ever put me behind the bars, it will be after life has left my body."
Leslie uttered a half-strangled cry and buried her face in her hands.
But Wilkinson only braced himself.
"We haven't got to that yet, Colonel," he observed. There was a pause,
after which he repeated his question: "Why not run away, eh?"
The Colonel thought a moment. Then, taking both Wilkinson and Leslie
by the arm marched them to the window and drew back the curtain.
"Do you see that Italian fruit-vender over there selling figs to the
swell? They're Murgatroyd's men, both of them. Murgatroyd's got you
surrounded, sewed up, tied in. One of the elevator boys in the Remsen
here is a New York County man; the chambermaid of this suite is a
detective. Murgatroyd has sworn that you won't get away. It may cost
the County of New York a million dollars, but you know Murgatroyd! And,
besides, behind him stand the National Banks. How much will they put up
to break you, eh? Murgatroyd will put you behind the bars as sure as
guns--unless----" He stopped, his eyes were half shut.
"Unless----" repeated father and daughter, leaning forward.
Morehead did not answer at once. His mind was working fast; he was
evidently feeling his way clear before committing himself. Suddenly he
said:
"Peter, how long have you worn a beard?"
The question seemed so irrelevant that the millionaire started.
"Why, nearly all my life," he answered. "I've--I've never shaved.
But----"
"It was so bristly," explained the Colonel, "that I thought it might be
the result of shaving; but everything about you bristles, so I guess
it's nature and not art. When you first saw it coming, you let it grow,
didn't you--and you've had it ever since?"
Peter V. did not like the turn the conversation was taking, and merely
nodded.
The Colonel uncrossed his legs and sat on the edge of the table, facing
them.
"How do you look without a beard?" he asked.
Leslie laughed aloud in sheer delight. The problem seemed to be solving
itself, but how or in what way she could not see.
"Blamed if I know," answered Wilkinson. "I don't even remember how I
used to look without a beard, and as for photographs, well, in former
days those luxuries were not for me, you know."
Colonel Morehead stuck his hands into his armpits and rested his chin
upon his shirt front. Presently he went on:
"Peter, you know this is Murgatroyd's pet case. It's his first in his
series of raids upon the iniquitous rich. He means to see to it that
you serve ten years--less good behaviour. From the time you put up
your million-dollar bail bond he has had you watched. Of course his
task is a tremendous one. You and I know that time and time again we
have eluded the vigilance of his men; and we know that we can do it
again for a time; but that doesn't alter the situation. If you should
disappear, every hotel, every train, every steamship would be thronged
with plainclothes men. You can't get out of the United States, and
you can't get out of the State, unless--you can't, in fact, elude
Murgatroyd for any time at all, unless----" Again he stopped, and again
Leslie and her father chimed in insistently:
"Unless----"
"Unless you follow my directions."
"What are they?" quickly asked the others.
"You've got to leave your beard and your name and all your worldly
goods----" went on the Colonel, but he checked himself in time.
"My worldly possessions being minus anyway," sighed Wilkinson, helping
the Colonel out.
"You've got to leave, even Mrs. Peter V.," smiled Morehead.
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Wilkinson with mock solemnity; then he
added: "I can leave the lady with eminent complacency."
"And also," went on Morehead, mercilessly, "you must leave your
daughter."
There was a sharp cry from Leslie, but Wilkinson gave no sign. He
merely sniffed hopefully, for he smelled freedom in all this.
"Go on!" he commanded, ignoring the quivering palm that Leslie laid
upon his hand.
"You've got to leave them all and never come back to them," continued
the Colonel; and bending closer and lowering his voice to a whisper, he
added: "Leave everything that you've got in the world, you understand?"
Wilkinson muttered an oath under his breath, for next to liberty his
wealth was dear to him. In fact, he now arranged in his mind the
relative importance of things: first, liberty--he must have that at any
cost; second, the millions that he had stowed away; third, his daughter
Leslie.
"Why have I got to leave them all?" he demanded, "and why never come
back at all?"
"Because," said his counsel, "if you so much as plank down a ten-dollar
bill for a railroad ticket after you disappear, you will be suspected.
The county men, the police in other cities will be on the look-out for
a man with money; they will not search the lodging-houses. You must not
be caught. It takes nerve, but you've got to do it. You've got to say
good-bye to everything."
There was a moment's silence; then Wilkinson answered:
"Where could I go?"
"Anywhere you like. Disappear. But don't buy a railroad ticket if you
can help it. Don't try to leave the country, for if you do they'll get
you. Don't do anything that a man with a roll of bills might do. Play
the part of a tramp."
For a time they pondered the situation. The Colonel was the first to
break the ruminating silence, and said:
"Of course your bail would be forfeited, and that would leave your
daughter penniless."
This remark was for Leslie's benefit. Nevertheless he knew that after
Wilkinson had gone, some way could be found in which his huge fortune
might gradually be used for her.
"I don't care at all about being penniless!" cried Leslie, springing to
her feet. "All I care for, is--but can't I go with father?"
"That's out of the question--they'd get me in an hour if you did."
There was nothing paternal in Wilkinson's voice, for the primal
principle had him in its clutch. Leslie was hurt by this seeming
indifference to her; it was not given to her to comprehend fully that
her father was making, in actuality, a fight for his life.
"You must understand, Leslie, that this means an absolute loss of
identity, or ten years behind the bars for your father," explained
Colonel Morehead.
Wilkinson rose, and walking to the window glanced down at the fruit man
on the other side of the street, and then came back.
"How long time have I, Colonel, before----"
"There'll be no trouble about time," was the Colonel's reply. "I
can still string it on for months. Summer is coming on--the long
vacation----"
Wilkinson rewarded him with a crafty, exultant smile. He saw in this
plan nothing save success. Firmly he believed that there was some way
after all by which, whether he was in Paris, San Francisco or some
other place, he could draw back his millions, even if it had to be
accomplished in the slow way that formerly he had drawn them from his
depositors.
"Liberty first, then----" he said half-aloud; and turning to his
daughter, whose presence for the moment he had forgotten, he added:
"Isn't it more than bedtime, child? You must be mighty tired, little
girl. You're a mighty loyal one, anyhow."
Leslie held out her hand to Colonel Morehead.
"Don't worry, my girl," said the Colonel, kindly, "it's going to come
out all right. I feel it, somehow, and I know you do, too. Good-night!"
But the Colonel's words did not banish the look of worriment on
Leslie's face; and going over to her father, now, she clung to him
insistently, pressing her flushed face against his breast, saying:
"Father, you're not going to leave me to-night?"
"Not for many nights," he answered, patting her head; and a moment
after, Leslie withdrew.
For a brief ten minutes the client and his attorney waited in silence.
Suddenly, then, Morehead stepped to a door and opened it, and a man
came in.
It cannot be said that the newcomer was wanting in self-possession, and
his bow to Morehead was one of respect. But that he stood in awe of
Wilkinson, his manner while awaiting orders gave ample evidence.
"Sit down, Phillips," said Wilkinson. "Have a cigar?"
Governor Beekman's secretary helped himself to a cigar, and in fact,
made himself quite at home.
"Now then, what are we going to do with this man Beekman?" asked the
millionaire, his face flushed, his mouth hardening. "He's got to get
his--and get it right away."
Morehead held up his hand.
"Peter V., do you think it advisable to----. Why not let Beekman alone
until...."
"I'll do nothing of the kind!" snapped back Wilkinson. "Do you think
I'm not going to hit him back? I don't want that kind of advice from
you, Colonel. What I do want, is for you to tell me the quickest
way...."
The Colonel swung about and closed his eyes, puffing unconcernedly at
his cigar.
"I think," he remarked mildly, "that you'd better leave me out of this.
Vengeance is not in my line. I'll have to leave that part to you and
Mr. Phillips here."
"What do you say, Phillips?" demanded Wilkinson.
"_Impeachment_," answered Phillips.
"Can it be done?"
"Easy as rolling off a log."
"Good--good as far as it goes; but it don't go far enough. We want to
be as hard as we can."
"I think that can be arranged without trouble, too."
"How will we get him?"
"Suppose you leave that to me. You'll back me up?"
Wilkinson clenched his fist.
"Go the limit, Phillips--I'll back you up. The traitor! And to think
that this man Beekman might have had anything he wanted."
"The _Reporter_ and the _Star_ will back me, too?"
"To the limit."
"We'll need public opinion with us, don't forget that, Mr. Wilkinson."
"Pshaw, I'll take care of that."
"How long are you going to stay in Albany?"
Wilkinson raised his hand high in the air, as one about to take an oath.
"Until I've done up this man Beekman," was the magnate's answer to the
Governor's private secretary.
Two days later charges of corruption against Governor Beekman had
been presented to the legislature. A petition for his impeachment had
been handed up; and a committee of three appointed to investigate the
charges and to report. What the charges were was not quite clear upon
the first news of the affair; but that they were serious seemed to be
conceded.
Upon the evening of the very day of the appointment of the committee
of three, a woman stepped into the lobby of the Remsen in Albany and
exhibited a letter to the clerk. The letter was written upon the
private letter-head of Governor Beekman and was addressed to a woman.
The clerk raised his eyebrows imperceptibly, and calling a boy ordered
him to take the lady to the Governor's suite.
At the Governor's suite the woman was met by a maid, who unhesitatingly
admitted her and escorted her into the Governor's den--a small room
fitted with window-seats and couches galore.
"Are you sure this is all right?" asked the woman, somewhat alarmed at
the effusive way in which she was made so suddenly at home.
The maid insisted that it was; that Governor Beekman was on his way up
from New York; and that he was expected at any moment. The maid left,
locking the door behind her.
Alone in this room the woman settled herself comfortably back to wait
for the Governor. She had not long to wait, however, for presently the
door opened and three men entered the reception-room. From where she
sat she could see them, but they could not see her; and except for
their being perhaps a bit unkempt, she noted that they were of the
ordinary type of business men.
"I suppose this is all right," she heard one of the men saying.
"Of course it is," said another. "We've got a search warrant from the
House, and anyway, we haven't broken in. I'd like to know how you're
going to keep a legislative committee out of any place. We've got our
rights, you know."
The woman shrank into a corner, fearing that any moment they might find
her there. But they merely waited in the outer room, expectantly.
"Wonder what he'll have to say for himself?" queried one.
A second man laughed.
"There's nothing to it," he returned, "we're on a wild goose chase.
Bribery? Nonsense! Beekman's as straight as a die."
"Suppose," said the third, "that we wait until we find out all about
it. Suppose----" He broke off abruptly, for someone was knocking at
the door; and looking up he saw that two people had entered the room.
When the woman in the inner room perceived who had entered, she could
not suppress an exclamation, which, fortunately, however, did not reach
the ears of Leslie and her father, who were now bowing to the three
committee-men.
"I beg your pardon," said Wilkinson, "but can you tell me when the
Governor is likely to return? We----" he smiled awkwardly, "we were
summoned by him to meet him here at this hour."
One of the Assemblymen, a New York man, leaned over to his neighbour,
and said: "That's Wilkinson." Whereupon, the others rose and bowed, and
answered:
"We were told that he'd be here any minute now." And as if in
confirmation of his words, the door suddenly opened, and Governor
Beekman, with a light but hurried step, came into the room.
"I beg your pardon," he said, when he saw who was standing before him.
Leslie turned to him involuntarily, and half acknowledged his bow; then
remembering, she quickly turned away, and looked at her father, fixedly.
The three men pressed forward at once, the chairman speaking.
"Governor," he said, "you understand why we're here. You've had a copy
of the impeachment charges."
Beekman flushed.
"I received them in New York and came up as fast as I could," he
answered, a little brusquely. "What can I do for you?"
"I beg your pardon, Governor Beekman, but I received this note from you
and have obeyed it. Can you see us first?" asked Wilkinson.
The Governor took the note, which was written on his heavy, private
letter-head, and read it. It ran:
_Dear Mr. Wilkinson_:
Will you and your daughter, Miss Wilkinson, kindly call at my
suite in the Remsen this evening at eight o'clock. I desire to see
you at that time.
Very truly yours,