Again Beekman laughed.
"If you were in New York you wouldn't say that. Everybody there knows that Wilkinson is a wreck."
"Nevertheless we have our theory. We're willing to pay the shot," declared Witheridge. "Now, is there any reason why I shouldn't go on—tell you the rest—the confidential details? In other words, Mr. Beekman, is there any reason why you should not take up this case and probe Wilkinson to the finish?"
Beekman thought for a while, weighing carefully the other's words. There was reputation in this thing; moreover, he felt that it would do Wilkinson no harm, for he was convinced of Wilkinson's honesty of purpose. He saw no reason why honest business should be refused. More than that, this Bank Le Boeuf had, in times past, employed him as its counsel, and all through dinner Witheridge had been pouring praises in his ear.
"I hope you can take it," pressed Witheridge, "for to tell you the truth, there's nobody in New York that we'd rather have than you. We've that much confidence in you...."
But Beekman still balked.
"If I take this case, I needn't assure you, Mr. Witheridge, that you may depend on me. The only reason why I hesitate is because I know the man's daughter. But once I decide to take the case...."
At that moment a waiter laid down an evening paper before Beekman; he glanced at it, revolving the proposition the while in his mind. Suddenly he started and cried out:
"Great Scott! The man we're talking about—shot...."
"Killed?" gasped Witheridge.