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?"