"I wanted to be sure that you understood my position," he proceeded, "to feel that my sympathies are with your father—with you. Yes, to the extent that were I a free agent, and not bound by my oath to the People, I'd turn in and work my fingers to the bone for your father." He moved a little closer to her, and added significantly, "for you."
When Leslie returned to Beekman, singularly enough, she said nothing to Beekman of the Assistant District Attorney's brief visit; nor later did she mention it to her father. It would have disturbed Beekman; it would have pleased Wilkinson; but she could not know that.
XIII
It was a beautiful day in the early part of Summer. On the deck of the Marchioness, only a short time ago put in commission, Peter V. Wilkinson was lying back in his steamer chair, luxuriously. New York was experiencing one of the season's first hot days, but under the awning of the after deck of the Marchioness, and out of sight of land as she was, a delicious ocean breeze made life worth living, so it seemed, at any rate, to the two men sitting there, ever and anon calling to the steward, and refreshing themselves with Wilkinson's choicest wines and liqueurs with which the yacht was stocked.
"Do you know," remarked Wilkinson with a short laugh, as he threw over the side an unfinished cigar and lighted a fresh one, "I ought to have taken Leslie's original advice—ought to have sailed away on the Marchioness when they indicted me."
"You'd be in the thick of the trouble, Peter," returned his counsel sagely.
"Huh!" grunted Wilkinson, "don't know but I'll do it now, and take you with me, Colonel."
"Don't care if you do. It would end my troubles."