"Father's in his Den," she said quietly, "smoking his quota of big black cigars. The poor old dear feels pretty blue. The Appellate Division decision...."
On his way to the Den Beekman stopped and turned round, saying:
"I can't for the life of me understand, Leslie, why they affirmed that sentence. If they only half read Colonel Morehead's brief, or even mine, they surely would have been convinced.... What do you suppose it is—whose influence is behind this thing?"
Leslie shrugged her shoulders.
"Father says that the National Banks have set their face against the Trust Companies—and it looks as if he were to be the victim of the clash."
"Ground between the upper and nether mill-stones," mused Beekman, shaking his head in genuine anguish of mind. Then he stiffened and his eyes flashed. "It will never stand, Leslie; nor can I see how Ougheltree of the National Bank clique can have any weight with the courts. But at any rate, when this thing gets up at Albany before the Court of Appeals, all local influence will fade away. Peter V. Wilkinson will get justice there. The other side are fighting only for money, but with us, Durand, Morehead and myself, why it's a fight for life, almost—and we'll beat 'em out."
Beekman's outburst took Leslie quite by storm. She had never seen him so roused, so strong, so fine.
"You make me sorry that you're Governor, Eliot," she said, her heart beating fast, "for I suppose now you're unable to be my father's counsel—or does a governor still practise law?"
Beekman's head drooped.
"You're right," he said at length, "I suppose I'm out of the fight. But the others are just as determined to win."