"You'll pardon him, Governor Beekman," said Higgins, placing his silk hat upon his head, and lighting a cigar. "You'll pardon him, I predict. Good-day!"
Higgins's head was held high in the air until he left the room, but once outside he conversed dejectedly with his own inner consciousness.
"What the devil did Ougheltree send me on this fool errand for!" he protested. "Ilingsworth's done for; anyhow, he's served our purpose. The Morning Mail has had him for a weapon against Wilkinson long enough."
On Church Street he stepped into a telephone booth and called up Ougheltree in Manhattan.
"What luck?" queried the National Bank man.
At his end of the line Higgins chuckled.
"You can lay this unction to your soul," he replied. "There's no hope. Besides," unconsciously lowering his voice, "this man B. is Wilkinson's man from top to toe. I did what I could."
"Nobody could do more," conceded Ougheltree at the other end; "let it go at that."
No sooner was the interview between Higgins and the Governor at an end than the latter's private secretary tiptoed his way back into the room, and remarked:
"You're not through with that Ilingsworth case yet. Somebody else wants to see you—a woman, this time."