"I haven't finished!" he cried. "Out of all this crowd of Jones, Smith and Robinson, there is always one man who understands the game. He owns seventeen trust companies; he's milked them dry. He's been waiting for a panic; the panic comes. Now he throws up his hands, tells the people he's been a fool with the rest, and shows up worthless stock—waste-paper by the ton that he has bought for just nothing a pound. But he's got all that the people haven't got, and he's salted it away. And that man's name is Peter V. Wilkinson."
Leslie's face paled.
"Mr. Ilingsworth," she cried sharply, "do you really believe all that you've been telling me?"
Ilingsworth stared her wearily in the face.
"The Norahs and the Ludwigs, perhaps, don't mind losing their few dollars," he replied vaguely; "but I want to tell you that when I—when Elinor and I lose fifteen thousand a year—and how many years there are ahead of us—it's killing! Killing! And you ask do I believe all that I've been telling you?" He roused himself to sudden energy. "Believe? Why, heavens and earth, I know, I know...."
There was a pause in which Ilingsworth's eyes sought the floor. Presently he looked up and held out his hand.
"Miss Wilkinson," he said contritely, "for what I've done, or tried to do this afternoon, I suppose you could have me put in jail—in an asylum. If I had only myself to think of, I shouldn't mind. However, I beg you to keep it to yourself, if you feel you can. I see things clearer now...."
Leslie took the offered hand.
"But you weren't going to shoot Leslie Wilkinson, if he'd been a man?"
Ilingsworth shook his head.