"I'll help you find your daughter, sir," the Governor promised, taking the man by the arm; "I'll help you all I can."
"Poor chap," said he, returning, and shaking hands with his guests, "seems to have it in for you, Mr. Wilkinson."
"I don't blame him having it in for somebody," spoke up Leslie. "It is not his innocence or guilt that interests me, but his daughter. I saw her picture once—saw her twice," she went on wistfully. "How I wish that I might help him...."
Colonel Morehead, tucking the Ilingsworth incident into the back of his head for future use, laid down a batch of papers and his printed case upon the Governor's desk.
"Governor—Eliot," he remarked jovially, "the New York Reporter and the Star call you the pardoning Governor."
"Yes. They rapped me hard, didn't they," he said, all unconscious that they were Wilkinson's own papers. "But what could I do? The man Ilingsworth was innocent—I knew he was innocent."
"Oh, they didn't hit you very hard—just a little dig in the short ribs—friendly little scrap, don't you know," said Morehead, soothingly. "But the Morning Mail made up for it, my boy. They'll stick to you through thick and thin, and don't you forget it. It won't hurt you. Ougheltree's backing is not to be sneezed at by any man. But what I started in to say, Eliot, was, that since you're the pardoning Governor, so-called, why, we've got a little bone to pick with you—a petition—or petitions, rather, in the case of the People versus Wilkinson."
Colonel Morehead handed up his bunch of papers, Leslie following suit, as she said with a little smile:
"My contribution, Governor."