"Don't, don't talk that way, father!" she cried. "It shall never come to that."
Morehead, even, was alarmed.
"Peter, you don't mean——" he began.
"I mean," repeated the other, looking sturdily at him, "that if they ever put me behind the bars, it will be after life has left my body."
Leslie uttered a half-strangled cry and buried her face in her hands. But Wilkinson only braced himself.
"We haven't got to that yet, Colonel," he observed. There was a pause, after which he repeated his question: "Why not run away, eh?"
The Colonel thought a moment. Then, taking both Wilkinson and Leslie by the arm marched them to the window and drew back the curtain.
"Do you see that Italian fruit-vender over there selling figs to the swell? They're Murgatroyd's men, both of them. Murgatroyd's got you surrounded, sewed up, tied in. One of the elevator boys in the Remsen here is a New York County man; the chambermaid of this suite is a detective. Murgatroyd has sworn that you won't get away. It may cost the County of New York a million dollars, but you know Murgatroyd! And, besides, behind him stand the National Banks. How much will they put up to break you, eh? Murgatroyd will put you behind the bars as sure as guns—unless——" He stopped, his eyes were half shut.
"Unless——" repeated father and daughter, leaning forward.