"Leslie Wilkinson—Leslie Wilkinson, that's the man I want to see."
Suddenly a heavy door was swung open inward and a butler stood before him, bowing.
"Leslie Wilkinson," demanded Ilingsworth somewhat explosively. There was no prefix to the name—Ilingsworth was not considering the conventionalities. He had come fresh from the confidential reports of Wall Street detectives. Those two words had seared themselves into his brain.
The butler looked surprised, shocked, that is, so far as his rigid training would permit.
"Leslie Wilkinson," he repeated doubtfully, as though already hypnotised into the other's trend of thought.
"Leslie Wilkinson," said Ilingsworth, "and right away."
The servant bowed.
"Who shall I say, sir?"
Ilingsworth smiled. It was all too easy, so it seemed. He felt as though the fates were with him, as though before him lay the path to victory. His breath came short and fast as he thought of the possibilities: for if he should succeed, Elinor forever would be safe—could take her rightful place in society.