Her father sobered.
"Oh, Leslie, I—I don't know what I'm saying. Don't mind me—I'm unnerved, overwrought. Poor Pallister...."
Leslie burst into tears.
"Yes, poor, poor Roy," she murmured. "It was awful—simply awful! I was so fond of him, father. He was always so kind, so thoughtful and considerate, and devoted to your interests, wasn't he, father?"
Wilkinson merely inclined his head, contenting himself with patting her hand and saying:
"There, there, my girl, don't cry."
For, truth to tell, he was much too taken up with a consideration of his own affairs to have any time for other people's troubles, much less mourn over Roy Pallister, though, in his way, he was undoubtedly fond of the little chap. However, after Leslie had calmed down sufficiently to talk connectedly once more, he not only listened, but approved of the girl's suggestion that she offer a reward, a large reward for the discovery of the perpetrator of the dastardly crime.
"Yes, I must know," he said to himself when once more alone in his cell. "Flomerfelt must find out who fired that shot. Flomerfelt will find out.... What would I do without him?"
But the question would surely not have been asked had it been possible for him to have overheard the conversation that took place, later, between Mrs. Peter Wilkinson and his confidential man.
As Flomerfelt entered the house, Mrs. Peter V. Wilkinson was waiting for him.