Leslie thought of it a good deal afterwards, however, and the very next day in the Mastodon car she canvassed in person practically every house upon the Drive and over on Fifth Avenue to get the list of signatures that the Colonel wished her to obtain. "This has got to be done right, Miss Leslie," he impressed upon her. "For when Eliot pardons your father, remember that he's got to show why he does it, and upon whose petition." "You mean"--she faltered, "that he may be criticised?" "It's quite possible, my dear. The _Morning Mail_, for instance, will doubtless roast him from here to Gehenna and back again." Leslie's smile of girlish confidence returned. "Eliot won't mind," she said. "I don't believe he cares much about anything except me. He'll do right by us no matter what happens, I feel sure of that." "And I think," suggested the Colonel, "that when we hand in our petitions, we'll all go up together." Leslie laughed in sheer delight. "Of course we'll all go up together," she returned. "Our march to victory." * * * * * "That man Ilingsworth is here again," Phillips told the Governor, somewhat reluctantly; "and he wants to see you." "Show him in," briskly returned his chief. "I'll be delighted to see him." Ilingsworth came in slowly, dejectedly, alone. No guard was with him; the air he breathed was free air, and yet there were no signs of contentment. "I didn't come exactly to thank you, Governor," he said uneasily. "I did that in my letter when they told me of my pardon. I came to you because in all my life you are the only man who ever really helped me--for it seems to have been the mission of other men to drag me down. I have come for help once more." "I want to help you, Mr. Ilingsworth," volunteered the Governor. "What's the trouble? Is it--money?" Ilingsworth slowly shook his head. "No, it is not money...." He paused and looked about him uncertainly, murmuring to himself: "What is it that I want?" Beekman touched him kindly. "You seem to lose yourself at times," he remarked. "For instance, you didn't remember that trip to Buffalo." "That's the only time I ever lost myself, I guess," was his answer. "If I hadn't lost myself then, I suppose I could have proved an alibi. I couldn't account for myself upon my trial, and nobody who knew me had seen me for a few days. I must have knocked about Buffalo and come back." "You were looking for a farm." "Yes, you told me that. It comes back to me now. And there was a farm, but it's all very vague--a farm some years ago somewhere up there. I had the notion to find it and to live on it--just myself and----" he broke off abruptly, and there was a new light in his eyes and a world of pathos in the voice that said: "It's my daughter that I want to see you about. I want to find her. Can't you help me to find her?" "Don't you know where she is?"