"I received them in New York and came up as fast as I could," he answered, a little brusquely. "What can I do for you?" "I beg your pardon, Governor Beekman, but I received this note from you and have obeyed it. Can you see us first?" asked Wilkinson. The Governor took the note, which was written on his heavy, private letter-head, and read it. It ran: _Dear Mr. Wilkinson_: Will you and your daughter, Miss Wilkinson, kindly call at my suite in the Remsen this evening at eight o'clock. I desire to see you at that time. Very truly yours, ELIOT BEEKMAN. For a moment Beekman was nonplussed and looked from the note to its bearer. "I didn't write this letter," presently he said. He paled perceptibly; his confusion, whatever it may have meant, was not lost on the three committee-men. "You didn't write it," queried Wilkinson, coldly, "but isn't that your signature?" "It looks like my signature," admitted the Governor, after scanning the writing closely. "But I can't for the life of me think what I wanted to see you about." And turning now to the three men, he added: "You'll excuse us, please." Leaving the three Assemblymen he ushered his guests into the next room. "Comfortable quarters, Governor," commented Wilkinson; "almost comes up to mine at home." And switching on more lights, Peter V. strayed boldly into the inner room. "Hello, hello, who's here?" he suddenly called out. The woman who had been sitting on a couch came forth. She was plainly agitated at the sight of the two men and the woman who now stood facing her, for Leslie, unconsciously, had pressed to her father's side. In the background, too, were the three committee-men. "Governor, it's all my fault," said Wilkinson, somewhat contritely. "I beg your pardon for intruding on your--your privacy." The moment was a tense one, the Governor not daring to glance at Leslie. "There must be some mistake," he stammered out; and then advancing towards the woman, he demanded angrily: "How did you----" but stopped suddenly in amazement. "Why, Miss Braine--how do you come to be here?" Madeline Braine drew from her bosom a crumpled note. "I--I don't know," she faltered, "that is, I received this note from you and I came. I supposed it was about the--the Ilingsworth case...." Wilkinson threw a significant glance over his shoulder toward the three committee-men. "The Ilingsworth case," he repeated scornfully, meaningly. "They--the maid--ushered me in here," went on the woman. "What maid?" demanded the Governor, puzzled. "I have no maid. And, what's more, I didn't write this letter--it's something that I cannot understand." "It's something that _we_ do not wish to understand," said Wilkinson, suggestively. "I told you I would come whenever you wanted me," murmured Madeline Braine, waving the note, in her agitation, toward the Governor, "and I came."