So the voice droned on, the car laboured on, and the passengers, already sufficiently gorged with Wilkinson's affairs, would have been spared any further enlightenment had not the eye of this dispenser of metropolitan information lighted upon Ilingsworth as the latter, trying to escape attention, stepped into the low-arched doorway of the Wilkinson home. The opportunity was too good to be lost. "The gentleman," proceeded the privileged lecturer, "now entering this impressive imperial mansion, is not Peter V. Wilkinson. Note the sinister expression of the back of his head and the peculiar attitude of his right arm!" The megaphone turned itself directly upon Ilingsworth, and kept on: "He looks like a disgruntled depositor of the Interstate Trust Company--what if he be making a call for the purpose of putting a pill into the proprietor? What?" Ilingsworth turned an involuntary, startled glance toward the car. Despite a desperate effort at self-control, he was visibly alarmed, and jerked his hand swiftly from the confines of his pocket. Amidst a chorus of laughter at his action the car rolled on. Ilingsworth turned back to the entrance of the house, muttering to himself: "They little know, they little know...." Presently he pulled himself together and pressed the button with that same right hand, then squared his shoulders, once more dropping both hands at his side. There was a short interval of waiting, during which he kept repeating to himself, as though conning some essential lesson: "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. "There's my card," he said, drawing forth his wallet. Instantly the butler became obsequious, for not only did he perceive that the visitor bore himself as a gentleman, but he recognised the card as an open-sesame to his master. He handled it with infinite respect. It read: MR. GILES ILINGSWORTH _Vice-President of the Tri-State Trust Company, New York._