"I hope you can take it," pressed Witheridge, "for to tell you the truth, there's nobody in New York that we'd rather have than you. We've that much confidence in you...." But Beekman still balked. "If I take this case, I needn't assure you, Mr. Witheridge, that you may depend on me. The only reason why I hesitate is because I know the man's daughter. But once I decide to take the case...." At that moment a waiter laid down an evening paper before Beekman; he glanced at it, revolving the proposition the while in his mind. Suddenly he started and cried out: "Great Scott! The man we're talking about--shot...." "Killed?" gasped Witheridge. "No--it's his private secretary that was killed." And with his eyes still on the paper, "No, wait. There's more. Wilkinson is held in three-quarter of a million bail. I heard this morning that he was indicted, but I never expected---- And, Cæsar's ghost! They've locked him up in the Tombs and in default of bail. That's rough!" "My dear Beekman," grinned Witheridge, "don't you see that it's all a game--all but the killing? Say that you'll take the case, then I can go on--tell you the rest." But whatever would have been Eliot's decision at that moment, he was not permitted to give it utterance. For just then he heard some one calling out his name; and, glancing up, he saw a boy approaching him with a telegram in his hand. "Mr. Beekman?" asked the boy. Beekman took the message, which said: ELIOT BEEKMAN, ESQ., Hotel Iroquois, Buffalo, N. Y. You are retained in People vs. Wilkinson as counsel for defence. Take the first train for New York. MOREHEAD. After grasping its contents, Beekman quickly passed it over to his host with the one word: "Read." And then he added: "This is a retainer, Mr. Witheridge, that I cannot very well refuse. You see," he was smiling now, "I know his daughter." IX Ten men crowded into the office of Assistant District Attorney Leech, ten men of various sizes and complexions, ten men upon whom sat undoubted respectability, and yet in whose eyes gleamed a gnawing anxiety--a strange excitement. A deputy assistant district attorney--or a d. a. d. a., as they call them there, received the delegation coldly. "What in thunder is this mob doing here?" he asked. The ten men nodded toward their spokesman; he leaned against the d. a. d. a.'s desk. "Chief clerk sent us here," he said. "What about?" asked his cross-examiner. The spokesman drew from his pocket a folded paper and opened it wide for the other to read. "Ten Thousand Dollars Reward for information leading to the Conviction of the Murderer of Roy Pallister," is what he read, after which the d. a. d. a. looked at it curiously, and added: "Well? What then?" "Well," said the spokesman, as the ten men crowded closely about him, "we've got information--see?" "What information?" For answer he drew forth a weapon--an ugly-looking weapon: a hammerless revolver, with one chamber empty.