"Nevertheless, there were some women," he reminded her, "who came there, clad in rags, and stood, stood, stood on their tired feet all day long, outside the cells of the men they loved. They were wives, mostly wives, too, for I heard what they had to say...." He, too, appealed to Beekman. "It's worth while, Beekman," he wound up, a trifle sadly, "to be loved for yourself alone, and not for your money, isn't it?" The mistress of the house lifted up her voice in raucous mirth. "I don't see, Peter," she returned, "that you have any money to be loved for now." "Hence," commented her lord and master, while Beekman grew hot and cold by turns at this free and easy bickering, "hence you didn't come down to the Tombs. But," his forefinger shot out and, figuratively speaking, touched her on a vital spot, "you made a big mistake! If you'd been there the artists of the daily press would have had you shown up in forty different poses for Sunday. I had the devil's own time in keeping Leslie's face from getting in. But yours--I could have had it in every hour of the day without its costing me one penny." The lady leaned forward in genuine eagerness, and asked: "Is that true, Peter? I thought they had abandoned me--left me on the shelf. But if it's true, I promise to be there every day the next time you're locked up." Peter V. paled perceptibly. "There isn't going to be any next time," he laughed. "Eliot Beekman's going to see to that." Meantime in the Colonial drawing-room, Leslie was enjoying a quiet tête-à-tête with Colonel Morehead. "It was the nicest thing in the world, Colonel," she was telling him, "your picking out Eliot Beekman for--for father. And I believe you're right. Mr. Beekman is so honest, so earnest, and so convincing. And he looks you in the eye so." "Um, how does he look you in the eye?" returned the Colonel, meeting her gaze. But Leslie, flushing, had already fled. It was hours later, when alone with Beekman, she looked into his eyes squarely, as was her habit, and asked falteringly: "Do you know, Mr.--Mr. Beekman----" Beekman stopped her. "Begin again," he commanded, "you can do better than that." "Mr.... Mr...." she started in, but again Beekman protested. "Now look here, I'm only one of six lawyers in your father's case. Every last man of 'em calls you Leslie--even Patrick Durand, and I'm going to call you Leslie, too. It's a part of my duties, as your father's counsel in the case. Therefore, you begin again, and begin it right." There was a moment's pause in which Leslie averted her face. "Eliot," she finally whispered, in gentle tones, her eyes coming back to his, "I think it is perfectly fine of you to help father in this way. Don't you know," she went on, "you said that night on the way home from Mrs. Pallet-Searing's, that you wished you could do something for him, help him some way. And now you've buckled on your armour in his defence."