Her question roused him. The blood forced itself into his temples until the veins stood out like whipcords on his skull; desperation furrowed his brow and lined his face. "I want nothing of Leslie Wilkinson except my own," he answered sullenly. "There's a quarter of a million dollars that belongs to me--a quarter of a million dollars--every dollar that I've got in this world--every dollar that I ever had." "But," protested the girl, "I haven't your money." Ilingsworth raised his eyebrows. It was plain that he doubted her, though she spoke with every indication of honesty and frankness. "You haven't any money, any stocks, bonds, deeds, or anything of the kind?" "I have what my mother left me," was her quiet answer. "She died some time ago." "How much was it?" he persisted. "Why do you ask?" she returned, annoyed. Ilingsworth made a gesture of impatience and again he asked: "How much was it?" "Less--than a million," the girl faltered. "About three-quarters, I should say. I have the figures somewheres--but what is it to you?" The man brushed away her answer as though the three-quarters of a million were a mere dross. "Tell me the truth!" he cried. "For heaven's sake don't lie to me! I'm a broken man! You've got fifty million dollars, possibly a hundred million standing in your name. What do you suppose I've spent my last few thousands for but to get information that was reliable and positive. I know Peter V. Wilkinson--and I'm the only one, I'll wager, who knows the truth. Next week, next year, the world will say that Wilkinson is bankrupt--without a dollar in the world. But I know--I've found out. There is not another man in the world who could do the thing he's done--strip a million people of their savings and hide it so successfully. That's Wilkinson! Now whom could he trust--but you? You've got it all!" The girl was pale, but there was a new light in her eyes. She began to perceive that the man who confronted her was not a mere overwrought specimen of mankind. However much he might be mistaken this time, he was talking with the force of business habit. "You know as well as I, Mr. Ilingsworth, that I can't very well discuss these matters with you," she said frankly. "My father is ruined--I don't believe he will come out of this with a dollar. Who is responsible for his ruin, I do not know." Little wrinkles creased her forehead; she stopped uncertain how to continue. "It's the panic, I suppose," she went on presently, "and he's gone down under it like other Wall Street men. Only the blow--he suffered, perhaps, more than the others." Ilingsworth's lip curled.