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"Yes," she replied in an endeavour to gain time, "Leslie is a man's name except when it happens to be a girl's name, too. My name is Leslie—I'm a girl—you see."

But again terror seized her. The man before her was undoubtedly insane, she thought, and she glanced widely about the room for some avenue of escape. There was only the door, and like some startled, wild thing, she broke into a run toward it. But half way across the room she halted, throwing over her shoulder a glance of fear toward Ilingsworth, and then slowly retreated to her position at the desk.

"Please don't shoot!" she pleaded. "I promise you I won't try to get away!"

Slowly, cautiously, Ilingsworth stretched forth his left hand. It was evident that he did not wish to frighten the girl.

"Don't be afraid," he assured her, and so quietly and courteously now that it seemed to the girl as if another man was speaking. "I'm not going to shoot—I shall stay right where I am, don't fear. If you wish you may go now." But as she started to go he leaned forward and said: "You're free to go,"—there was a pathetic note in his voice now,—"but I would like to tell you something—to explain my presence here. I came here looking for Leslie Wilkinson—the son of Peter V. Wilkinson, and——"