XVII
On a bright snappy morning of the following Spring, Governor Beekman, reaching his private room in the Capitol at Albany a little ahead of time, began to pace slowly up and down in front of the open windows. A wonderfully pleasant place the world seemed to him now. However much his ambition might grope forward in the future, the present was eminently satisfactory. All his struggles seemed to lie behind him; before him he saw power, pleasant ways, and Leslie Wilkinson.
His private secretary, on time to the minute, broke in on his thoughts.
"This came in last night, Governor," he said, "after you'd left. I read it over."
"What is it?" asked the Governor, absent-mindedly.
"It's a petition for pardon," said the other casually, handing it to the Governor.
"What's the conviction," ask
