XVIII
In Colonel Morehead's office at 120 Broadway, Peter V. Wilkinson sat at the window reading a typewritten document of considerable length. He was white and rigid; while Leslie, standing beside him, rested her arm upon his shoulder. As he read he stirred uneasily, even his daughter's hand felt heavy upon him, and he shrugged it off.
"By all the gods!" he groaned from time to time; "those chaps have nerve to say such things about me!"
"They seem to have the right," said the Colonel, suppressing a chuckle, "and I suppose we can't complain."
When Peter V. had finished reading the opinion, he wiped his face with his kerchief—the perspiration had started from every pore.
"That's the last c***k, I suppose, Morehead," he ventured.
Morehead did not immediately answer, but turned to Lesli
