The Lion and the Mouse; a Story of an American Life

by Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow

  CHAPTER XII

  Mr. Ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when hisvisitor entered. He pretended to be busily preoccupied with his papers,which was a favourite pose of his when receiving strangers. This frigidreception invariably served its purpose, for it led visitors not toexpect more than they got, which usually was little enough. For severalminutes Shirley stood still, not knowing whether to advance or to takea seat. She gave a little conventional cough, and Ryder looked up. Whathe saw so astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigarhe was smoking and rose from his seat. He had expected a gaunt old maidwith spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young woman, whocould not possibly be over twenty-five. There was surely some mistake.This slip of a girl could not have written "The American Octopus." Headvanced to greet Shirley.

  "You wish to see me, Madame?" he asked courteously. There were timeswhen even John Burkett Ryder could be polite.

  "Yes," replied Shirley, her voice trembling a little in spite of herefforts to keep cool. "I am here by appointment. Three o'clock, Mrs.Ryder's note said. I am Miss Green."

  "You--Miss Green?" echoed the financier dubiously.

  "Yes, I am Miss Green--Shirley Green, author of 'The American Octopus.'You asked me to call. Here I am."

  For the first time in his life, John Ryder was nonplussed. He coughedand stammered and looked round for a place where he could throw hiscigar. Shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him at his ease.

  "Oh, please go on smoking," she said; "I don't mind it in the least."

  Ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at hisvisitor.

  "So you are Shirley Green, eh?"

  "That is my nom-de-plume--yes," replied the girl nervously. She wasalready wishing herself back at Massapequa. The financier eyed her fora moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of thepersonality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to criticisehis business methods in public print; then, waving her to a seat nearhis desk, he said:

  "Won't you sit down?"

  "Thank you," murmured Shirley. She sat down, and he took his seat atthe other side of the desk, which brought them face to face. Againinspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her cheeks burn,Ryder said:

  "I rather expected--" He stopped for a moment as if uncertain what tosay, then he added: "You're younger than I thought you were, MissGreen, much younger."

  "Time will remedy that," smiled Shirley. Then, mischievously, sheadded: "I rather expected to see Mrs. Ryder."

  There was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the cornersof the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on his desk andreplied:

  "Yes--she wrote you, but I--wanted to see you about this."

  Shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appearunconcerned as she answered:

  "Oh, my book--have you read it?"

  "I have," replied Ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that wasbeginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "No doubt your time isvaluable, so I'll come right to the point. I want to ask you, MissGreen, where you got the character of your central figure--the Octopus,as you call him--John Broderick?"

  "From imagination--of course," answered Shirley.

  Ryder opened the book, and Shirley noticed that there were severalpassages marked. He turned the leaves over in silence for a minute ortwo and then he said:

  "You've sketched a pretty big man here--"

  "Yes," assented Shirley, "he has big possibilities, but I think hemakes very small use of them."

  Ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading thebook, he continued:

  "On page 22 you call him 'the world's greatest individualizedpotentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality andmoney--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existenceto-day.' And you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of hismarvellous success. Am I right?" He looked at her questioningly.

  "Quite right," answered Shirley.

  Ryder proceeded:

  "On page 26 you say 'the machinery of his money-making mind typifiesthe laws of perpetual unrest. It must go on, relentlessly,resistlessly, ruthlessly making money-making money and continuing tomake money. It cannot stop until the machinery crumbles.'"

  Laying the book down and turning sharply on Shirley, he asked herbluntly:

  "Do you mean to say that I couldn't stop to-morrow if I wanted to?"

  She affected to not understand him.

  "You?" she inquired in a tone of surprise.

  "Well--it's a natural question," stammered Ryder, with a nervous littlelaugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just as everywoman sees herself in the heroine. We're all heroes and heroines in ourown eyes. But tell me what's your private opinion of this man. You drewthe character. What do you think of him as a type, how would youclassify him?"

  "As the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied Shirleywithout a moment's hesitation.

  The financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment.

  "Criminal?" he echoed.

  "Yes, criminal," repeated Shirley decisively. "He is avarice, egotism,and ambition incarnate. He loves money because he loves power, and heloves power more than his fellow man."

  Ryder laughed uneasily. Decidedly, this girl had opinions of her ownwhich she was not backward to express.

  "Isn't that rather strong?" he asked.

  "I don't think so," replied Shirley. Then quickly she asked: "But whatdoes it matter? No such man exists."

  "No, of course not," said Ryder, and he relapsed into silence.

  Yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitorclosely from under his thick eyebrows. She seemed supremely unconsciousof his scrutiny. Her aristocratic, thoughtful face gave no sign thatany ulterior motive had actuated her evidently very hostile attitudeagainst him. That he was in her mind when she drew the character ofJohn Broderick there was no doubt possible. No matter how she mightevade the identification, he was convinced he was the hero of her book.Why had she attacked him so bitterly? At first, it occurred to him thatblackmail might be her object; she might be going to ask for money asthe price of future silence. Yet it needed but a glance at her refinedand modest demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. Then he remembered,too, that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself.No, she was no blackmailer. More probably she was a dreamer--one ofthose meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering theconditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and bitterness offeeling. As such, she might prove more to be feared than a mereblackmailer whom he could buy off with money. He knew he was notpopular, but he was no worse than the other captains of industry. Itwas a cut-throat game at best. Competition was the soul of commerciallife, and if he had outwitted his competitors and made himself richerthan all of them, he was not a criminal for that. But all these attacksin newspapers and books did not do him any good. One day the peoplemight take these demagogic writings seriously and then there would bethe devil to pay. He took up the book again and ran over the pages.This certainly was no ordinary girl. She knew more and had a moredirect way of saying things than any woman he had ever met. And as hewatched her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her;how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. If he didnot, she would go away and write more such books, and literature ofthis kind might become a real peril to his interests. Money could doanything; it could secure the services of this woman and prevent herdoing further mischief. But how could he employ her? Suddenly aninspiration came to him. For some years he had been collecting materialfor a history of the Empire Trading Company. She could write it. Itwould practically be his own biography. Would she undertake it?

  Embarrassed by the long silence, Shirley finally broke it by saying:

  "But you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what I thought of myown work."

  "No," replied Ryder slowly, "I want you to do some work for me."

 
He opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took outseveral sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. Shirley's heartbeat faster as she caught sight of the letters. Were her father's amongthem? She wondered what kind of work John Burkett Ryder had for her todo and if she would do it whatever it was. Some literary work probably,compiling or something of that kind. If it was well paid, why shouldshe not accept? There would be nothing humiliating in it; it would nottie her hands in any way. She was a professional writer in the marketto be employed by whoever could pay the price. Besides, such work mightgive her better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was insearch. Gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from thedrawer, Mr. Ryder said:

  "I want you to put my biography together from this material. Butfirst," he added, taking up "The American Octopus," "I want to knowwhere you got the details of this man's life."

  "Oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines," repliedShirley carelessly. "You know the American millionaire is a veryoverworked topic just now--and naturally I've read--"

  "Yes, I understand," he said, "but I refer to what you haven'tread--what you couldn't have read. For example, here." He turned to apage marked in the book and read aloud: "As an evidence of his pettyvanity, when a youth he had a beautiful Indian girl tattooed just abovethe forearm." Ryder leaned eagerly forward as he asked her searchingly:"Now who told you that I had my arm tattooed when I was a boy?"

  "Have you?" laughed Shirley nervously. "What a curious coincidence!"

  "Let me read you another coincidence," said Ryder meaningly. He turnedto another part of the book and read: "the same eternal long blackcigar always between his lips..." "General Grant smoked, too,"interrupted Shirley. "All men who think deeply along material linesseem to smoke."

  "Well, we'll let that go. But how about this?" He turned back a fewpages and read: "John Broderick had loved, when a young man, a girl wholived in VERMONT, BUT CIRCUMSTANCES SEPARATED THEM." He stopped andstared at Shirley a moment and then he said: "I loved a girl when I wasa lad and she came from Vermont, and circumstances separated us. Thatisn't coincidence, for presently you make John Broderick marry a youngwoman who had money. I married a girl with money."

  "Lots of men marry for money," remarked Shirley.

  "I said WITH money, not for money," retorted Ryder. Then turning againto the book, he said: "Now, this is what I can't understand, for no onecould have told you this but I myself. Listen." He read aloud: "WITHALL HIS PHYSICAL BRAVERY AND PERSONAL COURAGE, JOHN BRODERICK WASINTENSELY AFRAID OF DEATH. IT WAS ON HIS MIND CONSTANTLY." "Who toldyou that?" he demanded somewhat roughly. "I swear I've never mentionedit to a living soul."

  "Most men who amass money are afraid of death," replied Shirley withoutward composure, "for death is about the only thing that can separatethem from their money."

  Ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere norhearty. It was a laugh such as the devil may have given when driven outof heaven.

  "You're quite a character!" He laughed again, and Shirley, catching theinfection, laughed, too. "It's me and it isn't me," went on Ryderflourishing the book. "This fellow Broderick is all right; he'ssuccessful and he's great, but I don't like his finish."'

  "It's logical," ventured Shirley.

  "It's cruel," insisted Ryder.

  "So is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbourinstead of loving him," retorted Shirley.

  She spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, andit amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions. So far,she thought, he had not got the best of her. She was fast becoming usedto him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away.

  "Um!" grunted Ryder, "you're a curious girl; upon my word you interestme!" He took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and pushed them overto her. "Here," he said, "I want you to make as clever a book out ofthis chaos as you did out of your own imagination."

  Shirley turned the papers over carelessly.

  "So you think your life is a good example to follow?" she asked with atinge of irony.

  "Isn't it?" he demanded.

  The girl looked him square in the face.

  "Suppose," she said, "we all wanted to follow it, suppose we all wantedto be the richest, the most powerful personage in the world?"

  "Well--what then?" he demanded.

  "I think it would postpone the era of the Brotherhood of manindefinitely, don't you?"

  "I never thought of it from that point of view," admitted thebillionaire. "Really," he added, "you're an extraordinary girl. Why,you can't be more than twenty--or so."

  "I'm twenty-four--or so," smiled Shirley.

  Ryder's face expanded in a broad smile. He admired this girl's pluckand ready wit. He grew more amiable and tried to gain her confidence.In a coaxing tone he said:

  "Come, where did you get those details? Take me into your confidence."

  "I have taken you into my confidence," laughed Shirley, pointing at herbook. "It cost you $1.50!" Turning over the papers he had put beforeher she said presently: "I don't know about this."

  "You don't think my life would make good reading?" he asked with someasperity.

  "It might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself as toits commercial or literary value. Then she said frankly: "To tell youthe honest truth, I don't consider mere genius in money-making issufficient provocation for rushing into print. You see, unless you cometo a bad end, it would have no moral."

  Ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this lastspeech, the plutocrat continued to urge her:

  "You can name your own price if you will do the work," he said. "Two,three or even five thousand dollars. It's only a few months' work."

  "Five thousand dollars?" echoed Shirley. "That's a lot of money."Smiling, she added: "It appeals to my commercial sense. But I'm afraidthe subject does not arouse my enthusiasm from an artistic standpoint."

  Ryder seemed amused at the idea of any one hesitating to make fivethousand dollars. He knew that writers do not run across suchopportunities every day.

  "Upon my word," he said, "I don't know why I'm so anxious to get you todo the work. I suppose it's because you don't want to. You remind me ofmy son. Ah, he's a problem!"

  Shirley started involuntarily when Ryder mentioned his son. But he didnot notice it.

  "Why, is he wild?" she asked, as if only mildly interested.

  "Oh, no, I wish he were," said Ryder.

  "Fallen in love with the wrong woman, I suppose," she said.

  "Something of the sort--how did you guess?" asked Ryder surprised.

  Shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied indifferently.

  "So many boys do that. Besides," she added with a mischievous twinklein her eyes, "I can hardly imagine that any woman would be the rightone unless you selected her yourself!"

  Ryder made no answer. He folded his arms and gazed at her. Who was thiswoman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost thoughts, whonever made a mistake? After a silence he said:

  "Do you know you say the strangest things?"

  "Truth is strange," replied Shirley carelessly. "I don't suppose youhear it very often."

  "Not in that form," admitted Ryder.

  Shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed her,and was perusing them one after another.

  "All these letters from Washington consulting you on politics andfinance--they won't interest the world."

  "My secretary picked them out," explained Ryder. "Your artistic sensewill tell you what to use."

  "Does your son still love this girl? I mean the one you abject to?"inquired Shirley as she went on sorting the papers.

  "Oh, no, he does not care for her any more," answered Ryder hastily.

  "Yes, he does; he still loves her," said Shirley positively.

  "How do you know?" asked Ryder amazed.

  "From the way you say he doesn't," retorted Shirley.

  Ryder ga
ve his caller a look in which admiration was mingled withastonishment.

  "You are right again," he said. "The idiot does love the girl."

  "Bless his heart," said Shirley to herself. Aloud she said:

  "I hope they'll both outwit you."

  Ryder laughed in spite of himself. This young woman certainlyinterested him more than any other he had ever known.

  "I don't think I ever met anyone in my life quite like you," he said.

  "What's the objection to the girl?" demanded Shirley.

  "Every objection. I don't want her in my family."

  "Anything against her character?"

  To better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn theconversation had taken, Shirley pretended to be more busy than everwith the papers.

  "Yes--that is no--not that I know of," replied Ryder. "But because awoman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her adesirable match, does it?"

  "It's a point in her favor, isn't it?"

  "Yes--but--" He hesitated as if uncertain what to say.

  "You know men well, don't you, Mr. Ryder?"

  "I've met enough to know them pretty well," he replied.

  "Why don't you study women for a change?" she asked. "That would enableyou to understand a great many things that I don't think are quiteclear to you now."

  Ryder laughed good humouredly. It was decidedly a novel sensation tohave someone lecturing him.

  "I'm studying you," he said, "but I don't seem to make much headway. Awoman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the amusement habit hasgreat possibilities--great possibilities. Do you know you're the firstwoman I ever took into my confidence--I mean at sight?" Again he fixedher with that keen glance which in his business life had taught him howto read men. He continued: "I'm acting on sentiment--something I rarelydo, but I can't help it. I like you, upon my soul I do, and I'm goingto introduce you to my wife--my son--"

  He took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it.

  "What a commander-in-chief you would have made--how natural it is foryou to command," exclaimed Shirley in a burst of admiration that washalf real, half mocking. "I suppose you always tell people what theyare to do and how they are to do it. You are a born general. You knowI've often thought that Napoleon and Caesar and Alexander must havebeen great domestic leaders as well as imperial rulers. I'm sure of itnow."

  Ryder listened to her in amazement. He was not quite sure if she weremaking fun of him or not.

  "Well, of all--" he began. Then interrupting himself he said amiably:"Won't you do me the honour to meet my family?"

  Shirley smiled sweetly and bowed.

  "Thank you, Mr. Ryder, I will."

  She rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal thesatisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family circle gaveher. She was quick to see that it meant more visits to the house, andother and perhaps better opportunities to find the objects of hersearch. Ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone and talked to hissecretary in another room, while Shirley, who was still standing,continued examining the papers and letters.

  "Is that you, Bagley? What's that? General Dodge? Get rid of him. Ican't see him to-day. Tell him to come to-morrow. What's that? My sonwants to see me? Tell him to come to the phone."

  At that instant Shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried tosuppress. Ryder looked up.

  "What's the matter?" he demanded startled.

  "Nothing--nothing!" she replied in a hoarse whisper. "I pricked myselfwith a pin. Don't mind me."

  She had just come across her father's missing letters, which had gotmixed up, evidently without Ryder's knowledge, in the mass of papers hehad handed her. Prepared as she was to find the letters somewhere inthe house, she never dreamed that fate would put them so easily and soquickly into her hands; the suddenness of their appearance and thesight of her father's familiar signature affected her almost like ashock. Now she had them, she must not let them go again; yet how couldshe keep them unobserved? Could she conceal them? Would he miss them?She tried to slip them in her bosom while Ryder was busy at the 'phone,but he suddenly glanced in her direction and caught her eye. She stillheld the letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but henoticed nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone:

  "Hallo, Jefferson, boy! You want to see me. Can you wait till I'mthrough? I've got a lady here. Going away? Nonsense! Determined, eh?Well, I can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. You want tosay good-bye. Come up in about five minutes and I'll introduce you to avery interesting person." He laughed and hung up the receiver. Shirleywas all unstrung, trying to overcome the emotion which her discoveryhad caused her, and in a strangely altered voice, the result of thenervous strain she was under, she said:

  "You want me to come here?"

  She looked up from the letters she was reading across to Ryder, who wasstanding watching her on the other side of the desk. He caught herglance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he said:

  "Yes, I don't want these papers to get--"

  His eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. He stoppedshort, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her.

  "What have you got there?" he exclaimed.

  He took the letters and she made no resistance. It would be folly toforce the issue now, she thought. Another opportunity would presentitself. Ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the drawer on theleft-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself rather than speakingto Shirley:

  "How on earth did they get among my other papers?"

  "From Judge Rossmore, were they not?" said Shirley boldly.

  "How did you know it was Judge Rossmore?" demanded Ryder suspiciously."I didn't know that his name had been mentioned."

  "I saw his signature," she said simply. Then she added: "He's thefather of the girl you don't like, isn't he?"

  "Yes, he's the----"

  A cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his jawssnapped and he clenched his fist.

  "How you must hate him!" said Shirley, who observed the change.

  "Not at all," replied Ryder recovering his self-possession and suavityof manner. "I disagree with his politics and his methods, but--I knowvery little about him except that he is about to be removed fromoffice."

  "About to be?" echoed Shirley. "So his fate is decided even before heis tried?" The girl laughed bitterly. "Yes," she went on, "some of thenewspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the things of whichhe is accused."

  "Do they?" said Ryder indifferently.

  "Yes," she persisted, "most people are on his side."

  She planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking himsquarely in the face, she asked him point blank:

  "Whose side are you on--really and truly?"

  Ryder winced. What right had this woman, a stranger both to JudgeRossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? He restrained hisimpatience with difficulty as he replied:

  "Whose side am I on? Oh, I don't know that I am on any side. I don'tknow that I give it much thought. I--"

  "Do you think this man deserves to be punished?" she demanded.

  She had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained herself-possession.

  "Why do you ask? What is your interest in this matter?"

  "I don't know," she replied evasively; "his case interests me, that'sall. Its rather romantic. Your son loves this man's daughter. He is indisgrace--many seem to think unjustly." Her voice trembled with emotionas she continued: "I have heard from one source or another--you know Iam acquainted with a number of newspaper men--I have heard that life nolonger has any interest for him, that he is not only disgraced butbeggared, that he is pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, thathis wife and daughter are in despair. Tell me, do you think he deservessuch a fate?"

  Ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied:

  "No, I do not--no--"

  Thinking that she had touched his
sympathies, Shirley followed up heradvantage:

  "Oh, then, why not come to his rescue--you, who are so rich, sopowerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your will--savethis man from humiliation and disgrace!"

  Ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as ifthe subject had begun to bore him.

  "My dear girl, you don't understand. His removal is necessary."

  Shirley's face became set and hard. There was a contemptuous ring toher words as she retorted:

  "Yet you admit that he may be innocent!"

  "Even if I knew it as a fact, I couldn't move."

  "Do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?" She pointed to thedrawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. "If you hadabsolute proof in that drawer, for instance? Wouldn't you help himthen?"

  Ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting mask.

  "Not even if I had the absolute proof in that drawer?" he snappedviciously.

  "Have you absolute proof in that drawer?" she demanded.

  "I repeat that even if I had, I could not expose the men who have beenmy friends. It's noblesse oblige in politics as well as in society, youknow."

  He smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour aftertheir sharp passage at arms.

  "Oh, it's politics--that's what the papers said. And you believe himinnocent. Well, you must have some grounds for your belief."

  "Not necessarily--"

  "You said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce themwithout sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends areinterested in having this man put off the bench--" She stopped andburst into hysterical laughter. "Oh, I think you're having a joke at myexpense," she went on, "just to see how far you can lead me. I daresayJudge Rossmore deserves all he gets. Oh, yes--I'm sure he deserves it."She rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal heremotion.

  Ryder watched her curiously.

  "My dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!"

  "Please forgive me," laughed Shirley, and averting her face to concealthe fact that her eyes were filled with tears. "It's my artistictemperament, I suppose. It's always getting me into trouble. Itappealed so strongly to my sympathies--this story of hopeless lovebetween two young people--with the father of the girl hounded bycorrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. It was too much forme. Ah! ah! I forgot where I was!"

  She leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her wholebody trembling. At that moment there was a knock at the library doorand Jefferson Ryder appeared. Not seeing Shirley, whose back wastowards him, he advanced to greet his father.

  "You told me to come up in five minutes," he said. "I just wanted tosay--"

  "Miss Green," said Ryder, Sr., addressing Shirley and ignoring whateverit was that the young man wanted to say, "this is my son Jefferson.Jeff--this is Miss Green."

  Jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted tothe floor. He was so surprised that he was struck dumb. Finally,recovering himself, he exclaimed:

  "Shirley!"

  "Yes, Shirley Green, the author," explained Ryder, Sr., not noticingthe note of familiar recognition in his exclamation.

  Shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to Jefferson, said demurely:

  "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ryder." Then quickly, in anundertone, she added: "Be careful; don't betray me!"

  Jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched hand.All he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then at hisfather.

  "Why don't you shake hands with her?" said Ryder, Sr., "She won't biteyou." Then he added: "Miss Green is going to do some literary work forme, so we shall see a great deal of her. It's too bad you're goingaway!" He chuckled at his own pleasantry.

  "Father!" blurted out Jefferson, "I came to say that I've changed mymind. You did not want me to go, and I feel I ought to do something toplease you."

  "Good boy," said Ryder pleased. "Now you're talking common sense." Heturned to Shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure: "Well,Miss Green, we may consider the matter settled. You undertake the workat the price I named and finish it as soon as you can. Of course, youwill have to consult me a good deal as you go along, so I think itwould be better for you to come and stay here while the work isprogressing. Mrs. Ryder can give you a suite of rooms to yourself,where you will be undisturbed and you will have all your material closeat hand. What do you say?"

  Shirley was silent for a moment. She looked first at Ryder and then athis son, and from them her glance went to the little drawer on theleft-hand side of the desk. Then she said quietly:

  "As you think best, Mr. Ryder. I am quite willing to do the work here."

  Ryder, Sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her asshe passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeouslyuniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street.