Fitz.

“Phew!” Jefferson whistled.  A close shave this for Senator Roberts, he thought.  His first impulse was to go upstairs again to his mother and put the matter in her hands.  She would immediately inform his father, who would make short work of Mr. Bagley.  But, thought Jefferson, why should he spoil a good thing?  He could afford to wait a day or two.  There was no hurry.  He could allow Bagley to think all was going swimmingly and then uncover the plot at the eleventh hour.  He would even let this letter go to Kate, there was no difficulty in procuring another envelope and imitating the handwriting—­and when Bagley was just preparing to go to the rendezvous he would spring the trap.  Such a cad deserved no mercy.  The scandal would be a knock-out blow, his father would discharge him on the spot and that would be the last they would see of the aristocratic English secretary.  Jefferson put the letter in his pocket and left the house rejoicing.

While the foregoing incidents were happening John Burkett Ryder was secluded in his library.  The great man had come home earlier than usual, for he had two important callers to see by appointment that afternoon.  One was Sergeant Ellison, who had to report on his mission to Massapequa; the other was Miss Shirley Green, the author of “The American Octopus,” who had at last deigned to honour him with a visit.  Pending the arrival of these visitors the financier was busy with his secretary trying to get rid as rapidly as possible of what business and correspondence there was on hand.

The plutocrat was sitting at his desk poring over a mass of papers.  Between his teeth was the inevitable long black cigar and when he raised his eyes to the light a close observer might have remarked that they were sea-green, a colour they assumed when the man of millions was absorbed in scheming new business deals.  Every now and then he stopped reading the papers to make quick calculations on scraps of paper.  Then if the result pleased him, a smile overspread his saturnine features.  He rose from his chair and nervously paced the floor as he always did when thinking deeply.

“Five millions,” he muttered, “not a cent more.  If they won’t sell we’ll crush them—­”

Mr. Bagley entered.  Mr. Ryder looked up quickly.

“Well, Bagley?” he said interrogatively.  “Has Sergeant Ellison come?”

“Yes, sir.  But Mr. Herts is downstairs.  He insists on seeing you about the Philadelphia gas deal.  He says it is a matter of life and death.”

“To him—­yes,” answered the financier dryly.  “Let him come up.  We might as well have it out now.”

Mr. Bagley went out and returned almost immediately, followed by a short, fat man, rather loudly dressed and apoplectic in appearance.  He looked like a prosperous brewer, while, as a matter of fact, he was president of a gas company, one of the shrewdest promoters in the country, and a big man in Wall Street.  There was only one bigger man and that was John Ryder.  But, to-day, Mr. Herts was not in good condition.  His face was pale and his manner flustered and nervous.  He was plainly worried.