“Yes, yes,” said Ryder impatiently, “we know all that.  But where’s the daughter now?”

“Search me, sir.  I even tried to pump the Irish slavey.  Gee, what a vixen!  She almost flew at me.  She said she didn’t know and didn’t care.”

Ryder brought his fist down with force on his desk, a trick he had when he wished to emphasize a point.

“Sergeant, I don’t like the mysterious disappearance of that girl.  You must find her, do you hear, you must find her if it takes all the sleuths in the country.  Had my son been seen there?”

“The parson said he saw a young fellow answering his description sitting on the porch of the Rossmore cottage the evening before the girl disappeared, but he didn’t know who he was and hasn’t seen him since.”

“That was my son, I’ll wager.  He knows where the girl is.  Perhaps he’s with her now.  Maybe he’s going to marry her.  That must be prevented at any cost.  Sergeant, find that Rossmore girl and I’ll give you $1,000.”

The detective’s face flushed with pleasure at the prospect of so liberal a reward.  Rising he said: 

“I’ll find her, sir.  I’ll find her.”

Mr. Bagley entered, wearing the solemn, important air he always affected when he had to announce a visitor of consequence.  But before he could open his mouth Mr. Ryder said: 

“Bagley, when did you see my son, Jefferson, last?”

“To-day, sir.  He wanted to see you to say good-bye.  He said he would be back.”

Ryder gave a sigh of relief and addressing the detective said: 

“It’s not so bad as I thought.”  Then turning again to his secretary he asked: 

“Well, Bagley, what is it?”

“There’s a lady downstairs, sir—­Miss Shirley Green.”

The financier half sprang from his seat.

“Oh, yes.  Show her up at once.  Good-bye, sergeant, good-bye.  Find that Rossmore woman and the $1,000 is yours.”

The detective went out and a few moments later Mr. Bagley reappeared ushering in Shirley.

The mouse was in the den of the lion.

CHAPTER XII

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