“Yes, I understand,” he said, “but I refer to what you haven’t read—­what you couldn’t have read.  For example, here.”  He turned to a page marked in the book and read aloud:  “As an evidence of his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful Indian girl tattooed just above the 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 turned to another part of the book and read:  “the same eternal long black cigar always between his lips...”  “General Grant smoked, too,” interrupted Shirley.  “All men who think deeply along material lines seem to smoke.”

“Well, we’ll let that go.  But how about this?” He turned back a few pages and read:  “John Broderick had loved, when a young man, a girl who lived in Vermont, but circumstances separated them.”  He stopped and stared at Shirley a moment and then he said:  “I loved a girl when I was a lad and she came from Vermont, and circumstances separated us.  That isn’t coincidence, for presently you make John Broderick marry a young woman 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 again to the book, he said:  “Now, this is what I can’t understand, for no one could have told you this but I myself.  Listen.”  He read aloud:  “With all his physical bravery and personal courage, John Broderick was intensely afraid of death.  It was on his mind constantly.”  “Who told you that?” he demanded somewhat roughly.  “I swear I’ve never mentioned it to a living soul.”

“Most men who amass money are afraid of death,” replied Shirley with outward composure, “for death is about the only thing that can separate them from their money.”

Ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere nor hearty.  It was a laugh such as the devil may have given when driven out of heaven.

“You’re quite a character!” He laughed again, and Shirley, catching the infection, laughed, too.  “It’s me and it isn’t me,” went on Ryder flourishing the book.  “This fellow Broderick is all right; he’s successful 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 neighbour instead of loving him,” retorted Shirley.

She spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, and it 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 used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away.