The financier’s wife was already most favourably impressed with her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known Shirley for years.  It was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed book.  Finally, thinking that Shirley might prefer to be alone, she rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to ring for anything she might wish.  A maid had been assigned to look exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served in her room or else have them with the family as she liked.  But Shirley, not caring to encounter Mr. Ryder’s cold, searching stare more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals alone.

Left to herself, Shirley settled down to work in earnest.  Mr. Ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data, etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to write.  She wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind—­“The History of a Crime.”  Yet she thought they could hardly infringe on Victor Hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest “The History of the Empire Trading Company.”  Everyone would understand that it told the story of John Burkett Ryder’s remarkable career from his earliest beginnings to the present time.  She worked feverishly all that evening getting the material into shape, and the following day found her early at her desk.  No one disturbed her and she wrote steadily on until noon, Mrs. Ryder only once putting her head in the door to wish her good morning.

After luncheon, Shirley decided that the weather was too glorious to remain indoors.  Her health must not be jeopardized even to advance the interests of the Colossus, so she put on her hat and left the house to go for a walk.  The air smelled sweet to her after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home.  Turning down Fifth Avenue, she entered the park at Seventy-second Street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the driveway opposite the Casino.  The park was almost deserted at that hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns.  She found an empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat down, grateful for the rest and quiet.

She wondered what Jefferson thought of her action in coming to his father’s house practically in disguise and under an assumed name.  She must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining possession of the letters.  Certainly she felt no delicacy or compunction in asking Jefferson to do her this service.  The letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury.  She had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way that she could.