“Why don’t you produce them before the Senate?”

“It was too late,” explained Stott, handing them to the financier.  “I received them only two days ago.  But if you come forward and declare—­”

Ryder made an effort to control himself.

“I’ll do nothing of the kind.  I refuse to move in the matter.  That is final.  And now, sir,” he added, raising his voice and pointing to the letters, “I wish to know how comes it that you had in your possession private correspondence addressed to me?”

“That I cannot answer,” replied Stott promptly.

“From whom did you receive these letters?” demanded Ryder.

Stott was dumb, while Shirley clutched at her chair as if she would fall.  The financier repeated the question.

“I must decline to answer,” replied Stott finally.

Shirley left her place and came slowly forward.  Addressing Ryder, she said: 

“I wish to make a statement.”

The financier gazed at her in astonishment.  What could she know about it, he wondered, and he waited with curiosity to hear what she was going to say.  But Stott instantly realized that she was about to take the blame upon herself, regardless of the consequences to the success of their cause.  This must be prevented at all hazards, even if another must be sacrificed, so interrupting her he said hastily to Ryder: 

“Judge Rossmore’s life and honour are at stake and no false sense of delicacy must cause the failure of my object to save him.  These letters were sent to me by—­your son.”

“From my son’” exclaimed Ryder, starting.  For a moment he staggered as if he had received a blow; he was too much overcome to speak or act.  Then recovering himself, he rang a bell, and turned to Stott with renewed fury: 

“So,” he cried, “this man, this judge whose honour is at stake and his daughter, who most likely has no honour at stake, between them have made a thief and a liar of my son! false to his father, false to his party; and you, sir, have the presumption to come here and ask me to intercede for him!” To the butler, who entered, he said:  “See if Mr. Jefferson is still in the house.  If he is, tell him I would like to see him here at once.”

The man disappeared, and Ryder strode angrily up and down the room with the letters in his hand.  Then, turning abruptly on Stott, he said: 

“And now, sir, I think nothing more remains to be said.  I shall keep these letters, as they are my property.”

“As you please.  Good night, sir.”

“Good night,” replied Ryder, not looking up.

With a significant glance at Shirley, who motioned to him that she might yet succeed where he had failed, Stott left the room.  Ryder turned to Shirley.  His fierceness of manner softened down as he addressed the girl: 

“You see what they have done to my son—­”

“Yes,” replied Shirley, “it’s the girl’s fault.  If Jefferson hadn’t loved her you would have helped the judge.  Ah, why did they ever meet!  She has worked on his sympathy and he—­he took these letters for her sake, not to injure you.  Oh, you must make some allowance for him!  One’s sympathy gets aroused in spite of oneself; even I feel sorry for—­these people.”