“Don’t,” replied Ryder grimly, “sympathy is often weakness.  Ah, there you are!” turning to Jefferson, who entered the room at that moment.

“You sent for me, father?”

“Yes,” said Ryder, Sr., holding up the letters.  “Have you ever seen these letters before?”

Jefferson took the letters and examined them, then he passed them back to his father and said frankly: 

“Yes, I took them out of your desk and sent them to Mr. Stott in the hope they would help Judge Rossmore’s case.”

Ryder restrained himself from proceeding to actual violence only with the greatest difficulty.  His face grew white as death, his lips were compressed, his hands twitched convulsively, his eyes flashed dangerously.  He took another cigar to give the impression that he had himself well under control, but the violent trembling of his hands as he lit it betrayed the terrific strain he was under.

“So!” he said, “you deliberately sacrificed my interests to save this woman’s father—­you hear him, Miss Green?  Jefferson, my boy, I think it’s time you and I had a final accounting.”

Shirley made a motion as if about to withdraw.  He stopped her with a gesture.

“Please don’t go, Miss Green.  As the writer of my biography you are sufficiently well acquainted with my family affairs to warrant your being present at the epilogue.  Besides, I want an excuse for keeping my temper.  Sit down, Miss Green.”

Turning to Jefferson, he went on: 

“For your mother’s sake, my boy, I have overlooked your little eccentricities of character.  But now we have arrived at the parting of the ways—­you have gone too far.  The one aspect of this business I cannot overlook is your willingness to sell your own father for the sake of a woman.”

“My own father,” interrupted Jefferson bitterly, “would not hesitate to sell me if his business and political interests warranted the sacrifice!”

Shirley attempted the role of peacemaker.  Appealing to the younger man, she said: 

“Please don’t talk like that, Mr. Jefferson.”  Then she turned to Ryder, Sr.:  “I don’t think your son quite understands you, Mr. Ryder, and, if you will pardon me, I don’t think you quite understand him.  Do you realize that there is a man’s life at stake—­that Judge Rossmore is almost at the point of death and that favourable news from the Senate to-morrow is perhaps the only thing that can save him?”

“Ah, I see,” sneered Ryder, Sr.  “Judge Stott’s story has aroused your sympathy.”

“Yes, I—­I confess my sympathy is aroused.  I do feel for this father whose life is slowly ebbing away—­whose strength is being sapped hourly by the thought of the disgrace—­the injustice that is being done him!  I do feel for the wife of this suffering man!”

“Ah, its a complete picture!” cried Ryder mockingly.  The dying father, the sorrowing mother—­and the daughter, what is she supposed to be doing?”