“I fear I intrude here,” said Jefferson pointedly.

“Oh, dear no, not at all,” replied Kate in some confusion.  “I was waiting for my father.  How is Paris?” she asked.

“Lovely as ever,” he answered.

“Did you have a good time?” she inquired.

“I enjoyed it immensely.  I never had a better one.”

“You probably were in good company,” she said significantly.  Then she added:  “I believe Miss Rossmore was in Paris.”

“Yes, I think she was there,” was his non-committal answer.

To change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal, he picked up a book that was lying on his father’s desk and glanced at the title.  It was “The American Octopus.”

“Is father still reading this?” he asked.  “He was at it when I left.”

“Everybody is reading it,” said Kate.  “The book has made a big sensation.  Do you know who the hero is?”

“Who?” he asked with an air of the greatest innocence.

“Why, no less a personage than your father—­John Burkett Ryder himself!  Everybody says it’s he—­the press and everybody that’s read it.  He says so himself.”

“Really?” he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise.  “I must read it.”

“It has made a strong impression on Mr. Ryder,” chimed in Mr. Bagley.  “I never knew him to be so interested in a book before.  He’s trying his best to find out who the author is.  It’s a jolly well written book and raps you American millionaires jolly well—­ what?”

“Whoever wrote the book,” interrupted Kate, “is somebody who knows Mr. Ryder exceedingly well.  There are things in it that an outsider could not possibly know.”

“Phew!” Jefferson whistled softly to himself.  He was treading dangerous ground.  To conceal his embarrassment, he rose.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and pay my filial respects upstairs.  I’ll see you again.”  He gave Kate a friendly nod, and without even glancing at Mr. Bagley left the room.

The couple stood in silence for a few moments after he disappeared.  Then Kate went to the door and listened to his retreating footsteps.  When she was sure that he was out of earshot she turned on Mr. Bagley indignantly.

“You see what you expose me to.  Jefferson thinks this was a rendezvous.”

“Well, it was to a certain extent,” replied the secretary unabashed.  “Didn’t you ask me to see you here?”

“Yes,” said Kate, taking a letter from her bosom, “I wanted to ask you what this means?”

“My dear Miss Roberts—­Kate—­I”—­stammered the secretary.

“How dare you address me in this manner when you know I and Mr. Ryder are engaged?”

No one knew better than Kate that this was not true, but she said it partly out of vanity, partly out of a desire to draw out this Englishman who made such bold love to her.

“Miss Roberts,” replied Mr. Bagley loftily, “in that note I expressed my admiration—­my love for you.  Your engagement to Mr. Jefferson Ryder is, to say the least, a most uncertain fact.”  There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice that did not escape Kate.