Ryder, Sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep thought.  For the first time in his life he was face to face with defeat; for the first time he had encountered a will as strong as his own.  He who could rule parliaments and dictate to governments now found himself powerless to rule his own son.  At all costs, he mused, the boy’s infatuation for Judge Rossmore’s daughter must be checked, even if he had to blacken the girl’s character as well as the father’s, or, as a last resort, send the entire family out of the country.  He had not lost sight of his victim since the carefully prepared crash in Wall Street, and the sale of the Rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the Great Northwestern Mining Company.  His agents had reported their settlement in the quiet little village on Long Island, and he had also learned of Miss Rossmore’s arrival from Europe, which coincided strangely with the home-coming of his own son.  He decided, therefore, to keep a closer watch on Massapequa now than ever, and that is why to-day’s call of Sergeant Ellison, a noted sleuth in the government service, found so ready a welcome.

The door opened, and Mr. Bagley entered, followed by a tall, powerfully built man whose robust physique and cheap looking clothes contrasted strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably attired English secretary.

“Take a seat, Sergeant,” said Mr. Ryder, cordially motioning his visitor to a chair.  The man sat down gingerly on one of the rich leather-upholstered chairs.  His manner was nervous and awkward, as if intimidated in the presence of the financier.

“Are the Republican Committee still waiting?” demanded Mr. Ryder.

“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary.

“I’ll see them in a few minutes.  Leave me with Sergeant Ellison.”

Mr. Bagley bowed and retired.

“Well, Sergeant, what have you got to report?”

He opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out to the detective.

“Take a cigar,” he said amiably.

The man took a cigar, and also the match which Mr. Ryder held out.  The financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve him.

“Thanks.  This is a good one,” smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed.  “We don’t often get a chance at such as these.”

“It ought to be good,” laughed Ryder.  “They cost two dollars apiece.”

The detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him.  It was like burning money.

Ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business.

“Well, what have you been doing about the book?” he demanded.  “Have you found the author of ’The American Octopus’?”

“No, sir, I have not.  I confess I’m baffled.  The secret has been well kept.  The publishers have shut up like a clam.  There’s only one thing that I’m pretty well sure of.”