“What’s that?” demanded Ryder, interested.

“That no such person as Shirley Green exists.”

“Oh,” exclaimed, the financier, “then you think it is a mere nom de plume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what do you think was the reason for preserving the anonymity?”

“Well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject.  It gives some hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid about launching it under his or her real name.  At least that’s my theory, sir.”

“And a good one, no doubt,” said Mr. Ryder.  Then he added:  “That makes me all the more anxious to find out who it is.  I would willingly give this moment a check for $5,000 to know who wrote it.  Whoever it is, knows me as well as I know myself.  We must find the author.”

The sleuth was silent for a moment.  Then he said: 

“There might be one way to reach the author, but it will be successful only in the event of her being willing to be known and come out into the open.  Suppose you write to her in care of the publishers.  They would certainly forward the letter to wherever she may be.  If she does not want you to know who she is she will ignore your letter and remain in the background.  If, on the contrary, she has no fear of you, and is willing to meet you, she will answer the letter.”

“Ah, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Ryder.  “It’s a good idea.  I’ll write such a letter at once.  It shall go to-night.”

He unhooked the telephone and asked Mr. Bagley to come up.  A few seconds later the secretary entered the room.

“Bagley,” said Mr. Ryder, “I want you to write a letter for me to Miss Shirley Green, author of that book ’The American Octopus.  We will address it care of her publishers, Littleton & Co.  Just say that if convenient I should like a personal interview with her at my office, No. 36 Broadway, in relation to her book, ’The American Octopus.’  See that it is mailed to-night.  That’s all.”

Mr. Bagley bowed and retired.  Mr. Ryder turned to the secret service agent.

“There, that’s settled.  We’ll see how it works.  And now, Sergeant, I have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my interests you will not find me unappreciative.  Do you know a little place on Long Island called Massapequa?”

“Yes,” grinned the detective, “I know it.  They’ve got some fine specimens of ‘skeeters’ there.”

Paying no attention to this jocularity, Mr. Ryder continued: 

“Judge Rossmore is living there—­pending the outcome of his case in the Senate.  His daughter has just arrived from Europe.  My son Jefferson came home on the same ship.  They are a little more friendly than I care to have them.  You understand.  I want to know if my son visits the Rossmores, and if he does I wish to be kept informed of all that’s going on.  You understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.  You shall know everything.”

Mr. Ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill it up.  Then handing it to the detective, he said: