Every now and then Shirley espied in the distance the figure of a man which she thought she recognized as that of Jefferson.  Had he come, after all?  The blood went coursing tumultuously through her veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger.  She wondered what he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his father and what the latter had said.  She could realize now what Mr. Ryder’s reply had been.  Then she wondered what her future life would be.  She could do nothing, of course, until the Senate had passed upon her father’s case, but it was imperative that she get to work.  In a day or two, she would call on her publishers and learn how her book was selling.  She might get other commissions.  If she could not make enough money in literary work she would have to teach.  It was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast.  All the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father disgraced, Jefferson now practically lost to her—­only her work remained.

As she neared the cottage on her return home she caught sight of the letter carrier approaching the gate.  Instantly she thought of Jefferson, and she hurried to intercept the man.  Perhaps he had written instead of coming.

“Miss Shirley Rossmore?” said the man eyeing her interrogatively.

“That’s I,” said Shirley.

The postman handed her a letter and passed on.  Shirley glanced quickly at the superscription.  No, it was not from Jefferson; she knew his handwriting too well.  The envelope, moreover, bore the firm name of her publishers.  She tore it open and found that it merely contained another letter which the publishers had forwarded.  This was addressed to Miss Shirley Green and ran as follows: 

Dear madam.—­If convenient, I should like to see you at my office, No. 36 Broadway, in relation to your book “The American Octopus.”  Kindly inform me as to the day and hour at which I may expect you.

Yours truly,

John Burkett Ryder, per B.

Shirley almost shouted from sheer excitement.  At first she was alarmed—­the name John Burkett Ryder was such a bogey to frighten bad children with, she thought he might want to punish her for writing about him as she had.  She hurried to the porch and sat there reading the letter over and over and her brain began to evolve ideas.  She had been wondering how she could get at Mr. Ryder and here he was actually asking her to call on him.  Evidently he had not the slightest idea of her identity, for he had been able to reach her only through her publishers and no doubt he had exhausted every other means of discovering her address.  The more she pondered over it the more she began to see in this invitation a way of helping her father.  Yes, she would go and beard the lion in his den, but she would not go to his office.  She would accept the invitation only on condition that the interview took place in the Ryder mansion where undoubtedly the letters would be found.  She decided to act immediately.  No time was to be lost, so she procured a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote as follows: