“But what can you do?” persisted Stott.  “The matter has been sifted over and over by some of the greatest minds in the country.”

“Has any woman sifted it over?” demanded Shirley.

“No, but—­” stammered Stott.

“Then it’s about time one did,” said the girl decisively.  “Those letters my father speaks of—­they would be useful, would they not?”

“They would be invaluable.”

“Then I’ll get them.  If not—­”

“But I don’t understand how you’re going to get at Ryder,” interrupted Stott.

“This is how,” replied Shirley, passing over to him the letter she had received that afternoon.

As Stott recognized the well-known signature and read the contents, the expression of his face changed.  He gasped for breath and sank into a chair from sheer astonishment.

“Ah, that’s different!” he cried, “that’s different!”

Briefly Shirley outlined her plan, explaining that she would go to live in the city immediately and conduct her campaign from there.  If she was successful, it might save her father and if not, no harm could come of it.

Stott demurred at first.  He did not wish to bear alone the responsibility of such an adventure.  There was no knowing what might happen to her, visiting a strange house under an assumed name.  But when he saw how thoroughly in earnest she was and that she was ready to proceed without him, he capitulated.  He agreed that she might be able to find the missing letters or if not, that she might make some impression on Ryder himself.  She could show interest in the judge’s case as a disinterested outsider and so might win his sympathies.  From being a skeptic, Stott now became enthusiastic.  He promised to cooperate in every way and to keep Shirley’s whereabouts an absolute secret.  The girl, therefore, began to make her preparations for departure from home by telling her parents that she had accepted an invitation to spend a week or two with an old college chum in New York.

That same evening her mother, the judge, and Stott went for a stroll after dinner and left her to take care of the house.  They had wanted Shirley to go, too, but she pleaded fatigue.  The truth was that she wanted to be alone so she could ponder undisturbed over her plans.  It was a clear, starlit night, with no moon, and Shirley sat on the porch listening to the chirping of the crickets and idly watching the flashes of the mysterious fireflies.  She was in no mood for reading and sat for a long time rocking herself, engrossed in her thoughts.  Suddenly she heard someone unfasten the garden gate.  It was too soon for the return of the promenaders; it must be a visitor.  Through the uncertain penumbra of the garden she discerned approaching a form which looked familiar.  Yes, now there was no doubt possible.  It was, indeed, Jefferson Ryder.

She hurried down the porch to greet him.  No matter what the father had done she could never think any the less of the son.  He took her hand and for several moments neither one spoke.  There are times when silence is more eloquent than speech and this was one of them.  The gentle grip of his big strong hand expressed more tenderly than any words, the sympathy that lay in his heart for the woman he loved.  Shirley said quietly: