Shirley was one of the first to come ashore. Stott was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. He had known her ever since she was a little tot in arms, and bystanders who noticed them meet had no doubt that they were father and daughter. Shirley was deeply moved; a great lump in her throat seemed to choke her utterance. So far she had been able to bear up, but now that home was so near her heart failed her. She had hoped to find her father on the dock. Why had he not come? Were things so bad then? She questioned Judge Stott anxiously, fearfully.

He reassured her. Both her mother and father were well. It was too long a trip for them to make, so he had volunteered.

"Too long a trip," echoed Shirley puzzled. "This is not far from our house. Madison Avenue is no distance. That could not have kept father away."

"You don't live on Madison Avenue any longer. The house and its contents have been sold," replied Stott gravely, and in a few words he outlined the situation as it was.

Shirley listened quietly to the end and only the increasing pallor of her face and an occasional nervous twitching at the corner of her mouth betrayed the shock that this recital of her father's misfortunes was to her. Ah, this she had little dreamed of! Yet why not? It was but logic. When wrecked in reputation, one might as well be wrecked in fortune, too. What would their future be, how could that proud, sensitive man her father bear this humiliation, this disgrace? To be condemned to a life of obscurity, social ostracism, and genteel poverty! Oh, the thought was unendurable! She herself could earn money, of course. If her literary work did not bring in enough, she could teach and what she earned would help out. Certainly her parents should never want for anything so long as she could supply it. She thought bitterly how futile now were plans of marriage, even if she had ever entertained such an idea seriously. Henceforward, she did not belong to herself. Her life must be devoted to clearing her father's name. These reflections were suddenly interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Blake calling out:

"Shirley, where have you been? We lost sight of you as we left the ship, and we have been hunting for you ever since."

Her aunt, escorted by Jefferson Ryder, had gone direct to the Customs desk and in the crush they had lost trace of her. Shirley introduced Stott.

"Aunt Milly, this is Judge Stott, a very old friend of father's. Mrs. Blake, my mother's sister. Mother will be surprised to see her. They haven't met for ten years."

"This visit is going to be only a brief one," said Mrs. Blake. "I really came over to chaperone Shirley more than anything else."

"As if I needed chaperoning with Mr. Ryder for an escort!" retorted Shirley. Then presenting Jefferson to Stott she said:

"This is Mr. Jefferson Ryder—Judge Stott. Mr. Ryder has been very kind to me abroad."

The two men bowed and shook hands.

"Any relation to J.B.?" asked Stott good humouredly.

"His son—that's all," answered Jefferson laconically.

Stott now looked at the young man with more interest. Yes, there was a resemblance, the same blue eyes, the righting jaw. But how on earth did Judge Rossmore's daughter come to be travelling in the company of John Burkett Ryder's son? The more he thought of it the more it puzzled him, and while he cogitated Shirley and her companions wrestled with the United States Customs, and were undergoing all the tortures invented by Uncle Sam to punish Americans for going abroad.

Shirley and Mrs. Blake were fortunate in securing an inspector who was fairly reasonable. Of course, he did not for a moment believe their solemn statement, already made on the ship, that they had nothing dutiable, and he rummaged among the most intimate garments of their wardrobe in a wholly indecent and unjustifiable manner, but he was polite and they fared no worse than all the other women victims of this, the most brutal custom house inspection system in the world.

Jefferson had the misfortune to be allotted an inspector who was half seas over with liquor and the man was so insolent and threatening in manner that it was only by great self-restraint that Jefferson controlled himself. He had no wish to create a scandal on the dock, nor to furnish good "copy" for the keen-eyed, long-eared newspaper reporters who would be only too glad of such an opportunity for a "scare head," But when the fellow compelled him to open every trunk and valise and then put his grimy hands to the bottom and by a quick upward movement jerked the entire contents out on the dock he interfered:

"You are exceeding your authority," he exclaimed hotly. "How dare you treat my things in this manner?"

The drunken uniformed brute raised his bloodshot, bleary eyes and took Jefferson in from tip to toe. He clenched his fist as if about to resort to violence, but he was not so intoxicated as to be quite blind to the fact that this passenger had massive square shoulders, a determined jaw and probably a heavy arm. So contenting himself with a sneer, he said:

"This ain't no country for blooming English dooks. You're not in England now you know. This is a free country. See?"

"I see this," replied Jefferson, furious "that you are a drunken ruffian and a disgrace to the uniform you wear. I shall report your conduct immediately," with which he proceeded to the Customs desk to lodge a complaint.

He might have spared himself the trouble. The silver haired, distinguished looking old officer in charge knew that Jefferson's complaint was well founded, he knew that this particular inspector was a drunkard and a discredit to the government which employed him, but at the same time he also knew that political influence had been behind his appointment and that it was unsafe to do more than mildly reprimand him. When, therefore, he accompanied Jefferson to the spot where the contents of the trunks lay scattered in confusion all over the dock, he merely expostulated with the officer, who made some insolent reply. Seeing that it was useless to lose further time, Jefferson repacked his trunks as best he could and got them on a cab. Then he hurried over to Shirley's party and found them already about to leave the pier.

"Come and see us, Jeff," whispered Shirley as their cab drove through the gates.

"Where," he asked, "Madison Avenue?"

She hesitated for a moment and then replied quickly:

"No, we are stopping down on Long Island for the Summer—at a cute little place called Massapequa. Run down and see us."

He raised his hat and the cab drove on.



There was greater activity in the Rossmore cottage at Massapequa than there had been any day since the judge and his wife went to live there. Since daybreak Eudoxia had been scouring and polishing in honour of the expected arrival and a hundred times Mrs. Rossmore had climbed the stairs to see that everything was as it should be in the room which had been prepared for Shirley. It was not, however, without a passage at arms that Eudoxia consented to consider the idea of an addition to the family. Mrs. Rossmore had said to her the day before:

"My daughter will be here to-morrow, Eudoxia."

A look expressive of both displeasure and astonishment marred the classic features of the hireling. Putting her broom aside and placing her arms akimbo she exclaimed in an injured tone:

"And it's a dayther you've got now? So it's three in family you are! When I took the place it's two you tould me there was!"

"Well, with your kind permission," replied Mrs. Rossmore, "there will be three in future. There is nothing in the Constitution of the United States that says we can't have a daughter without consulting our help, is there?"

The sarcasm of this reply did not escape even the dull-edged wits of the Irish drudge. She relapsed into a dignified silence and a few minutes later was discovered working with some show of enthusiasm.

The judge was nervous and fidgety. He made a pretence to read, but it was plain to see that his mind was not on his book. He kept leaving his chair to go and look at the clock; then he would lay the volume aside and wander from room to room like a lost soul. His thoughts were on the dock at Hoboken.

By noon every little detail had been attended to and there was nothing further to do but sit and wait for the arrival of Stott and Shirley. They were to be expected any moment now. The passengers had probably got off the steamer by eleven o'clock. It would take at least two hours to get through the Customs and out to Massapequa. The judge and his wife sat on the porch counting the minutes and straining their ears to catch the first sound of the train from New York.

"I hope Stott broke the news to her gently," said the judge.

"I wish we had gone to meet her ourselves," sighed his wife.

The judge was silent and for a moment or two he puffed vigorously at his pipe, as was his habit when disturbed mentally. Then he said:

"I ought to have gone, Martha, but I was afraid. I'm afraid to look my own daughter in the face and tell her that I am a disgraced man, that I am to be tried by the Senate for corruption, perhaps impeached and turned off the bench as if I were a criminal. Shirley won't believe it, sometimes I can't believe it myself. I often wake up in the night and think of it as part of a dream, but when the morning comes it's still true—it's still true!"

He smoked on in silence. Then happening to look up he noticed that his wife was weeping. He laid his hand gently on hers.

"Don't cry, dear, don't make it harder for me to bear. Shirley must see no trace of tears."

"I was thinking of the injustice of it all," replied Mrs. Rossmore, wiping her eyes.

"Fancy Shirley in this place, living from hand to mouth," went on the judge.

"That's the least," answered his wife. "She's a fine, handsome girl, well educated and all the rest of it. She ought to make a good marriage." No matter what state of mind Mrs. Rossmore might be in, she never lost sight of the practical side of things.

"Hardly with her father's disgrace hanging over her head," replied the judge wearily. "Who," he added, "would have the courage to marry a girl whose father was publicly disgraced?"

Both relapsed into another long silence, each mentally reviewing the past and speculating on the future. Suddenly Mrs. Rossmore started. Surely she could not be mistaken! No, the clanging of a locomotive bell was plainly audible. The train was in. From the direction of the station came people with parcels and hand bags and presently there was heard the welcome sound of carriage wheels crunching over the stones. A moment later they saw coming round the bend in the road a cab piled up with small baggage.

"Here they are! Here they are!" cried Mrs. Rossmore. "Come, Eudoxia!" she called to the servant, while she herself hurried down to the gate. The judge, fully as agitated as herself, only showing his emotion in a different way, remained on the porch pale and anxious.

The cab stopped at the curb and Stott alighted, first helping out Mrs. Blake. Mrs. Rossmore's astonishment on seeing her sister was almost comical.

"Milly!" she exclaimed.

They embraced first and explained afterwards. Then Shirley got out and was in her mother's arms.

"Where's father?" was Shirley's first question.

"There—he's coming!"

The judge, unable to restrain his impatience longer, ran down from the porch towards the gate. Shirley, with a cry of mingled grief and joy, precipitated herself on his breast.

"Father! Father!" she cried between her sobs. "What have they done to you?"

"There—there, my child. Everything will be well—everything will be well."

Her head lay on his shoulder and he stroked her hair with his hand, unable to speak from pent up emotion.

Mrs. Rossmore could not recover from her stupefaction on seeing her sister. Mrs. Blake explained that she had come chiefly for the benefit of the voyage and announced her intention of returning on the same steamer.

"So you see I shall bother you only a few days," she said.

"You'll stay just as long as you wish," rejoined Mrs. Rossmore. "Happily we have just one bedroom left." Then turning to Eudoxia, who was wrestling with the baggage, which formed a miniature Matterhorn on the sidewalk, she gave instructions:

"Eudoxia, you'll take this lady's baggage to the small bedroom adjoining Miss Shirley's. She is going to stop with us for a few days."

Taken completely aback at the news of this new addition, Eudoxia looked at first defiance. She seemed on the point of handing in her resignation there and then. But evidently she thought better of it, for, taking a cue from Mrs. Rossmore, she asked in the sarcastic manner of her mistress:

"Four is it now, M'm? I suppose the Constitootion of the United States allows a family to be as big as one likes to make it. It's hard on us girls, but if it's the law, it's all right, M'm. The more the merrier!" With which broadside, she hung the bags all over herself and staggered off to the house.

Stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come later by express. Mrs. Rossmore took him aside while Mrs. Blake joined Shirley and the judge.

"Did you tell Shirley?" asked Mrs. Rossmore. "How did she take it?"

"She knows everything," answered Stott, "and takes it very sensibly. We shall find her of great moral assistance in our coming fight in the Senate," he added confidently.

[Pencil illustration of Shirley embracing her father at the gate of the cottage at Massapequa.]

"Father! Father! What have they done to you?"—Page 161.

Realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with Shirley, Mrs. Rossmore invited Mrs. Blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while Stott said he would be glad of a washup. When they had gone Shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way.

"I've just been longing to see you, father," she said. She turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried: "Why, how you've changed! I can scarcely believe it's you. Say something. Let me hear the sound of your voice, father."

The judge tried to smile.

"Why, my dear girl, I—"

Shirley threw her arms round his neck.

"Ah, yes, now I know it's you," she cried.

"Of course it is, Shirley, my dear girl. Of course it is. Who else should it be?"

"Yes, but it isn't the same," insisted Shirley. "There is no ring to your voice. It sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. And this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place—"

She glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. She had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace—ah, that was something she had not anticipated! She changed colour and her voice faltered. Her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts.

"It's the best we can afford, Shirley," he said quietly. "The blow has been complete. I will tell you everything. You shall judge for yourself. My enemies have done for me at last."

"Your enemies?" cried Shirley eagerly. "Tell me who they are so I may go to them."

"Yes, dear, you shall know everything. But not now. You are tired after your journey. To-morrow sometime Stott and I will explain everything."

"Very well, father, as you wish," said Shirley gently. "After all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter where we live so long as we have each other?"

She drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. She looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face.

"It's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "I've always wanted a little place like this—all to ourselves. Oh, if you only knew how tired I am of New York and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities! We shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?"

She spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. He understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter.

"Yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "There's not much room, though."

"There's quite enough," she insisted. "Let me see." She began to count on her fingers. "Upstairs—three rooms, eh? and above that three more—"

"No," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?"

"Of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me—a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. Oh, I can see that this is going to be awfully jolly—just like camping out. You know how I love camping out. And you have a piano, too."

She went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer class of country boarding houses. Shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything.

"It's a little old," was her comment, "but I like these zither effects. It's just like the sixteenth century spinet. I can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled.

"What's that about mother dancing?" demanded Mrs. Rossmore, who at that instant entered the room. Shirley arose and appealed to her:

"Isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge? Isn't it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on Long Island instead of Madison Avenue? Why should Manhattan Island be a happier spot than Long Island? Why shouldn't we be happy anywhere; we have each other. And we do need each other. We never knew how much till to-day, did we? We must stand by each other now. Father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? We're not helpless just because we are women. We're going to work, mother and I."

"Work?" echoed Mrs. Rossmore, somewhat scandalized.

"Work," repeated Shirley very decisively.

The judge interfered. He would not hear of it.

"You work, Shirley? Impossible!"

"Why not? My book has been selling well while I was abroad. I shall probably write others. Then I shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines. It will add to our income."

"Your book—'The American Octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the judge, interested.

"So well," replied Shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in Paris that the fourth edition was now on the press. That means good royalties. I shall soon be a fashionable author. The publishers will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we want. Oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!" she exclaimed with glee. "Aren't you proud of me, dad?"

The judge smiled indulgently. Of course he was glad and proud. He always knew his Shirley was a clever girl. But by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin? It seemed like the retribution of heaven. Neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings. Ryder could not dream that "Shirley Green," the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush. Shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was Ryder who had lured her father to his ruin.

Mrs. Rossmore now insisted on Shirley going to her room to rest. She must be tired and dusty. After changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. When she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served. So leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride Mrs. Rossmore pointed out to Shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. Then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after Eudoxia and luncheon.

When, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, Shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears. She had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in. She gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break. She had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever. Stott's words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid. While hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality—this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had passed. She compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for Europe, the fine mansion on Madison Avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench. Then to have come to this all in the brief space of a few months! It was incredible, terrible, heart rending! And what of the future? What was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave? He could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. He must be saved in the Senate, but how—how?

She dried her eyes and began to think. Surely her woman's wit would find some way. She thought of Jefferson. Would he come to Massapequa? It was hardly probable. He would certainly learn of the change in their circumstances and his sense of delicacy would naturally keep him away for some time even if other considerations, less unselfish, did not. Perhaps he would be attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not burdened with a tragedy in her family. Her tears began to flow afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was work to be done to save her father. She loved Jefferson. Yes, she had never felt so sure of it as now. She felt that if she had him there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying: "Take me, Jefferson, take me away, where you will, for I love you! I love you!" But Jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe at her in her misery. If he were there, she thought as she looked into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes all red from crying. He would not marry her now in any case. No self-respecting man would. She was glad that she had spoken to him as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon her father's name marriage was out of the question. She might have yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her own flesh and blood. No, henceforth her place was at her father's side until his character was cleared. If the trial in the Senate were to go against him, then she could never see Jefferson again. She would give up all idea of him and everything else. Her literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. They would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might be the world would believe him guilty. Once condemned by the Senate, nothing could remove the stigma. She would have to teach in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage somehow. But what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust!

Suddenly she thought of Jefferson's promise to interest his father in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. Jefferson would not forget his promise and he would come to Massapequa to tell her of what he had done. She was sure of that. Perhaps, after all, there was where their hope lay. Why had she not told her father at once? It might have relieved his mind. John Burkett Ryder, the Colossus, the man of unlimited power! He could save her father and he would. And the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. She was actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of Mr. Ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the identity of the author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. It was Eudoxia.

"Please, miss, will you come down to lunch?"



CHAPTER VIII

A whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy—the city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and virility of the American people—New York, with its congested polyglot population and teeming millions, is assuredly one of the busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places on earth. Yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops, ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous roar of traffic incidental to Gotham's daily life, there is one part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise, no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a passer-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. This deserted village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires' district, the boundaries of which are marked by Carnegie hill on the north, Fiftieth Street on the south, and by Fifth and Madison Avenues respectively on the west and east. There is nothing more mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter uselessness. Their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within, enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some baneful curse. No merry-voiced children romp in their carefully railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out, at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion, supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of affliction. It is, indeed, like a city of the dead.

So it appeared to Jefferson as he walked up Fifth Avenue, bound for the Ryder residence, the day following his arrival from Europe. Although he still lived at his father's house, for at no time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio, finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone straight from the ship. He felt, however, that it was his duty to see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to fulfil his promise to Shirley and find what his father could do to help Judge Rossmore. He had talked about the case with several men the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the bench. The "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and the Republicans being in control in the Senate the outcome could hardly be in doubt. He had learned also of the other misfortunes which had befallen Judge Rossmore and he understood now the reason for Shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about summering on Long Island. The news had been a shock to him, for, apart from the fact that the judge was Shirley's father, he admired him immensely as a man. Of his perfect innocence there could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench. That was very evident. The "interests" feared him and so had sacrificed him without pity, and as Jefferson walked along Central Park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall, he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless American citizen. Here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats, America's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her Coal, Railroad, Oil, Gas and Ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of Steel, Copper, and Finance. Each of these million-dollar residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of the globe with the gold filched from a Trust-ridden people. For every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy it two months in the year, ten thousand American men, women and children had starved and sorrowed.

Europe, thought Jefferson as he strode quickly along, pointed with envy to America's unparalleled prosperity, spoke with bated breath of her great fortunes. Rather should they say her gigantic robberies, her colossal frauds! As a nation we were not proud of our multi-millionaires. How many of them would bear the searchlight of investigation? Would his own father? How many millions could one man make by honest methods? America was enjoying unprecedented prosperity, not because of her millionaires, but in spite of them. The United States owed its high rank in the family of nations to the country's vast natural resources, its inexhaustible vitality, its great wheat fields, the industrial and mechanical genius of its people. It was the plain American citizen who had made the greatness of America, not the millionaires who, forming a class by themselves of unscrupulous capitalists, had created an arrogant oligarchy which sought to rule the country by corrupting the legislature and the judiciary. The plutocrats—these were the leeches, the sores in the body politic. An organized band of robbers, they had succeeded in dominating legislation and in securing control of every branch of the nation's industry, crushing mercilessly and illegally all competition. They were the Money Power, and such a menace were they to the welfare of the people that, it had been estimated, twenty men in America had it in their power, by reason of the vast wealth which they controlled, to come together, and within twenty-four hours arrive at an understanding by which every wheel of trade and commerce would be stopped from revolving, every avenue of trade blocked and every electric key struck dumb. Those twenty men could paralyze the whole country, for they controlled the circulation of the currency and could create a panic whenever they might choose. It was the rapaciousness and insatiable greed of these plutocrats that had forced the toilers to combine for self-protection, resulting in the organization of the Labor Unions which, in time, became almost as tyrannical and unreasonable as the bosses. And the breach between capital on the one hand and labour on the other was widening daily, masters and servants snarling over wages and hours, the quarrel ever increasing in bitterness and acrimony until one day the extreme limit of patience would be reached and industrial strikes would give place to bloody violence.

Meantime the plutocrats, wholly careless of the significant signs of the times and the growing irritation and resentment of the people, continued their illegal practices, scoffing at public opinion, snapping their fingers at the law, even going so far in their insolence as to mock and jibe at the President of the United States. Feeling secure in long immunity and actually protected in their wrong doing by the courts—the legal machinery by its very elaborateness defeating the ends of justice—the Trust kings impudently defied the country and tried to impose their own will upon the people. History had thus repeated itself. The armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century America by the tyranny of capital.

Yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the Ryder residence, the American people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom. Forty years before Abraham Lincoln had warned the country when at the close of the war he saw that the race for wealth was already making men and women money-mad. In 1864 he wrote these words:

"Yes, we may congratulate ourselves that this cruel war is nearing its close. It has cost a vast amount of treasure and blood. The best blood of the flower of American youth has been freely offered upon our country's altar that the nation might live. It has been indeed a trying hour for the Republic, but I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. As a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed."

Truly prophetic these solemn words were to-day. Forgetting the austere simplicity of their forebears, a love of show and ostentation had become the ruling passion of the American people. Money, MONEY, MONEY! was to-day the only standard, the only god! The whole nation, frenzied with a wild lust for wealth no matter how acquired, had tacitly acquiesced in all sorts of turpitude, every description of moral depravity, and so had fallen an easy victim to the band of capitalistic adventurers who now virtually ruled the land. With the thieves in power, the courts were powerless, the demoralization was general and the world was afforded the edifying spectacle of an entire country given up to an orgy of graft—treason in the Senate—corruption in the Legislature, fraudulent elections, leaks in government reports, trickery in Wall Street, illegal corners in coal, meat, ice and other prime necessaries of life, the deadly horrors of the Beef and Drug Trusts, railroad conspiracies, insurance scandals, the wrecking of savings banks, police dividing spoils with pickpockets and sharing the wages of prostitutes, magistrates charged with blackmailing—a foul stench of social rottenness and decay! What, thought Jefferson, would be the outcome—Socialism or Anarchy?

Still, he mused, one ray of hope pierced the general gloom—the common sense, the vigour and the intelligence of the true American man and woman, the love for a "square deal" which was characteristic of the plain people, the resistless force of enlightened public opinion. The country was merely passing through a dark phase in its history, it was the era of the grafters. There would come a reaction, the rascals would be exposed and driven off, and the nation would go on upward toward its high destiny. The country was fortunate, too, in having a strong president, a man of high principles and undaunted courage who had already shown his capacity to deal with the critical situation. America was lucky with her presidents. Picked out by the great political parties as mere figureheads, sometimes they deceived their sponsors, and showed themselves men and patriots. Such a president was Theodore Roosevelt. After beginning vigorous warfare on the Trusts, attacking fearlessly the most rascally of the band, the chief of the nation had sounded the slogan of alarm in regard to the multi-millionaires. The amassing of colossal fortunes, he had declared, must be stopped—a man might accumulate more than sufficient for his own needs and for the needs of his children, but the evil practice of perpetuating great and ever-increasing fortunes for generations yet unborn was recognized as a peril to the State. To have had the courage to propose such a sweeping and radical restrictive measure as this should alone, thought Jefferson, ensure for Theodore Roosevelt a place among America's greatest and wisest statesmen. He and Americans of his calibre would eventually perform the titanic task of cleansing these Augean stables, the muck and accumulated filth of which was sapping the health and vitality of the nation.

Jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block. A fine example of French Renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost John Burkett Ryder nearly ten millions of dollars. It was one of the show places of the town, and when the "rubber neck" wagons approached the Ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebrae among the "seeing New York"-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world.

Only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home. Ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpoena server. Not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath. The explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the Hon. Fitzroy Bagley, Mr. Ryder's aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door.

Indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison. It had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant. It was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but Mr. Ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in New York at this time, and Mrs. Ryder, who was one of the few American wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord.

Jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal. The sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs. But the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and Jefferson was under his father's roof.

"Is my father in?" he demanded of the man.

"No, sir," was the respectful answer. "Mr. Ryder has gone out driving, but Mr. Bagley is upstairs." Then after a brief pause he added: "Mrs. Ryder is in, too."

In this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife.

Jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet. On the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing Ajax and Ulysses contending for the armour of Achilles. To the left of this, at the top of another flight leading to the library, was hung a fine full-length portrait of John Burkett Ryder. The ceilings here as in the lower hall were richly gilt and adorned with paintings by famous modern artists. When he reached this floor Jefferson was about to turn to the right and proceed direct to his mother's suite when he heard a voice near the library door. It was Mr. Bagley giving instructions to the butler.

The Honourable Fitzroy Bagley, a younger son of a British peer, had left his country for his country's good, and in order to turn an honest penny, which he had never succeeded in doing at home, he had entered the service of America's foremost financier, hoping to gather a few of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table and disguising the menial nature of his position under the high-sounding title of private secretary. His job called for a spy and a toady and he filled these requirements admirably. Excepting with his employer, of whom he stood in craven fear, his manner was condescendingly patronizing to all with whom he came in contact, as if he were anxious to impress on these American plebeians the signal honour which a Fitzroy, son of a British peer, did them in deigning to remain in their "blarsted" country. In Mr. Ryder's absence, therefore, he ran the house to suit himself, bullying the servants and not infrequently issuing orders that were contradictory to those already given by Mrs. Ryder. The latter offered no resistance, she knew he was useful to her husband and, what to her mind was a still better reason for letting him have his own way, she had always had the greatest reverence for the British aristocracy. It would have seemed to her little short of vulgarity to question the actions of anyone who spoke with such a delightful English accent. Moreover, he dressed with irreproachable taste, was an acknowledged authority on dinner menus and social functions and knew his Burke backwards—altogether an accomplished and invaluable person.

Jefferson could not bear the sight of him; in fact, it was this man's continual presence in the house that had driven him to seek refuge elsewhere. He believed him to be a scoundrel as he certainly was a cad. Nor was his estimate of the English secretary far wrong. The man, like his master, was a grafter, and the particular graft he was after now was either to make a marriage with a rich American girl or to so compromise her that the same end would be attained. He was shrewd enough to realize that he had little chance to get what he wanted in the open matrimonial market, so he determined to attempt a raid and carry off an heiress under her father's nose, and the particular proboscis he had selected was that of his employer's friend, Senator Roberts. The senator and Miss Roberts were frequently at the Ryder House and in course of time the aristocratic secretary and the daughter had become quite intimate. A flighty girl, with no other purpose in life beyond dress and amusement and having what she termed "a good time," Kate thought it excellent pastime to flirt with Mr. Bagley, and when she discovered that he was serious in his attentions she felt flattered rather than indignant. After all, she argued, he was of noble birth. If his two brothers died he would be peer of England, and she had enough money for both. He might not make a bad husband. But she was careful to keep her own counsel and not let her father have any suspicion of what was going on. She knew that his heart was set on her marrying Jefferson Ryder and she knew better than anyone how impossible that dream was. She herself liked Jefferson quite enough to marry him, but if his eyes were turned in another direction—and she knew all about his attentions to Miss Rossmore—she was not going to break her heart about it. So she continued to flirt secretly with the Honourable Fitzroy while she still led the Ryders and her own father to think that she was interested in Jefferson.

"Jorkins," Mr. Bagley was saying to the butler, "Mr. Ryder will occupy the library on his return. See that he is not disturbed."

"Yes, sir," replied the butler respectfully. The man turned to go when the secretary called him back.

"And, Jorkins, you will station another man at the front entrance. Yesterday it was left unguarded, and a man had the audacity to address Mr. Ryder as he was getting out of his carriage. Last week a reporter tried to snapshot him. Mr. Ryder was furious. These things must not happen again, Jorkins. I shall hold you responsible."

"Very good, sir." The butler bowed and went downstairs. The secretary looked up and saw Jefferson. His face reddened and his manner grew nervous.

"Hello! Back from Europe, Jefferson? How jolly! Your mother will be delighted. She's in her room upstairs."

Declining to take the hint, and gathering from Bagley's embarrassed manner that he wanted to get rid of him, Jefferson lingered purposely. When the butler had disappeared, he said:

"This house is getting more and more like a barracks every day. You've got men all over the place. One can't move a step without falling over one."

Mr. Bagley drew himself up stiffly, as he always did when assuming an air of authority.

"Your father's personality demands the utmost precaution," he replied. "We cannot leave the life of the richest and most powerful financier in the world at the mercy of the rabble."

"What rabble?" inquired Jefferson, amused.

"The common rabble—the lower class—the riff-raff," explained Mr. Bagley.

"Pshaw!" laughed Jefferson. "If our financiers were only half as respectable as the common rabble, as you call them, they would need no bars to their houses."

Mr. Bagley sneered and shrugged his shoulders.

"Your father has warned me against your socialistic views." Then, with a lofty air, he added: "For four years I was third groom of the bedchamber to the second son of England's queen. I know my responsibilities."

"But you are not groom of the bedchamber here," retorted Jefferson.

"Whatever I am," said Mr. Bagley haughtily, "I am answerable to your father alone."

"By the way, Bagley," asked Jefferson, "when do you expect father to return? I want to see him."

"I'm afraid it's quite impossible," answered the secretary with studied insolence. "He has three important people to see before dinner. There's the National Republican Committee and Sergeant Ellison of the Secret Service from Washington—all here by appointment. It's quite impossible."

"I didn't ask you if it were possible. I said I wanted to see him and I will see him," answered Jefferson quietly but firmly, and in a tone and manner which did not admit of further opposition. "I'll go and leave word for him on his desk," he added.

He started to enter the library when the secretary, who was visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way.

"There's some one in there," he said in an undertone. "Someone waiting for your father."

"Is there?" replied Jefferson coolly. "I'll see who it is," with which he brushed past Mr. Bagley and entered the library.

He had guessed aright. A woman was there. It was Kate Roberts.

"Hello, Kate! how are you?" They called each other by their first names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms. At one time Jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met and known Shirley Rossmore that he realized how different one woman can be from another. Yet Kate had her good qualities. She was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it made him angry to see this girl with $100,000 in her own right playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. He had evidently disturbed an interesting tete-a-tete. He decided to say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil Mr. Bagley's game and save Kate from her own folly. On hearing his voice Kate turned and gave a little cry of genuine surprise.

"Why, is it you, Jeff? I thought you were in Europe."

"I returned yesterday," he replied somewhat curtly. He crossed over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few words, while Mr. Bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was making frantic dumb signs to Kate.

"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.

"You must not judge from appearances," she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel. "Jeff and I may hide a passion that burns like a volcano. All lovers are not demonstrative, you know."

The absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with Jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined.

"Then why did you remain here with me when the Senator went out with Mr. Ryder, senior?" he demanded.

"To tell you that I cannot listen to your nonsense any longer," retorted the girl.

"What?" he cried, incredulously. "You remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so. Kate, your coldness is not convincing."

"You mean you think I want to listen to you?" she demanded.

"I do," he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms.

"Mr. Bagley!" she exclaimed, recoiling.

"A week ago," he persisted, "you called me Fitzroy. Once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me Fitz."

"You hadn't asked me to marry you then," she laughed mockingly. Then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly: "Good-bye, Mr. Bagley, I am going upstairs to Mrs. Ryder. I will await my father's return in her room. I think I shall be safer."

He ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him. The door slammed in his face and she was gone.

Meantime Jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother's room. He knocked.

"Come in!" called out the familiar voice.

He entered. Mrs. Ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts.

"Hello, mother!" he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. Jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son.

"Jefferson!" she exclaimed when he released her. "My dear boy, when did you arrive?"

"Only yesterday. I slept at the studio last night. You're looking bully, mother. How's father?"

Mrs. Ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly. In her heart she was glad Jefferson had turned out as he had. Her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books. Answering his question she said:

"Your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be. He's considerably worried just now over that new book 'The American Octopus.' How dare they make him out such a monster? He's no worse than other successful business men. He's richer, that's all, and it makes them jealous. He's out driving now with Senator Roberts. Kate is somewhere in the house—in the library, I think."

"Yes, I found her there," replied Jefferson dryly. "She was with that cad, Bagley. When is father going to find that fellow out?"

"Oh, Jefferson," protested his mother, "how can you talk like that of Mr. Bagley. He is such a perfect gentleman. His family connections alone should entitle him to respect. He is certainly the best secretary your father ever had. I'm sure I don't know what we should do without him. He knows everything that a gentleman should."

"And a good deal more, I wager," growled Jefferson. "He wasn't groom of the backstairs to England's queen for nothing." Then changing the topic, he said suddenly: "Talking about Kate, mother, we have got to reach some definite understanding. This talk about my marrying her must stop. I intend to take the matter up with father to-day."

"Oh, of course, more trouble!" replied his mother in a resigned tone. She was so accustomed to having her wishes thwarted that she was never surprised at anything. "We heard of your goings on in Paris. That Miss Rossmore was there, was she not?"

"That has got nothing to do with it," replied Jefferson warmly. He resented Shirley's name being dragged into the discussion. Then more calmly he went on: "Now, mother, be reasonable, listen. I purpose to live my own life. I have already shown my father that I will not be dictated to, and that I can earn my own living. He has no right to force this marriage on me. There has never been any misunderstanding on Kate's part. She and I understand each other thoroughly."

"Well, Jefferson, you may be right from your point of view," replied his mother weakly. She invariably ended by agreeing with the last one who argued with her. "You are of age, of course. Your parents have only a moral right over you. Only remember this: it would be foolish of you to do anything now to anger your father. His interests are your interests. Don't do anything to jeopardize them. Of course, you can't be forced to marry a girl you don't care for, but your father will be bitterly disappointed. He had set his heart on this match. He knows all about your infatuation for Miss Rossmore and it has made him furious. I suppose you've heard about her father?"

"Yes, and it's a dastardly outrage," blurted out Jefferson. "It's a damnable conspiracy against one of the most honourable men that ever lived, and I mean to ferret out and expose the authors. I came here to-day to ask father to help me."

"You came to ask your father to help you?" echoed his mother incredulously.

"Why not?" demanded Jefferson. "Is it true then that he is selfishness incarnate? Wouldn't he do that much to help a friend?"

"You've come to the wrong house, Jeff. You ought to know that. Your father is far from being Judge Rossmore's friend. Surely you have sense enough to realize that there are two reasons why he would not raise a finder to help him. One is that he has always been his opponent in public life, the other is that you want to marry his daughter."

Jefferson sat as if struck dumb. He had not thought of that. Yes, it was true. His father and the father of the girl he loved were mortal enemies. How was help to be expected from the head of those "interests" which the judge had always attacked, and now he came to think of it, perhaps his own father was really at the bottom of these abominable charges! He broke into a cold perspiration and his voice was altered as he said:

"Yes, I see now, mother. You are right." Then he added bitterly: "That has always been the trouble at home. No matter where I turn, I am up against a stone wall—the money interests. One never hears a glimmer of fellow-feeling, never a word of human sympathy, only cold calculation, heartless reasoning, money, money, money! Oh, I am sick of it. I don't want any of it. I am going away where I'll hear no more of it."

His mother laid her hand gently on his shoulder.

"Don't talk that way, Jefferson. Your father is not a bad man at heart, you know that. His life has been devoted to money making and he has made a greater fortune than any man living or dead. He is only what his life has made him. He has a good heart. And he loves you—his only son. But his business enemies—ah! those he never forgives."

Jefferson was about to reply when suddenly a dozen electric bells sounded all over the house.

"What's that?" exclaimed Jefferson, alarmed, and starting towards the door.

"Oh, that's nothing," smiled his mother. "We have had that put in since you went away. Your father must have just come in. Those bells announce the fact. It was done so that if there happened to be any strangers in the house they could be kept out of the way until he reached the library safely."

"Oh," laughed Jefferson, "he's afraid some one will kidnap him? Certainly he would be a rich prize. I wouldn't care for the job myself, though. They'd be catching a tartar."

His speech was interrupted by a timid knock at the door.

"May I come in to say good-bye?" asked a voice which they recognized as Kate's. She had successfully escaped from Mr. Bagley's importunities and was now going home with the Senator. She smiled amiably at Jefferson and they chatted pleasantly of his trip abroad. He was sincerely sorry for this girl whom they were trying to foist on him. Not that he thought she really cared for him, he was well aware that hers was a nature that made it impossible to feel very deeply on any subject, but the idea of this ready-made marriage was so foreign, so revolting to the American mind! He thought it would be a kindness to warn her against Bagley.

"Don't be foolish, Kate," he said. "I was not blind just now in the library. That man is no good."

As is usual when one's motives are suspected, the girl resented his interference. She knew he hated Mr. Bagley and she thought it mean of him to try and get even in this way. She stiffened up and replied coldly:

"I think I am able to look after myself, Jefferson. Thanks, all the same."

He shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. She said good-bye to Mrs. Ryder, who was again immersed in her tradespeople bills, and left the room, escorted by Jefferson, who accompanied her downstairs and on to the street where Senator Roberts was waiting for her in the open victoria. The senator greeted with unusual cordiality the young man whom he still hoped to make his son-in-law.

"Come and see us, Jefferson," he said. "Come to dinner any evening. We are always alone and Kate and I will be glad to see you."

"Jefferson has so little time now, father. His work and—his friends keep him pretty busy,"

Jefferson had noted both the pause and the sarcasm, but he said nothing. He smiled and the senator raised his hat. As the carriage drove off the young man noticed that Kate glanced at one of the upper windows where Mr. Bagley stood behind a curtain watching. Jefferson returned to the house. The psychological moment had arrived. He must go now and confront his father in the library.



CHAPTER IX

The library was the most important room in the Ryder mansion, for it was there that the Colossus carried through his most important business deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest. But John Burkett Ryder never rested. There could be no rest for any man who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. Like Macbeth, he could sleep no more. When the hum of business life had ceased down town and he returned home from the tall building in lower Broadway, then his real work began. The day had been given to mere business routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his already countless millions.

Here the money Moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation. Corrupt senators, grafting Congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents, insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal lands in trust for the Almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head of the "System." Here were made and unmade governors of States, mayors of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents. Here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to overturn the people's vote in the National elections; here were distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large and small, who had earned it in the service of the "interests."

Here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the Trust. Here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put Wall Street on the verge of panic. Half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the "System." Here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people—the conspiring of the Trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life—meat, coal, oil, ice, gas—wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. In short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls.

It was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end. The lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of Gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved. In the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of George Washington. The room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of Shakespeare, Goethe and Voltaire. It was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs.

When Jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to Mr. Bagley. Mr. Ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. They were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the Colossus so unceremoniously. But when he saw who it was, Mr. Ryder's stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably.

"Why, Jeff, my boy, is that you? Just a moment, until I get rid of Bagley, and I'll be with you."

Jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary.

"Now, Bagley. Come, quick. What is it?"

He spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. John Ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one.

"Governor Rice called. He wants an appointment," said Mr. Bagley, holding out a card.

"I can't see him. Tell him so," came the answer, quick as a flash. "Who else?" he demanded. "Where's your list?"

Mr. Bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over.

"General Abbey telephoned. He says you promised—"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Ryder impatiently, "but not here. Down town, to-morrow, any time. Next?"

The secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said:

"There are some people downstairs in the reception room. They are here by appointment."

"Who are they?"

"The National Republican Committee and Sergeant Ellison of the Secret Service from Washington," replied Mr. Bagley.

"Who was here first?" demanded the financier.

"Sergeant Ellison, sir."

"Then I'll see him first, and the Committee afterwards. But let them all wait until I ring. I wish to speak with my son."

He waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room. Jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand.

"Well, Jefferson," he said kindly, "did you have a good time abroad?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. Such a trip is a liberal education in itself."

"Ready for work again, eh? I'm glad you're back, Jefferson. I'm busy now, but one of these days I want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future. This artist business is all very well—for a pastime. But it's not a career—surely you can appreciate that—for a young man with such prospects as yours. Have you ever stopped to think of that?"

Jefferson was silent. He did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing. There must be an understanding sooner or later. Why not now?

"The truth is, sir," he began timidly, "I'd like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time."

Ryder, Sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. Then he said with a smile:

"Well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, I can't—but—I will. Come, what is it?" Then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, "I've had a very busy day, Jeff. What with Trans-Continental and Trans-Atlantic and Southern Pacific, and Wall Street, and Rate Bills, and Washington I feel like Atlas shouldering the world."

"The world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir," rejoined Jefferson calmly.

His father looked at him in amazement. It was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said.

"Why not?" he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise. "Julius Caesar carried it. Napoleon carried it—to a certain extent. However, that's neither here nor there. What is it, boy?"

Unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while Jefferson was thinking what to say. The last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly:

"That's just it, sir. You forget that I'm no longer a boy. It's time to treat me as if I were a man."

Ryder, Sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"A man at twenty-eight? That's an excellent joke. Do you know that a man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?"

"I want you to take me seriously," persisted Jefferson.

Ryder, Sr., was not a patient man. His moments of good humour were of brief duration. Anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him. The smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively:

"Go on—damn it all! Be serious if you want, only don't take so long about it. But understand one thing. I want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. No Tolstoi—he's a great thinker, and you're not. No Bernard Shaw—he's funny, and you're not. Now go ahead."

This beginning was not very encouraging, and Jefferson felt somewhat intimidated. But he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in.

"I should have spoken to you before if you had let me," he said. "I often—"

"If I let you?" interrupted his father. "Do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? You asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and I told you that I worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time. Thinking is a harder game than any. You must think or you won't know. Napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together. I know more about money than any man living to-day. The man who knows is the man who wins. The man who takes advice isn't fit to give it. That's why I never take yours. Come, don't be a fool, Jeff—give up this art nonsense. Come back to the Trading Company. I'll make you vice-president, and I'll teach you the business of making millions."

Jefferson shook his head. It was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured:

"It's impossible, father. I am devoted to my work. I even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. It will help me considerably."

Ryder, Sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently:

"Don't be obstinate, Jeff. Listen to me. I know the world better than you do. You mustn't go away. You are the only flesh and blood I have."

He stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. Jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. Seeing that his words had made no effect, Ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried:

"You see my weakness. You see that I want you with me, and now you take advantage—you take advantage—"

"No, father, I don't," protested Jefferson; "but I want to go away. Although I have my studio and am practically independent, I want to go where I shall be perfectly free—where my every move will not be watched—where I can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where I shall not be pointed out as the son of Ready Money Ryder. I want to make a reputation of my own as an artist."

"Why not study theology and become a preacher?" sneered Ryder. Then, more amiably, he said: "No, my lad, you stay here. Study my interests—study the interests that will be yours some day."

"No," said Jefferson doggedly, "I'd rather go—my work and my self-respect demand it."

"Then go, damn it, go!" cried his father in a burst of anger. "I'm a fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son." He rose from his seat and began to pace the room.

"Father," exclaimed Jefferson starting forward, "you do me an injustice."

"An injustice?" echoed Mr. Ryder turning round. "Ye gods! I've given you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say I've done you an injustice!"

"Yes—we are rich," said Jefferson bitterly. "But at what a cost! You do not go into the world and hear the sneers that I get everywhere. You may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot silence public opinion. People laugh when they hear the name Ryder—when they do not weep. All your millions cannot purchase the world's respect. You try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted. Doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?"

Ryder laughed cynically. He went back to his desk, and, sitting facing his son, he replied:

"Jefferson, you are young. It is one of the symptoms of youth to worry about public opinion. When you are as old as I am you will understand that there is only one thing which counts in this world—money. The man who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is what the ambitious man loves most."

He stopped to pick up a book. It was "The American Octopus." Turning again to his son, he went on:

"Do you see this book? It is the literary sensation of the year. Why? Because it attacks me—the richest man in the world. It holds me up as a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring only for one thing—money; having but one passion—the love of power, and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. That is the portrait they draw of your father."

Jefferson said nothing. He was wondering if his sire had a suspicion who wrote it and was leading up to that. But Ryder, Sr., continued:

"Do I care? The more they attack me the more I like it. Their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm. What I am, the conditions of my time made me. When I started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, I had but one goal—success; I had but one aim—to get rich. I was lucky. I made a little money, and I soon discovered that I could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields. Railroad conditions helped me. The whole country was money mad. A wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and I was carried along on its crest. I grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds. I branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day—the wonder of the twentieth century. What do I care for the world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? What respect can I have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them? Are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent? I am the real ruler of the United States—not the so-called government at Washington. They are my puppets and this is my executive chamber. This power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes."

"I never want it, father," said Jefferson firmly. "To me your words savour of treason. I couldn't imagine that American talking that way." He pointed to the mantel, at the picture of George Washington.

Ryder, Sr., laughed. He could not help it if his son was an idealist. There was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said:

"All right, Jeff. We'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your wisdom teeth. Just at present you're in the clouds. But you spoke of my doing you an injustice. How can my love of power do you an injustice?"

"Because," replied Jefferson, "you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates. You think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. Yours is an influence no one seems able to resist. You robbed me of my right to think. Ever since I was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since I was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. You have chosen that I should marry Kate Roberts. That is the one thing I wished to speak to you about. The marriage is impossible."

Ryder, Sr., half sprang from his seat. He had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the Ryder interests—that was inconceivable. Leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted Jefferson.

"So," he said sternly, "this is your latest act of rebellion, is it? You are going to welsh on your word? You are going to jilt the girl?"

"I never gave my word," answered Jefferson hotly. "Nor did Kate understand that an engagement existed. You can't expect me to marry a girl I don't care a straw about. It would not be fair to her."

"Have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?" thundered his father.

His face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white hair seemed to bristle with rage. He paced the floor for a few moments, and then turning to Jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly:

"Don't be a fool, Jeff. I don't want to think for you, or to choose for you, or to marry for you. I did not interfere when you threw up the position I made for you in the Trading Company and took that studio. I realized that you were restless under the harness, so I gave you plenty of rein. But I know so much better than you what is best for you. Believe me I do. Don't—don't be obstinate. This marriage means a great deal to my interests—to your interests. Kate's father is all powerful in the Senate. He'll never forgive this disappointment. Hang it all, you liked the girl once, and I made sure that—"

He stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new light dawned upon him.

"It isn't that Rossmore girl, is it?" he demanded. His face grew dark and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: "I told you some time ago how I felt about her. If I thought that it was Rossmore's daughter! You know what's going to happen to him, don't you?"

Thus appealed to, Jefferson thought this was the most favourable opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to Shirley. So, little anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered:

"I am familiar with the charges that they have trumped up against him. Needless to say, I consider him entirely innocent. What's more, I firmly believe he is the victim of a contemptible conspiracy. And I'm going to make it my business to find out who the plotters are. I came to ask you to help me. Will you?"

For a moment Ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. Then, as he realized the significance of his son's words and their application to himself he completely lost control of himself. His face became livid, and he brought his fist down on his desk with a force that shook the room.

"I will see him in hell first!" he cried. "Damn him! He has always opposed me. He has always defied my power, and now his daughter has entrapped my son. So it's her you want to go to, eh? Well, I can't make you marry a girl you don't want, but I can prevent you throwing yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be publicly disgraced, and, by God, I will."

"Poor old Rossmore," said Jefferson bitterly. "If the history of every financial transaction were made known, how many of us would escape public disgrace? Would you?" he cried.

Ryder, Sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. He made a movement as if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme effort he controlled himself.

"No, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't care. I think you'd be glad; on my soul, I do!" Then calming down once more, he added: "Jefferson, give me your word of honour that your object in going away is not to find out this girl and marry her unknown to me. I don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn it, don't lose your head. Give me your hand on it."

Jefferson reluctantly held out his hand.

"If I thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, I'd have Rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. Listen, boy. This man is my enemy, and I show no mercy to my enemies. There are more reasons than one why you cannot marry Miss Rossmore. If she knew one of them she would not marry you."

"What reasons?" demanded Jefferson.

"The principal one," said Ryder, slowly and deliberately, and eyeing his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words, "the principal one is that it was through my agents that the demand was made for her father's impeachment."

"Ah," cried Jefferson, "then I guessed aright! Oh, father, how could you have done that? If you only knew him!"

Ryder, Sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke calmly enough.

"Jefferson, I don't have to make any apologies to you for the way I conduct my business. The facts contained in the charge were brought to my attention. I did not see why I should spare him. He never spared me. I shall not interfere, and the probabilities are that he will be impeached. Senator Roberts said this afternoon that it was a certainty. You see yourself how impossible a marriage with Miss Rossmore would be, don't you?"

"Yes, father, I see now. I have nothing more to say."

"Do you still intend going away?"

"Yes," replied Jefferson bitterly. "Why not? You have taken away the only reason why I should stay."

"Think it well over, lad. Marry Kate or not, as you please, but I want you to stay here."

"It's no use. My mind is made up," answered Jefferson decisively.

The telephone rang, and Jefferson got up to go. Mr. Ryder took up the receiver.

"Hallo! What's that? Sergeant Ellison? Yes, send him up."

Putting the telephone down, Ryder, Sr., rose, and crossing the room accompanied his son to the door.

"Think it well over, Jeff. Don't be hasty."

"I have thought it over, sir, and I have decided to go."

A few moments later Jefferson left the house.

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."

"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:

"Here is $500 for you. Spare neither trouble or expense."

"Thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "Leave it to me."

"That's about all, I think. Regarding the other matter, we'll see how the letter works."

He touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that the interview was at an end. Mr. Bagley entered.

"Sergeant Ellison is going," said Mr. Ryder. "Have him shown out, and send the Republican Committee up."



CHAPTER X

"What!" exclaimed Shirley, changing colour, "you believe that John Burkett Ryder is at the bottom of this infamous accusation against father?"

It was the day following her arrival at Massapequa, and Shirley, the judge and Stott were all three sitting on the porch. Until now, by common consent, any mention of the impeachment proceedings had been avoided by everyone. The previous afternoon and evening had been spent listening to an account of Shirley's experiences in Europe and a smile had flitted across even the judge's careworn face as his daughter gave a humorous description of the picturesque Paris student with their long hair and peg-top trousers, while Stott simply roared with laughter. Ah, it was good to laugh again after so much trouble and anxiety! But while Shirley avoided the topic that lay nearest her heart, she was consumed with a desire to tell her father of the hope she had of enlisting the aid of John Burkett Ryder. The great financier was certainly able to do anything he chose, and had not his son Jefferson promised to win him over to their cause? So, to-day, after Mrs. Rossmore and her sister had gone down to the village to make some purchases Shirley timidly broached the matter. She asked Stott and her father to tell her everything, to hold back nothing. She wanted to hear the worst.

Stott, therefore, started to review the whole affair from the beginning, explaining how her father in his capacity as Judge of the Supreme Court had to render decisions, several of which were adverse to the corporate interests of a number of rich men, and how since that time these powerful interests had used all their influence to get him put off the Bench. He told her about the Transcontinental case and how the judge had got mysteriously tangled up in the Great Northern Mining Company, and of the scandalous newspaper rumours, followed by the news of the Congressional inquiry. Then he told her about the panic in Wall Street, the sale of the house on Madison Avenue and the removal to Long Island.

"That is the situation," said Stott when he had finished. "We are waiting now to see what the Senate will do. We hope for the best. It seems impossible that the Senate will condemn a man whose whole life is like an open book, but unfortunately the Senate is strongly Republican and the big interests are in complete control. Unless support comes from some unexpected quarter we must be prepared for anything."

Support from some unexpected quarter! Stott's closing words rang in Shirley's head. Was that not just what she had to offer? Unable to restrain herself longer and her heart beating tumultuously from suppressed emotion, she cried:

"We'll have that support! We'll have it! I've got it already! I wanted to surprise you! Father, the most powerful man in the United States will save you from being dishonoured!"

The two men leaned forward in eager interest. What could the girl mean? Was she serious or merely jesting?