"Do you really believe this, that John Ryder deliberately concocted the bribery charge with the sole purpose of ruining my father?" demanded Shirley when she had somewhat recovered.

"There is no other solution of the mystery possible," answered Stott.

"The Trusts found they could not fight him in the open, in a fair, honest way, so they plotted in the dark. Ryder was the man who had most to lose by your father's honesty on the bench. Ryder was the man he hit the hardest when he enjoined his Transcontinental Railroad.

Ryder, I am convinced, is the chief conspirator."

"But can such things be in a civilized community?" cried Shirley indignantly. "Cannot he be exposed, won't the press take the matter up, cannot we show conspiracy?"

"It sounds easy, but it isn't," replied Stott. "I have had a heap of experience with the law, my child, and I know what I'm talking about. They're too clever to be caught tripping. They've covered their tracks well, be sure of that. As to the newspapers--when did you ever hear of them championing a man when he's down?"

"And you, father--do you believe Ryder did this?"

"I have no longer any doubt of it," answered the judge. "I think John Ryder would see me dead before he would raise a finger to help me. His answer to my demand for my letters convinced me that he was the arch plotter."

"What letters do you refer to?" demanded Shirley.

"The letters I wrote to him in regard to my making an investment.

He advised the purchase of certain stock. I wrote him two letters at the time, which letters if I had them now would go a long way to clearing me of this charge of bribery, for they plainly showed that I regarded the transaction as a _bona fide_ investment. Since this trouble began I wrote to Ryder asking him to return me these letters so I might use them in my defence. The only reply I got was an insolent note from his secretary saying that Mr. Ryder had forgotten all about the transaction, and in any case had not the letters I referred to."

"Couldn't you compel him to return them?" asked Shirley.

"We could never get at him," interrupted Stott. "The man is guarded as carefully as the Czar."

"Still," objected Shirley, "it is possible that he may have lost the letters or even never received them."

"Oh, he has them safe enough," replied Stott. "A man like Ryder keeps every sc.r.a.p of paper, with the idea that it may prove useful some day. The letters are lying somewhere in his desk. Besides, after the Transcontinental decision he was heard to say that he'd have Judge Rossmore off the Bench inside of a year."

"And it wasn't a vain boast--he's done it," muttered the judge.

Shirley relapsed into silence. Her brain was in a whirl. It was true then. This merciless man of money, this ogre of monopolistic corporations, this human juggernaut had crushed her father merely because by his honesty he interfered with his shady business deals! Ah, why had she spared him in her book? She felt now that she had been too lenient, not bitter enough, not sufficiently pitiless. Such a man was ent.i.tled to no mercy. Yes, it was all clear enough now. John Burkett Ryder, the head of "the System,"

the plutocrat whose fabulous fortune gave him absolute control over the entire country, which invested him with a personal power greater than that of any king, this was the man who now dared attack the Judiciary, the corner stone of the Const.i.tution, the one safeguard of the people's liberty. Where would it end? How long would the nation tolerate being thus ruthlessly trodden under the unclean heels of an insolent oligarchy? The capitalists, banded together for the sole purpose of pillage and loot, had already succeeded in enslaving the toiler. The appalling degradation of the working cla.s.ses, the sordidness and demoralizing squalor in which they pa.s.sed their lives, the curse of drink, the provocation to crime, the shame of the sweat shops--all which evils in our social system she had seen as a Settlement worker, were directly traceable to Centralized Wealth. The labor unions regulated wages and hours, but they were powerless to control the prices of the necessaries of life. The Trusts could at pleasure create famine or plenty. They usually willed to make it famine so they themselves might acquire more millions with which to pay for marble palaces, fast motor cars, ocean-going yachts and expensive establishments at Newport. Food was ever dearer and of poorer quality, clothes cost more, rents and taxes were higher. She thought of the horrors in the packing houses at Chicago recently made the subject of a sensational government report--putrid, pestiferous meats put up for human food amid conditions of unspeakable foulness, freely exposed to deadly germs from the expectorations of work people suffering from tuberculosis, in unsanitary rotten buildings soaked through with blood and every conceivable form of filth and decay, the beef barons careless and indifferent to the dictates of common decency so long as they could make more money. And while our public gasped in disgust at the sickening revelations of the Beef scandal and foreign countries quickly cancelled their contracts for American prepared meats, the millionaire packer, insolent in the possession of wealth stolen from a poisoned public, impudently appeared in public in his fashionable touring car, with head erect and self-satisfied, wholly indifferent to his shame.

These and other evidences of the plutocracy's cruel grip upon the nation had ended by exasperating the people. There must be a limit somewhere to the turpitudes of a degenerate cla.s.s of _nouveaux riches_. The day of reckoning was fast approaching for the grafters and among the first to taste the vengeance of the people would be the Colossus. But while waiting for the people to rise in their righteous wrath, Ryder was all powerful, and if it were true that he had inst.i.tuted these impeachment proceedings her father had little chance. What could be done? They could not sit and wait, as Stott had said, for the action of the Senate. If it were true that Ryder controlled the Senate as he controlled everything else her father was doomed. No, they must find some other way.

And long after the judge and Stott had left for the city Shirley sat alone on the porch engrossed in thought, taxing her brain to find some way out of the darkness. And when presently her mother and aunt returned they found her still sitting there, silent and preoccupied. If they only had those two letters, she thought. They alone might save her father. But how could they be got at? Mr.

Ryder had put them safely away, no doubt. He would not give them up. She wondered how it would be to go boldly to him appeal to whatever sense of honour and fairness that might be lying latent within him. No, such a man would not know what the terms "honour,"

"fairness" meant. She pondered upon it all day and at night when she went tired to bed it was her last thought as she dropped off to sleep.

The following morning broke clear and fine. It was one of those glorious, ideal days of which we get perhaps half a dozen during the whole summer, days when the air is cool and bracing, champagne-like in its exhilarating effect, and when Nature dons her brightest dress, when the atmosphere is purer, the gra.s.s greener, the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter and the birds sing in more joyous chorus, when all creation seems in tune. Days that make living worth while, when one can forget the ugliness, the selfishness, the empty glitter of the man-made city and walk erect and buoyant in the open country as in the garden of G.o.d.

Shirley went out for a long walk. She preferred to go alone so she would not have to talk. Hers was one of those lonely, introspective natures that resent the intrusion of aimless chatter when preoccupied with serious thoughts. Long Island was unknown territory to her and it all looked very flat and uninteresting, but she loved the country and found keen delight in the fresh, pure air and the sweet scent of new mown hay wafted from the surrounding fields. In her soft, loose-fitting linen dress, her white canvas shoes, garden hat trimmed with red roses, and lace parasol, she made an attractive picture and every pa.s.ser-by--with the exception of one old farmer and he was half blind--turned to look at this good-looking girl, a stranger in those parts and whose stylish appearance suggested Fifth Avenue rather than the commonplace purlieus of Ma.s.sapequa.

Every now and then Shirley espied in the distance the figure of a man which she thought she recognized as that of Jefferson. Had he come, after all? The blood went coursing tumultuously through her veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger. She wondered what he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his father and what the latter had said. She could realize now what Mr. Ryder's reply had been. Then she wondered what her future life would be. She could do nothing, of course, until the Senate had pa.s.sed upon her father's case, but it was imperative that she get to work. In a day or two, she would call on her publishers and learn how her book was selling. She might get other commissions.

If she could not make enough money in literary work she would have to teach. It was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast. All the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father disgraced, Jefferson now practically lost to her--only her work remained.

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

"Miss Shirley Rossmore?" said the man eyeing her interrogatively.

"That's I," said Shirley.

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

_Dear Madam._--If convenient, I should like to see you at my office, No. 36 Broadway, in relation to your book "The American Octopus." Kindly inform me as to the day and hour at which I may expect you.

Yours truly, JOHN BURKETT RYDER, per B.

Shirley almost shouted from sheer excitement. At first she was alarmed--the name John Burkett Ryder was such a bogey to frighten bad children with, she thought he might want to punish her for writing about him as she had. She hurried to the porch and sat there reading the letter over and over and her brain began to evolve ideas. She had been wondering how she could get at Mr.

Ryder and here he was actually asking her to call on him.

Evidently he had not the slightest idea of her ident.i.ty, for he had been able to reach her only through her publishers and no doubt he had exhausted every other means of discovering her address. The more she pondered over it the more she began to see in this invitation a way of helping her father. Yes, she would go and beard the lion in his den, but she would not go to his office.

She would accept the invitation only on condition that the interview took place in the Ryder mansion where undoubtedly the letters would be found. She decided to act immediately. No time was to be lost, so she procured a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote as follows:

MR. JOHN BURKETT RYDER,

_Dear Sir._--I do not call upon gentlemen at their business office.

Yours, etc., SHIRLEY GREEN.

Her letter was abrupt and at first glance seemed hardly calculated to bring about what she wanted--an invitation to call at the Ryder home, but she was shrewd enough to see that if Ryder wrote to her at all it was because he was most anxious to see her and her abruptness would not deter him from trying again. On the contrary, the very unusualness of anyone thus dictating to him would make him more than ever desirous of making her acquaintance. So Shirley mailed the letter and awaited with confidence for Ryder's reply.

So certain was she that one would come that she at once began to form her plan of action. She would leave Ma.s.sapequa at once, and her whereabouts must remain a secret even from her own family. As she intended to go to the Ryder house in the a.s.sumed character of Shirley Green, it would never do to run the risk of being followed home by a Ryder detective to the Rossmore cottage. She would confide in one person only--Judge Stott. He would know where she was and would be in constant communication with her. But, otherwise, she must be alone to conduct the campaign as she judged fit. She would go at once to New York and take rooms in a boarding house where she would be known as Shirley Green. As for funds to meet her expenses, she had her diamonds, and would they not be filling a more useful purpose if sold to defray the cost of saving her father than in mere personal adornment? So that evening, while her mother was talking with the judge, she beckoned Stott over to the corner where she was sitting:

"Judge Stott," she began, "I have a plan."

He smiled indulgently at her.

"Another friend like that of yesterday?" he asked.

"No," replied the girl, "listen. I am in earnest now and I want you to help me. You said that no one on earth could resist John Burkett Ryder, that no one could fight against the Money Power.

Well, do you know what I am going to do?"

There was a quiver in her voice and her nostrils were dilated like those of a thoroughbred eager to run the race. She had risen from her seat and stood facing him, her fists clenched, her face set and determined. Stott had never seen her in this mood and he gazed at her half admiringly, half curiously.

"What will you do?" he asked with a slightly ironical inflection in his voice.

"I am going to fight John Burkett Ryder!" she cried.

Stott looked at her open-mouthed.

"You?" he said.

"Yes, I," said Shirley. "I'm going to him and I intend to get those letters if he has them."

Stott shook his head.

[Photo, from the play, of Shirley discussing her book with Mr. Ryder]

"How do you cla.s.sify him?"

"As the greatest criminal the world has ever produced."--Act III.

"My dear child," he said, "what are you talking about? How can you expect to reach Ryder? We couldn't."