er'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