e city immediately and conduct her campaign from there.
If she was successful it might save her father and if not no harm
could come of it.

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

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

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

"You have come at last, Jefferson."

"I came as soon as I could," he replied gently. "I saw father only
yesterday."

"You need not tell me what he said," Shirley has