again and ran over the pages. This certainly was
no ordinary girl. She knew more and had a more direct way of
saying things than any woman he had ever met. And as he watched
her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her;
how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. If
he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and
literature of this kind might become a real peril to his
interests. Money could do anything; it could secure the services
of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. But how
could he employ her? Suddenly an inspiration came to him. For some
years he had been collecting material for a history of the Empire
Trading Company. She could write it. It would practically be his
own biography. Would she undertake it?

Embarrassed by the long silence, Shirley finally broke it by
saying:

"But you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what I thought
of my own work."

"No," replied Ryder slowly, "I want you to do some work for me."

He opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out
several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. Shirley's
heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. Were her
father's among them? She wondered what kind of work John Burkett
Ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was.
Some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind.
If it was well paid, why should she not accept? There would be
nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way.
She was a professional writer in the market to be employed by
whoever could pay the price. Besides, such work might give her
better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in
search. Gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from
the drawer, Mr. Ryder said:

"I want you to put my biography together from this material. But
first," he added, taking up "The American Octopus," "I want to
know where you got the details of this man's life."

"Oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines,"
replied Shirley carelessly. "You know the American millionaire is
a very overworked topic just now--and naturally I've read--"

"Yes, I understand," he said, "but I refer to what you haven't
read--what you couldn't have read. For example, here." He turned
to a page marked in the book and read aloud: "_As an evidence of
his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful Indian girl
tattooed just above the f