o wanted to get a glimpse of
the Latin Quarter, the driver took a course down the Avenue de
l'Opera, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Opera
and ends at the Theatre Francais, and which, like many others that
go to the beautifying of the capital, the Parisians owe to the
much-despised Napoleon III. The cab, Jefferson told her, would
skirt the Palais Royal and follow the Rue de Rivoli until it came
to the Chatelet, when it would cross the Seine and drive up the
Boulevard St. Michel--the students' boulevard--until it reached
the Luxembourg Gardens. Like most of his kind, the _cocher_ knew
less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless,
zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing
maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right,
then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and
averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad
collisions. At times the _fiacre_ lurched in such alarming fashion
that Shirley was visibly perturbed, but when Jefferson assured her
that all Paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing
ever happened, she was comforted.

"Tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?"

"Say?" he echoed. "Why, simply that you've written the biggest
book of the year, that's all!"

"Really! Oh, do tell me all they said!" She was fairly excited
now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson's broad, sunburnt
hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. He tried to appear
unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as
he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that
afternoon.

"Isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. Then
she added quickly:

"I wonder if your father has seen it?"

Jefferson grinned. He had something on his conscience, and this
was a good opportunity to get rid of it. He replied laconically:

"He probably has read it by this time. I sent him a copy myself."

The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for
Shirley's face had changed colour.

"You sent him a copy of 'The American Octopus'?" she cried. "Then
he'll guess who wrote the book."

"Oh, no, he won't," rejoined Jefferson calmly. "He has no idea who
sent it to him. I mailed it anonymously."

Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. It was so important that her
identity should remain a secret. As daughter of a Supreme Court
judge she had to be most carefu