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 careful. She would not embarrass her father for anything in the world. But it was smart of Jefferson to have sent Ryder, Sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked: “How do you know he got it? So many letters and packages are sent to him that he never sees himself.” “Oh, he saw your book all right,” laughed Jefferson. “I was around the house a good deal before sailing, and one day I caught him in the library reading it.” They both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. Jefferson noted his companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within him that this was the woman who was intended by Nature to share his life. Her slender hand
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