“Yes,” replied Shirley, her voice trembling a little; in spite of her efforts to keep cool. “I am here by appointment. Three o'clock, Mrs. Ryder's note said. I am Miss Green.”
“You—Miss Green?” echoed the financier dubiously.
“Yes, I am Miss Green—Shirley Green, author of ‘The American Octopus.’ You asked me to call. Here I am.”
For the first time in his life, John Ryder was nonplussed. He coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could throw his cigar. Shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him at his ease.
“Oh, please go on smoking,” she said; “I don't mind it in the least.”
Ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his visitor.
“So you are Shirley Green, eh?”
“That is my nom-de-plume—yes,” replied the girl nervously. She was already wishing herself back at Massapequa. The financier eyed her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her to a seat near his desk, he said: