“It is evolution!” he insisted.
“Ah, that's it,” she retorted, “you evolve new ideas, new schemes, new tricks—you all worship different gods—gods of your own making!”
He was about to reply when there was a commotion at the door and Theresa entered, followed by a man servant to carry down the trunk.
“The cab is downstairs, Miss,” said the maid.
Ryder waved them away imperiously. He had something further to say which he did not care for servants to hear. Theresa and the man precipitately withdrew, not understanding, but obeying with alacrity a master who never brooked delay in the execution of his orders. Shirley, indignant, looked to him for an explanation.
“You don't need them,” he exclaimed with a quiet smile in which was a shade of embarrassment. “I—I came here to tell you that I—” He stopped as if unable to find words, while Shirley gazed at him in utter astonishment. “Ah,” he went on finally, “you have made it very hard for me to speak.” Again he paused and then with an effort he said slowly: “An hour ago I had Senator Roberts on the long distance telephone, and I'm going to Washington. It's all right about your father. The matter will be dropped. You've beaten me. I acknowledge it. You're the first living soul who ever has beaten John Burkett Ryder.”
Shirley started forward with a cry of mingled joy and surprise. Could she believe her ears? Was it possible that the dreaded Colossus had capitulated and that she had saved her father? Had the forces of right and justice prevailed, after all? Her face transfigured, radiant she exclaimed breathlessly:
“What, Mr. Ryder, you mean that you are going to help my father?”
“Not for his sake—for yours,” he answered frankly.
Shirley hung her head. In her moment of triumph, she was sorry for all the hard things she had said to this man. She held out her hand to him.