"May I have a few minutes of your time, father?"
Ryder, Sr. laid aside the paper he was reading and looked up. It was unusual for his son to come to him on any errand, and he liked to encourage it.
"Certainly, Jefferson. What is it?"
"I want to appeal to you, sir. I want you to use your influence, before it is too late, to save Judge Rossmore. A word from you at this time would do wonders in Washington."
The financier swung half-round in his chair, the smile of greeting faded out of his face, and his voice was hard as he replied coldly:
"Again? I thought we had agreed not to discuss Judge Rossmore any further?"
"I can't help it, sir," rejoined Jefferson undeterred by his sire's hostile attitude, "that poor old man is practically on trial for his life. He is as innocent of wrongdoing as a child unborn, and you know it. You could save him if you would."
"Jefferson," answered Ryder, Sr., biting his lip to restrain his impatience, "I told you before that I could not interfere even if I would; and I won't, because that man is my enemy. Important business interests, which you cannot possibly know anything about, demand his dismissal from the bench."
"Surely your business interests don't demand the sacrifice of a man's life!" retorted Jefferson. "I know modern business methods are none too squeamish, but I should think you'd draw the line at deliberate murder!"
Ryder sprang to his feet and for a moment stood glaring at the young man. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Suppressed wrath rendered him speechless. What was the world coming to when a son could talk to his father in this manner?