"Don't," replied Ryder grimly, "sympathy is often weakness. Ah, there you are!" turning to Jefferson, who entered the room at that moment.
"You sent for me, father?"
"Yes," said Ryder, Sr., holding up the letters. "Have you ever seen these letters before?"
Jefferson took the letters and examined them, then he passed them back to his father and said frankly:
"Yes, I took them out of your desk and sent them to Mr. Stott in the hope they would help Judge Rossmore's case."
Ryder restrained himself from proceeding to actual violence only with the greatest difficulty. His face grew white as death, his lips were compressed, his hands twitched convulsively, his eyes flashed dangerously. He took another cigar to give the impression that he had himself well under control, but the violent trembling of his hands as he lit it betrayed the terrific strain he was under.
"So!" he said, "you deliberately sacrificed my interests to save this woman's father—you hear him, Miss Green? Jefferson, my boy, I think it's time you and I had a final accounting."
Shirley made a motion as if about to withdraw. He stopped her with a gesture.
"Please don't go, Miss Green. As the writer of my biography you are sufficiently well acquainted with my family affairs to warrant your being present at the epilogue. Besides, I want an excuse for keeping my temper. Sit down, Miss Green."
Turning to Jefferson, he went on: